#phychiatrist

If you or your loved ones are experiencing mental health issues, I cannot recommend anyone else but him. In our experience, he is hands down the Best Psychiatrist in HSR Layout, Bangalore, and we are eternally thankful for the treatment he has given.

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On my first visit, as usually happens with all things the first time, I hadn't realized exactly what I was being told about the apartment, enchanted by the dim morning light peering through the large window and filling the attic with a misty and musky light. It had just the right amount of romanticism to get inspired and just about not too much too get carried away in its haziness. In all fairness, the landlord, a slender man with a crooked nose and a ridiculous pasmina around his neck and shoulders, told me that the attic was right above the local town train station. “You might hear trains pass by sometimes, or stopping at the station, but I wouldn't be bothered about it. You're a writer, right? I'm sure you will find it an inspiring background melody”. He said with a smile that revealing every surface and shine of his teeth. I thought at that moment where he could stick his background melody, but to be honest I was enchanted by the small space and was more than delighted to overlook his stupidly camouflaged warning for the price he was offering it and after giving a small deposit I got the keys to my new apartment. Or maybe we should call it room, since there wasn't much of a division of space except for the bathroom. I moved in the next morning, since it wasn't really much of a hassle anyway. I had 3 large suitcases. One with clothes, shoes and bed sheets, one with books and one with everything else that didn't fit in the categories of books or clothes. In about an hour I had finished unpacking and since it was still considerably early, I decided to wait for the train station to open and head to the cantine for a coffee, or something stronger. At what I imagined was between 7 and 8 o clock, - I had forgotten my clock, I didn't own a watch or a phone, and my computer cable had given up so I couldn't turn it on – I walked down the stairs and chose the door on the right heading directly – my landlord had told me – to the train station's ticket office. I opened the door lost in thought and suddenly realized three pairs of eyes staring at me. I was standing right in the middle of the ticket office, however found myself looking at the inside of it, the side behind the glass, the safe place of the workers of the train station. The faces of two women and a man were turned towards me. Their expressions told me that they weren't quite sure if they were amused or annoyed by this sudden interruption of their automatic routine. I quickly explained that I had just moved in on the floor above and had had no idea that I was given the key to an inside entrance to the station. I was just looking for the cantine. They pointed at the door on my left. “Cantine's there” said the man without smiling, nevertheless politely. “Bring me a coffee, will ya?” said one of the women that was sitting with her back turned without even looking up. “Black, one sugar”. I was slightly but not unpleasantly taken aback by her directness and agreed while only getting a view of the back of her neck. She had a long neck. I opened the door on my left and stepped into the cantine like stepping into a different world. My ear rang with shouts of people looking for their platform, their children, their suitcases, their tickets and their sandwiches. The waiters were running here and there knocking into tables, chairs and there were several pigeons that had probably flown in through the open door feeling lucky. I ordered a black coffee with sugar and a whiskey for myself and waited a few minutes for the panicked waiter to figure out which glass to use for my drink. I got nearly water glass full of whiskey and ice. A few minutes and slugs later I went back upstairs, lightheaded from my breakfast and the commotion. Now that the train station had opened and everything was up and running, you could hear the clattering and shouts all the way to my attic and between the whistles and the train breaks every minute or so, I could hardly hear myself think, and after a while I found myself sitting in front of the window, looking at the downstairs activity, absent minded, keeping notes and drawing sketches of small figures, scenes and movements. The view was as chaotic as its soundtrack. Over the next few weeks, I got used to waking up in the middle of the night to the sudden noise of containers shifting and the first workers talking and shouting instructions to each other. After the first nights of jumping up to the bangs of the containers being put down with the delicacy of a rhinoceros, I would sit myself in front of the window, open a bottle of red wine, and stare outside until daybreak with my head spinning with thoughts and images. Other that the few morning workers, everything else was dark, highlighting the interior of the night trains passing by in the distance and the drowsy people leaning against the fogged windows. At daybreak, I would go back to sleep for a couple of hours and the moment I woke up, I would walk downstairs, greet the three backs, go to the cantine, order a whiskey and a black coffee - one sugar. Lightheaded, I would go upstairs and write about my previous night.

Hi doctor, do you know what time it is? It's no time doctor. No specific moment anymore doctor, no past, or present, or future for that matter. You know sometimes how you look at your watch to see what time it is, and you look up, and you don't know what time it is? And then you glance at the kitchen clock, and look away, and somehow, you still can't tell what time it is? So why even glance at the clock, if that isn't your problem to begin with? Half past, quarter to, or o'clock, if it doesn't really matter, well, why does it matter? What is so important about two little, insignificant indicators, if the actual thing they indicate does not have any impact on your being? Sure, it's an idea, sure, it's something socially structured, and I'd say it gives a feeling of security. Being within a timeframe, whatever timeframe, as long as it actually has a frame, gives a sense of security. And sure, the sound of the cuckoo makes you feel strong, in control, as if aknowledging this measurement at all moments places you more realistically and graspably in the world. But sorry, to be on time ( or "in" time better to say) for what? to keep the seconds, minutes and hours in mind for what reason? Do I have an ever-lasting, neverhteless never-arriving, train to catch? And if yes, why the fuck isn't it arriving and where the fuck will it take me? And why the fuck am I so sure that I even want to go there? And where do I get a ticket doctor? What will it cost me?

Doctor, you have to help me, I know I just barged in here but it’s a matter of minutes now and I have to at least tell someone who might examine the matter, even if it’s too late for me. The world is losing focus, doctor, it’s fading away little by little, more by the minute. And I wish, oh lord I wish that I was speaking metaphorically. Because it used to be, before, it was just an argument, a never-ending complaint, a feeling of distance- either sourced by myself or my surroundings, abandoning me to the mercy of myself.But I think I went to far, doctor, I wished with all my might that my feeling would be graspable, explicable, and I created a path, one-way street, where metaphors became reality too easily, where everything is suddenly too graspable. And as soon as my metaphor became more literal, the world around me started to become less and less. Doctor, the world has actually lost focus. My surroundings are blurry, faces less and less distinctable and now everything has become vague. Sometimes it;s like a dirty window or camera lens, where you squint your eyes, try really hard to make out the undefined shapes on the outside, until you realize that the problem isn’t your sense of sight, but you should clean the bloody window. But doctor, I don’t have anything to clean my window, and moreover it’s stuck and I can’t open it. So everything remains constantly dirty, and my vision becomes blurrier by the minute. Imagine, doctor, I can’t even clearly see your face. You could be the doorman for all I know, and here I am pouring my heart out to you, just out of fear of losing the clarity of my own thoughts, the definition of my perception. Because let’s face it doctor, or whoever you are, if the only thing you think you see clearly is yourself, I honestly ask you, how long can this clarity last, when everything else is reduced to haziness?

But these had better be BLOODY GOOD DRUGS that get prescribed.