Chapter 20 19

------------------ 19 Have you got it, or have you ever had hemorrhoids, hernia, hepatitis?These were the questions on the questionnaire at the Goublesville Mental Health Clinic the next morning.Paralysis, stroke, or polio?Did I, or anyone in the family get, or have a psycho, or an STD, or an idiot? Normally, this kind of physical condition survey is a small prelude to getting a doctor's certificate, which should be easy to pass; however, I was too nervous and tired today (I barely closed my eyes last night), and in the first round of surveys I was in Fill in the "True" and "False" columns randomly.The nurse took a suspicious look and came back to do a second round of investigations on me. I was convinced that this person with a medical history of liver cirrhosis, pharyngitis, pneumonia, prickly heat, etc. was either a wrong item or a living corpse... Maybe... Maybe Nervous.what!Bingo!Not even a lot of effort.But man, am I too nervous.To tell you the truth, since ordering the feast with garnishes yesterday afternoon - when I was in high spirits - I've had second thoughts.I've gotten so deep, credit cards and all that stuff, that I keep reminding myself that this time I have to make it.

①Bingo: A game of gambling nature, which means winning. That's why I'm sitting in this branch of the city hospital (Klekenhorse was originally a tuberculosis sanatorium until some smart mind realized that the cold, damp air of Goublesville was more likely to cause tuberculosis deaths than any city smog. high death rate), surrounded by pale blue walls, and my file on the desk of a "Dr. Fireside."Hmm, Farseed?I'm dreaming... Yidi people?Sounds like an alias... I need to consider all angles.You can't go wrong in either room.Twitch yourself like you did in the bathroom mirror last night.Should I flap my arms up and down like wings, or should I do something grotesque that would prove my neurosis, such as twitching my ears or sniffing my nose?Is the left eye constantly blinking, or is there a sudden strange sound when speaking?I can do whatever I want, but these practices are related to my destiny.Crucially, I remind myself that being consistent is more important than the jerks themselves.Very important.In addition, the mind should be flexible.Mouth to babble nonsense.All in all, be calm.I also practiced giggling.It's very similar.Once the laugh is so contagious, I just can't stop.Oh God, how much fun it all is.real.Shit, my legs are already shaking.right.Shaking legs, another symptom, Dr. Fireside.I suddenly realized that I almost missed this wonderful opportunity.What if I had anthrax, or foot-and-mouth disease in the "Other" column of my medical history?

stop!Don't act like a bad clown.Don't overdo it.Remember, you are wrestling with excruciating pain and mounting debt. "Mr. Nudelman?" A tall, muscular man came from the other room to the waiting room with a file in his hand, and I almost fainted when I saw him. "I'm Dr. Farseed," he said, holding out his hand.When I touched his smooth skin I suddenly felt like I had diarrhea, and all the plans in my head were excreted-no matter how sure I was, I had never seen this "Dr. Fireside" before , and never seen him in a newspaper or magazine photo, I really do think this guy is the vigilante chairman!At least he looks exactly like the chairman!

"Are you all right?" Falseid asked me, no doubt noticing that my face had turned greenish-gray. "It's okay, it's all right." I whispered dully to get myself back to normal, and then followed him into the paneled consulting room. "Will you sit down?" he said kindly, pointing to a large armchair, and sat down opposite. "Why are you staring at me like that?" he said with a knowing smile. "Is there such a thing?" I laughed, thinking that if he is really the chairman, I must not take it lightly.Hell, that's enough to make you superstitious.Maybe I'm just confused?Quickly make strange noises while talking, and quickly suck your ears. "You look very familiar, have we met before?"

Falseid laughed out loud. "Some people think I look like the former Attorney General John Michel," he said with a smile, "God forbid, I hope I don't." "Haha, that's what happened." I used my smirk while searching his face for traces, staring at his hand holding the pen, waiting for him to scribble my abnormality on the paper Behavior. "What's wrong?" "What's wrong? Oh. What's wrong. Yeah," I murmured, then paused for a few seconds, rolling my eyes effortlessly in their sockets. "I think I'm out of my mind," I said quietly. . "Other than that my nerves are breaking." I giggled again, my ears twitching desperately.I can no longer live normally, I said.After a while I happened to recall the most representative events.

"Will you tell us a little about yourself?" said the chairman. "Us?" I froze in my chair, almost sure I had guessed him. "It's purely a language habit." He nodded and pricked up his ears at the same time. "Go on, please," he urged me, his purring voice allaying my doubts and allowing me to go on, as his face became very soft and inviting.Half-drunk and relaxed, I began to tell him about myself... about my career as a professor... about how I fell out of society... about how I couldn't shave in the morning or even get out of bed... about how I mixed reality with illusion Mix together.

"That's it." He nodded and wrote two lines hastily, then suddenly raised his head and asked me unexpectedly: "What did you dream about last night?" "What did I dream about?" "right." "What did you dream about?" I scratched my scalp and knelt on my knees trying to figure out a solution.What did I dream about? Uh - yes, I remembered! "Well, last night I dreamed that I was on a train somewhere in Europe. I met a very sexy French woman who kept giving me the leer. She was the most alluring woman I've met in years. Quite For a long time we sat opposite each other across the aisle, staring at each other. Finally she told me that she wanted to fuck me, but, she made it very clear, she had to do it standing between two cars, and It's chicken liver①"

① English is chickenliver, which literally means "chicken liver" and means "sodomy". "Sodomy?" "Yes. You want to know my dreams, don't you? Well, here are my dreams. So we fried chicken livers over a little stove—that's what people do on trains in France." "Really?" Dr. Fa interrupted. "dreaming." "Successful?" "yes." "How are you doing?" "Chicken liver?" "No, sex." "What kind of question is that?" I asked, with the restlessness of a paranoid. "Let me judge, please answer the question."

“The chicken livers were really good.” "What about sex?" "not so good." "why?" "I didn't make it at all. In the middle of it I looked down and realized my genitals had turned into pretzels." "What happened next?" "Well, next thing I remember, I ate bagels and soft cheese with my dead father." "Do you often dream about eating?" Dr. Fa tried me, writing something like crazy. "Yes, that is, when you don't talk to dead people. Last night was an exception. I not only ate soft cheese and chicken liver, but I also talked to my father."

"That said, it's a sign that you're on the verge of breaking down, right?" "No! That has nothing to do with that! It's you who brought up the topic of dreams," I said slightly sullenly.Is he really an idiot? "It's not when I'm sleeping that I can't stand it, it's when I'm awake." "Okay. Let's talk about you." "Me? What have we been talking about for so long?" I got a little angry. "I'm sorry, I was referring to your health condition." Dr. Fa said calmly. "Oh, that's right," I said, sniffling.

"Have a headache?" "Let you guess." I nodded, the muscles on my face twisted together in pain. "Where does it hurt?" "Here, here, and here." I said and pointed to 100 places, and it really hurt. "Constipation or diarrhea?" "right." "What kind?" "Both. It depends." "Understood... Insomnia?" "Let's put it mildly, get up six or seven times a night to make your bed." I said it frankly, making it absolutely true. “Once the sheets are crumpled, I can’t sleep anymore.” I sighed resignedly, realizing that this wasn’t what I expected, and for some reason I felt like I was hitting a psychiatric stone wall. "Okay, Mr. Nudelman," said Dr. Fireside, closing his notebook. "Let's get down to business." "True story?" I shrugged. "Okay, this is the main story. I am sick, this is the main story." "Yes. I've seen it. Insomnia. Depression. Visions of wealth. Uncontrollable guilt. Hallucinations. Catatonic episodes, right? Taking unreal for real, or real for something else Yes. Paranoia." "That's half the mile." "Traditional signs." "You can say whatever you want," I shrugged and began to doubt in my heart. "I call it the schizophrenic-delusional-psychopathic-plus-paranoid syndrome." "That's right." "You haven't forgotten your kleptomania." He grinned at me smugly. "Any hydrophobia? Acrophobia? Any other mental disorder or psychosis?" "You're making fun of me!" I said angrily. "Sounds like you're doing some kind of research." He gave me a sympathetic smile, then giggled like my chairman or John Mitchell—you name it. "As long as you have one-tenth of the symptoms you mentioned, you can only lie in bed. I can assure you that you will never walk on the street again." "I'm exaggerating a little bit by saying that." "A little." "I have a real headache! I'm really hallucinating! I'm seriously depressed! I—" I insisted, but my sobs were choking, salty tears streaming down my cheeks. "Shit, I'm here to ask for help, and hopefully eventually I'll—" "Sit down, please," he said, holding half a box of Kleenex in his hand. "Tell me what exactly you want?" "Want? Want? I want help!" I yelled, feeling powerless, and buried my face in my hands. "I—I can't help it anymore," I said, biting my knuckles until I tasted blood.I burst into tears.I cry for myself, for my family, for people who suffer all over the world, for children who are starving in Latin America and everywhere else I know, for what I suffered at the Gentz's and in the Bronx Insult, for being forced to rewrite ass-worthy shit, for—crying over all the shit! "I'm exhausted, doctor, and this is the story. I can't live anymore. To put it bluntly, I want to go to the hospital for treatment that will free me from the cruel mainstream of society." "What do you think the result of this is?" "Put down the monkey on your back." "monkey?" Then I was like a babbling, sobbing fool, and like a helpless and helpless child—abandoning all obstacles, firing a cannonball, and shaking everything out in one go.I prostrate myself before the professional benevolence of this psychiatrist and medical doctor, begging him to use a little bit of conscience, show humanity, and sign an official document. "I've got to have social security or I'm dead, doc," I described to him how I'd been running around for four years without being able to get a decent job, let alone keep one; how I realized How the family would be torn apart, and loved ones would abandon me; how old friends avoided me like smallpox; "Psychopathy, neurosis, psychosis, whatever you call it, doctor, I beg you," I said, kneeling in front of the doctor, holding a pen with the power of life and death in his hand. "Forgive me. Declare me insane." "And classed you as disabled." He laughed, not loudly, but haughtily, condescendingly, and obnoxiously paternalistic—this unsympathetic bastard psychiatrist, this prudish expert, who never He never missed a meal, never saw his children in rags, and never knew what it was like to be nervous and afraid in the dark when the day was about to begin. "Listen, Mr. Nudelman," he said, and he made me ashamed for the rest of my life to kneel before him, "do you think you're the only one who came up with this brilliant idea?" He picked up a Stack files and throw them on the desktop. "We see 10 people like you a day. 10. Social Security. Enough. Enough. Isn't it?" He laughed derisively. "You're a strong man in the prime of life." "Peak life," I said sarcastically, "but I don't even—" "Yes, but this is a temporary depression. So you need to work harder. Social security?" The chairman shook his head with a smirk, and even laughed maniacally. "Tell me, do you think I'd like to sit in this clinic and hear every poor man in Goublesville talk about their troubles?" "Don't you like it? Then let me sit in this seat, if you give me money." "You think I don't want to retire early? Social Security?" he went on, blushing.I began to seriously think that maybe he was a member of this madhouse. "What would happen if everyone thought the same as you?" the forensic doctor asked me. At this moment, he suddenly calmed down and tried to reason with me. "But their ideas are different from mine!" "Why should it be the same?" he insisted, the fat-faced bourgeois doctor, mouthpiece of social consciousness. "Then who's going to drive a bus? Who's going to fix cars? Deliver the mail? Work in a factory—?" "What does all this have to do with me?" "It matters a lot." "That's all right. I'm not here to discuss with you some philosophical question about the division of labor. I'm here for a little humanitarian understanding. I. Need. Help. Do you hear me?" pause. "I'm sorry," Dr. Forensic said, calming down, returning to the soft tone of his voice and his calm, expressionless face. "I'm sorry, I can't help you—at least I can't help you as you think—but I can give you some medicine." The doctor said and walked towards the office, took the prescription pad and wrote on it something. "Here you are." He said as he tore off the prescription and handed it to me. "It's an antidepressant. Try it. It might help. It might cause dry mouth, but—" Antidepressants!What a joke!I rush out of the clinic.Antidepressants?Muttering to myself, I trudged toward the dingy Goublesville apartments, the pervasive icy rain dripping down my neck.What I need is a once-a-year prescription that gets rustling hundred-dollar bills, "before meals or as needed." That's the antidepressant I want, Farseed Doctor, Mr. Chairman, Your Excellency!