Doctor I The patient, a male, entering middle age; on first admittance his eyes stood out as if they had seen damnation themselves. He has wavy hair, built almost too lean, sallow cheeks and smokes cigarettes incessantly. The rest nondescript, he could be anyone except for an air of arrogance. On my first acquaintance he was in a minimal state of awareness: appearing afraid and confused as though being confined was cruel and unusual. I questioned him repeatedly but he would not answer anything. I named him Elton Crushin, after a distant cousin, and hoped once out of his shell the name would set with him well. Elton was found on the streets preaching his own psalm, wearing a robe and sandals searching for a soul with a lighted candle as if he were a god. This in itself is not so odd. The streets, as most people know, are full of creatures who beseech of demons and diabolical things. After many sessions, with many different questions, about his Mother, his past, any jobs, did they last, etcetera; Elton would not crack, and exasperated I’d have Henry take Elton back and the next week the same sequence again. Needless to say, my patience was wearing thin. One session I attempted to have Elton acknowledge the room we were in: “Elton, listen while I speak; this is my office, see it is square. Come, feel my books, look at the picture on the wall, distinguish the vase, see, it’s green. The window there with the God-sent light, and a picture here of my wife and child. Can you hear me? Can you smell my pipe? Come out of your dream and acknowledge the real!” Still Elton said nothing. The same puzzled look appeared on his face. Other sessions followed, the weather changed, my family got older, my job improved, much was happening in my life, but Elton remained sealed within. My first theory, based on his tattered dress, his fear, and his refusal to discuss a variety of topics, was that I had a man unfit for modern society. Of course I was following a logical sequence. Finally, one session, after exhausting all of my strengths and learned techniques, on Elton’s entering I sat quietly concentrating on trying to develop something creative to solve Elton’s mystery. For one solid hour the two of us sat staring at one another. And before the session was over Elton spoke, as I sat in disbelief. His tone, his manner, his voice, was as though he was reading from a script or re-telling a story. “Mmm…” “I was a reader, a sleeper, a lover, a weeper, a hero, a father, a mentor, a preacher. As strong as any man, weaker than most, at times a dreamer, at times full of promise, at times mired in discouraging doubt, at times so very, very tired. The sum total of a man, this is what I’ve done. This is what I am.” “Mmm…” “He drove his bread truck into a wall. All the firemen and policemen were called. They couldn’t put him back where he belonged so all the policemen and firemen went home. The bread-truck driver is gone.” “Mmm…” “Ten year old Patty-Jean Bell went to the movies all by herself. She was raped and murdered near her tract house. Ten year old Patty-Jean Bell finally got home with a bashed in skull. ‘Patty died, Patty died,’ her brother of seven cried. ‘Don’t worry son,’ his Mother said, ‘Patty’s all right, she’s in heaven.’” “Mmm…” “At one time I was normal. Normal. I lacked nothing. Nothing at all. I had a good job, money in the bank, family, friends, a patio in the back. They often come back to visit, my friends. They’re all one, all me: The father so formal, the lover with vigor, the coach, the actor, and of course, the dreamer. Each, in his own way had a mission: to fulfill his wishes, a moment of victory, to live a vision, to be a crowd pleaser, to talk with wisdom. Not one succeeded.” “Mmm…” My first reaction was that there was someone else in the room with us. And a strange feeling pervaded as though the room held us suspended. Then I hypothesized that he had a multiple personality and didn’t know who to be, exactly. Anyways, regardless of the content, I was very happy I broke into him. I told my family, my friends, my employer, that I had finally broken Elton’s subconscious, or at least I had a peak in. The next session it was the same. We both sat quietly and stared, until Elton broke the solitude, this time with a different point of view: He spoke in an even tone, as though he had answered a direct question and not one that was weeks old. “Mmm…” “Contrary to the kind of life we lead, Or what we were led to believe, Or what seeds we have sown, All problems are thought problems. And that’s all that needs to be said, That’s all that needs to be known.” “Mmm…” I was elated, although he said nothing more that session; I felt that there was in Elton material for a good paper. But with this, I hoped that my colleagues would not think my thinking was suspect because of my ever changing theories of Mr. Elton Crushin. The sessions settled into a routine. I’d ask Elton questions, there would be a long pause; Elton would finally answer staying on one topic from a question asked weeks or months before with no introduction or apparent cause. I theorized he would ponder on a question then come prepared with an answer. His tone would change often: he, more times than not, took the guise of someone else, and with no time frame, he could go from the past to the present without hesitation. The only constant it seems was his insistence and stubbornness to stay on the one topic.
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