Lord of the Lurkers

After a month since our last session, I visited my psychiatrist again like any concerned patient should.

I was met with the same neutral but sterile environment, the same chair that I had once settled in. The same rhythmic tapping of his fine pen against the wooden desk, calming me and my imbalanced senses.

A neutral expression on my psychiatrist’s face. The same dark brown eyes that followed me as intentively as they had done before. Analysing me, swallowing my soul, or so it felt at least.

And I, once again, couldn’t face him. All I could do was stare at his intertwined fingers that now rested on the surface of the desk. No more tapping of his expensive pen, only a clock ticking second after second, coming closer to twelve.

Everything felt the same, like I was trapped in a loop of some sorts. The only difference was that we were familiar with each other. He knew my concerns, and I knew how our consultation would look.

My psychiatrist called my name, waking me up with a velvety voice, “How are you feeling?”

I immediately felt as if something weighed down my shoulders; I really didn’t know how to respond but couldn’t stop my mouth from lying, “Good.”

“I want to hear your sincere answers.” He spotted, lowered his head like he had done in the first session, peeking at my hidden face. “How are you truly feeling?”

I exhaled heavily through my nostrils, still avoiding him. If I was given the opportunity to make myself feel better, I had to use it properly. “Neither good, neither bad. Decent.” I rubbed my forehead, laughing at myself. “I’m sorry. I have a hard time opening up though I came to see you…”

“It’s quite common among patients, don’t worry,” he interrupted. Though I didn’t look at him, I knew that he must’ve smiled softly while saying those words.

It made me smile as well.

The clock filled the void that stood between us.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“I would like to see your sculptures.”

His words made me frown in confusion, though I followed his instructions and pulled out my phone, scrolling through my gallery. “Why?”

“Art is often a reflection of the artist’s inner world, or the world of the subconscious,” he replied briefly, now hiding his hands under the desk. “Often, though it’s not a written rule.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t quite sure whether my art truly represented how I felt.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Do you make enough for a living?” he questioned while I tried to find something I could be proud of.

I molded people, different kinds of people, full bodies. I suppose their stories varied depending on their poses and postures.

“No,” I sighed with sad laughter. I’d guess that a polished man like him should’ve noticed it instantly; I didn’t look nearly as good as him. Maybe he wanted to make sure before coming to that conclusion.

Even then, I felt embarrassed to look the way I did.

“Then how do you live?”

I tried to portray lives through their nude bodies, when they couldn’t shell their innerselves beneath shallow clothing. I wanted to make everyone equal for once, when attire wouldn’t establish fortune or beauty. No gender to mark superiority. And to make life organic with every curve of the body, the outline of a spine, ribs, fat and muscle. I wanted my figures to feel real. I wanted my people to be real. I wanted to be seen and to be heard, to be understood by someone who had no other option than to be their authentic selves. When we didn’t have to pretend to be someone and to perform for those watching us.

“Unhappily, that’s for sure.”

I suppose my people seem to be in distress, frightful, anxious. Not always sorrowful, but surely overwhelmed with a tremendous amount of despair and terror. Horror.

I handed him my phone with my selected pieces, but stalked his hands, afraid that he might open another tab or programme and find something private.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Looking at your sculptures, I notice that the faces lack eyes,” he noted. I felt his piercing gaze scorching me. “Why is that?”

“Stylistic choice. That’s all,” I mumbled quietly, following the movements of his thumb.

Then he lingered a bit longer, and placed my phone on the surface.

The screen showcased a crouched figure that was curled up like a snail, hiding in a broken shell, and shielding itself against something cruel. It stared at me without eyes, begging for help. It cried without proof: not a single tear rolled down its cheeks, not a visible frown drew itself deeper in its forehead, no signs of visible distress were written in its face. Just this soulless expression that one couldn’t mistake for anything else.

“I have noticed your tendency to avoid eye-contact. I’m fully aware of your psychiatric history, but I’d like to analyse you, and would like for both of us to rationalise your suffering.” My psychiatrist leaned back against his chair, observing me from a wider perspective. In my periphery, it seemed like he inclined his head to the side. “So, tell me, why do you sculpt eyeless faces?”

“Well—” I stuttered. Even my hands started fidgeting, pulling on the tiny bones of my fingers.

I couldn’t talk for a while, breathing deeply, but my psychiatrist waited patiently.

Just like before.

“Eyes…” I finally felt how naturally I gazed up at him.

Our eyes interlocked at that moment. I, once again, felt as if they were trying to penetrate through my head. The sensation of his sharp pupils trepaning through my skull, across my brain, breaching my mind. It made my breath hitch momentarily.

“They’re scaring me,” I breathed out.

“Why?” he asked me silently, forgetting to blink.

I got scared, feeling my deadliest foe, overwhelming anxiety, approaching my trenches, my inner peace. My eyes darted at my phone again; its screen now turned black. I shrugged my shoulders, slouching in my chair.

He placed his elbows and his intertwined hands on the desk again. “I’d like you to think deeper. Take your time.”

I watched how his fingers rubbed in between his own knuckles, separating them with a popping sound, whitening them with the pressure he applied.

There was a fair distance between us, protecting both mine and his own personal space, but right then it felt so intimate. God, I don’t know why it felt that way. Maybe because I wasn’t used to being heard; it was an odd thing, considering that I’ve been to therapy many times before.

I chewed on my bottom lip, my leg bounced on spot. “I guess eyes show emotions, it’s clear what a person thinks just by the look in their eyes,” I began, though anxiously, gulping down saliva as if trying to swallow my nervousness. “And I’m scared to see what other people think. Eyes are like… A mirror before mirrors were invented. A tool of telepathy, as sometimes you’re able to sense what a person has in mind.”

My psychiatrist gave me time to explain myself, and I could feel his pupils burning me alive.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Then he opened his mouth again, “You believe that eyes mirror the inner world. Let me ask you this way, are you afraid of what other people might think of you?”

“Yes because… I-I don’t want to seem odd. Strange. Obscure. Someone people might have to avoid.” My throat tightened at the idea, and I answered a question that he didn’t ask yet, “I— I’m afraid of judgement.”

“Do you believe that even your sculptures judge you?”

I chuckled at the question, realising how ridiculous I must’ve sounded. My face felt hot and that fact alone made me even more stressed. “Who wouldn’t?”

He went silent all of the sudden, even his fingers stopped drawing circles over the knuckles. He leaned towards me as much as the desk permitted. Yet, I turned to my fidgeting hands instead.

“Look at me,” he suddenly commanded. His voice was like silk, but the meaning behind those spelt words made me almost jump out of my seat.

I simply couldn’t understand why I should comply.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Look at me,” he ordered again, but silently, increasing not the volume of his voice but the tone. It sounded somehow strict, making my heart clench in fear at the thought of disobeying.

I knew I had no other choice, being in the position that I was. I chose to slowly make my way up to his face.

I was greeted by the same stare that made me shiver every time I looked at him.

“What do you see?” he asked.

Coldness, collectiveness, an unreadable gaze that showed neither sympathy, nor clear judgement; it rather looked amused in a strange way. I never knew that brown irises could look so cold; the colour itself was so warm, but his eyes were freezing me—paralysing me on the spot. I could feel cool sweat forming on my skin, the tips of my fingers losing their senses. I couldn’t read through him, nor understand what his gaze tried to tell me. I couldn’t understand what he had truly thought at that moment. It was as though something concealed his emotion. He was so mysterious, plain professional. Just like I noted in the first session. I imagined that it was a facade he had worn in front of patients who had felt the same way as I did. It would’ve been logical, knowing that he must have seen many different people throughout the day. He probably got used to hiding his real emotions, he probably did it to protect his own peace from patients that drained him. Yet, my thoughts couldn’t quite calm me.

“I don’t know,” I answered his question after a while, fixating on his pupils for a surprising amount of time. “You’re analysing me.”

“That’s my job.” He smiled a tiny bit. “However, it shows that you can’t imagine what the other person could be thinking of.”

“But, Doctor, if I won’t be rude to say so… That’s a skill you’ve acquired with practice.”

He shook his head, still keeping his gaze glued to me. “Tell me: what do I think about you?”

I huffed, as if laughing, “You’re probably mocking me, Doctor.”

“Your guess is incorrect.”

I shrugged my shoulders, tugging at the corners of my lips for the last time before my eyes lowered towards the desk.

“I’m offering you to practise eye contact,” he said calmly. One of his hands knocked on the desk and pointed an index finger upwards. “In a safe environment. With me.”

I looked up at him again; it felt so weird to see him take off his glasses and hold them in one hand, while the other’s fingers pointed at those mysterious orbs in his face.

Somehow, I liked his subtle reassurance, and his directness that challenged me.

“You need to get accustomed to the feeling of being observed. We all observe each other, it’s a part of a natural order in life. It helps us to create connections and distances from those that we feel threatened by. Even at this moment, I’m observing you as well as you’ve observed me. The action itself should not cause you anxiety; however, I’d advise you to condition yourself with someone familiar to be seen and to see others as well. Not only their hands but also their faces. Especially the eyes. Knowing the circumstances of your mental health, I encourage you to practise with me instead. Not only because I’m someone you are already familiar with, but also because I’d be able to recognise whenever you’d need to take a break. After all, it wouldn’t be nice if you’d experience more panic attacks.”

Knowing myself for who I am, I must have shivered like a leaf in his presence. Not only because I was terrified by staring into his eyes, where I desperately tried to seek for a flicker of any emotion. But I was also hungry for warmth, human connection.

And finally, for a mere moment, sympathy shone from within, “You’ll have to trust me because I’m your doctor, and I wish you nothing but the best.”

Then, his pupils released my face from their grasp. He placed his glasses on his nose again, and turned to the computer; I felt as if my chest was hollow without him looking at me.

My psychiatrist’s expression shifted—it wasn’t as soft or reassuring, but professional. For a while, my eyes lingered on his face, and I felt threatened to get distracted by anything else while maintaining calm breathing.

Maybe my senses were disrupted because of that loud mouse clicking.

“How often do you go outside?” he asked, scanning the screen with his gaze.

“When necessary. I usually avoid it, or if needed, go out as late as possible.”

He nodded, now typing something. That sound irked me as well as looking at his face when he was somewhere else mentally. I decided to follow his working fingers instead, as the familiar emotion of fear crept up. But then he snapped back at me:

“Keep looking at me, please. I’m prescribing you medicine.”

It surely forced me to peer at him, momentarily making me forget the fright consuming me. “Zoloft?”

He stopped writing to stare right back at me. “No. I’ll prescribe you stronger medication. For starters, let’s work with venlafaxine. It’s more efficient for suppressing anxiety; however, if it won’t be efficient, we’ll change it to something stronger. I also prescribed a beta-blocker, propranolol, in case of an intense panic attack. It blocks adrenaline which slows your heart rate, blood pressure and stops you from trembling. Still, use it only when completely necessary, and with caution, otherwise it could cause you more harm than good.”

“Doctor…” I frowned and noticed that my psychiatrist grinned a bit wider, though the change was barely visible. “Why do I need stronger medication?”

“That’s a rational question. Your previous medication worked well, reduced your symptoms, but that’s all. It wasn’t used as a tool to deal with the root cause. I prescribed you stronger medication so you could test yourself further.”

“Test myself… How?”

“By going out during the day time. Anywhere. You don’t necessarily need to talk to people, but you could try spending time around them. Of course, it wouldn’t be wise to push yourself too far immediately—at least try going to the park for a walk. Not during busy hours but in the evening. Not too late as well so there would be few people around you. Would you be willing to give it a try?”

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The ticking of the damned clock was as loud as the clacking of his keyboard. My whole being was agitated; an old feeling of fear swelled up in my guts, going up and wrapping around my neck, pressing down on my blood vessels and cutting off oxygen.

I curled up subconsciously and held my face in my hands, breathing deeply, trying to suppress the suffocating emotion that was slowly killing me. 

But I couldn’t improve if I didn’t change, could I?

“I-If I have no… No other choice…”

I heard him push his chair back. The sound of water trickling out of a faucet and filling up a cup. Tip taps of his expensive shoes echoing across the wooden floor. I felt a gentle breeze passing by me, his exquisite perfume tickling my nose; I could recognise the owner of that rich scent without a second thought, even if I were blind. Then light shuffling came by my side, and the cup of water landed on the surface of the desk with a soft clink.

My hands were forcefully peeled away from my face.

My psychiatrist’s expression was sweet. His half-lidded eyes seemed so emotional, attentive, even understanding. I couldn’t even believe that I noticed something sinister in them before. My memory dulled at that moment, and a feeling of some kind of unrecognisable affection kindled in my chest.

If only he wasn’t my doctor, and I weren’t his patient.

It made me realise that my face must’ve burnt brightly from the desire that filled my being. Especially when his hands held mine so affectionately, kneading them in his rough palms. Their warmth spread into and across my flesh; I felt like our hands were merging together into one.

I prayed and hoped that he didn’t recognise my conflicting feelings at the moment.

I felt hypnotised while staring into his dark eyes, following how his lips spelt sugary words that glazed my heart:

“Unfortunately, change often requires action, not only intention. But I want you to remember that you’re not alone; I’ll be guiding you through every step. Never think for a second that you can’t improve because I truly believe that you’re capable of success.”

I believed him. I believed him so dearly. I couldn’t imagine that someone so understanding could be any different.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

All of the sudden, my psychiatrist’s fingers rose to my chin and cupped it, raising it to his eye level.

Though his touch invaded my personal space, it didn’t feel predatory. In fact, it felt so right, as if his hand truly belonged next to my skin. It felt so right to be touched so tenderly. It felt good to be guided towards self-improvement.

I protected myself and my personal space far too long, creating invisible walls around myself while I feared judgement. It was time to break them.

“I’ll try,” I whispered.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

For the first time, eyes didn’t scare me. In fact, they made me feel something new. A fruit of passion that I was desperately searching for, and now had rediscovered.

To be seen and to be heard. I always wanted to be heard and understood, and it felt good.

And maybe, just maybe, I always longed to be touched by a good-looking man. Even if it meant to be touched by my psychiatrist, to feel his fingertips grazing my skin.

I really had to try my best to not lean into his touch.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He smiled, showing off his pearly teeth only slightly, “Good. Now that we’ve established our new treatment plan, let’s continue the session. I want to know every single thing that troubles your mind. But now you’ll have to speak the truth. And nothing but the truth.”

Credits for the dividers: @/mieluno @/somebitchprobably-graphicdump