"What was the diagnosis?"
I sat in water as the clipboard was passed to me.
"We're not sure." I glanced at up him, first with shock, and then with anger.
"What do you mean, "we're not sure"?! You're the doctor! You're supposed to figure this stuff out!" Taking the clipboard from me with a look on his face that told me he knew he wasn't going to enjoy this, he stated,
"Sir. You know just as well as I do why we can't diagnose you unless you're able to diagnose yourself."
"Fine. Give me it back and I'll try to find someone else... or do it myself, I guess."
I got it back, and it looked just as bad as it did before. What had happened to it through these years? Should I cherish it? Should I reprimand it? Is the state it's in a better state than the one it was in before? I put it back in, sighed, and decided to call it a night.
"You and your strange ways..."
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Am I missing something? There seems to be something assumed that I don't know. . .
ReplyDeleteThere is. I made up a story and put some of it down and omitted most of it.
ReplyDeleteThe "doctor" is a compartment of me (i.e. me being playfully schizo); the water is the feeling of drowning in my own confusion, and the "brain" is me looking at myself and going "wtf happened here?"