both learned to obsess on the topic I was encouraged to: family problems. That psychiatrist had been the most well-adjusted, caring mirror reflection I’d ever become, but it was still part of running from the self. Shrinks were something to hide behind and that was not what I thought I needed.
“No thanks,” I said hurriedly. “I don’t need any help.” “He’s not a psychiatrist,” said the man, as though he had read my mind. “He’s an educational psychologist. He has worked for a long time with autistic people.” I looked at him cautiously, took the number, and left.
A week or so later, I rang the resource center again. “I spoke to Dr. Marek since speaking to you,” said the man running the place. “He said he would be interested to meet you.” I had no desire whatsoever to meet anybody unless he or she was going to lead me to the people I thought I’d find belonging with. Finally I figured that if anyone would know some, this doctor-person might. I called the number.
Dr. Theodore Marek had heard I had written a book and that it was going to be published. He assured me he wasn’t a shrink and said he might be able to help me and that he wanted to do some tests. I figured that “helping me” meant he’d help me find the other people “like me.” As for the tests, no reasons sprung to mind why I didn’twant to do them. But then no reasons sprung to mind why I did. The word “test” just hung about upon the air meaning not much at all.
—
The date arrived for the appointment with the doctor. The staircase wound up floor by floor to the top of the building. There were columns of photos of people who had something to do with the university. I took in the pattern of the seats around me and the curve of an ugly, chaotic sculpture nearby. There was a fish tank and deep-green algae, and I watched for a system in the way the fish swam around the tank. Without recognizing what I was touching, I picked some sparkly tinsel from the Christmas tree and twirled the bits in my fingers. Embarrassed, I realized what I’d done and put the bits in my pocket.
A short, round man with big, round eyes came around the corner. Calm and predictable, his movements precise, his voice rhythmic and patterned and in no way overwhelming, he seemed like some wise old owl.
On the way to an office was a standard drink machine. It was the kind you find in psychiatry places that sells disgusting powdered orange tea in smelly plastic cups. Linoleum made a path under my feet. It was the sort that led to a multitude of look-alike fluorescent-lit offices inside of look-alike multistory buildings full of look-alike people with look-alike jobs and sound-alike blah-blah voices. It seemed the sort of place where one can get easily lost and each person asks another person to help you until you are surrounded by helpful people and you just run blindly through corridor after corridor.
Stop it, Donna, you’re winding yourself up, I reminded myself on the verge of panic. I breathed deeply and rhythmically. Through a glass corridor, I looked out at the sunshine. Goodbye, sun, I said to myself, as though seeing it for the last time. I kept breathing. Relax, I ordered myself. You’ll come back out. He’s a psychologist, not a brain surgeon.
Dr. Marek chose an office. I felt awful. I hated having no idea where I was going and I was too intact to “disappear.”
The office was narrow and I felt closed in, a rabbit in a cage. It was too much like being taken into those little offices in high school where you felt like a bug being observed under a microscope, as exposed as being nude onstage under floodlights before an awaiting audience.
I reminded myself there was no threat. I was busy taking in the contents of the room. The window, the blinds, the view outside, the number of floors in the building I could see through the window, the surface and color of the walls, the position of the seats, the marks on the floor, the surface of the
“No thanks,” I said hurriedly. “I don’t need any help.” “He’s not a psychiatrist,” said the man, as though he had read my mind. “He’s an educational psychologist. He has worked for a long time with autistic people.” I looked at him cautiously, took the number, and left.
A week or so later, I rang the resource center again. “I spoke to Dr. Marek since speaking to you,” said the man running the place. “He said he would be interested to meet you.” I had no desire whatsoever to meet anybody unless he or she was going to lead me to the people I thought I’d find belonging with. Finally I figured that if anyone would know some, this doctor-person might. I called the number.
Dr. Theodore Marek had heard I had written a book and that it was going to be published. He assured me he wasn’t a shrink and said he might be able to help me and that he wanted to do some tests. I figured that “helping me” meant he’d help me find the other people “like me.” As for the tests, no reasons sprung to mind why I didn’twant to do them. But then no reasons sprung to mind why I did. The word “test” just hung about upon the air meaning not much at all.
—
The date arrived for the appointment with the doctor. The staircase wound up floor by floor to the top of the building. There were columns of photos of people who had something to do with the university. I took in the pattern of the seats around me and the curve of an ugly, chaotic sculpture nearby. There was a fish tank and deep-green algae, and I watched for a system in the way the fish swam around the tank. Without recognizing what I was touching, I picked some sparkly tinsel from the Christmas tree and twirled the bits in my fingers. Embarrassed, I realized what I’d done and put the bits in my pocket.
A short, round man with big, round eyes came around the corner. Calm and predictable, his movements precise, his voice rhythmic and patterned and in no way overwhelming, he seemed like some wise old owl.
On the way to an office was a standard drink machine. It was the kind you find in psychiatry places that sells disgusting powdered orange tea in smelly plastic cups. Linoleum made a path under my feet. It was the sort that led to a multitude of look-alike fluorescent-lit offices inside of look-alike multistory buildings full of look-alike people with look-alike jobs and sound-alike blah-blah voices. It seemed the sort of place where one can get easily lost and each person asks another person to help you until you are surrounded by helpful people and you just run blindly through corridor after corridor.
Stop it, Donna, you’re winding yourself up, I reminded myself on the verge of panic. I breathed deeply and rhythmically. Through a glass corridor, I looked out at the sunshine. Goodbye, sun, I said to myself, as though seeing it for the last time. I kept breathing. Relax, I ordered myself. You’ll come back out. He’s a psychologist, not a brain surgeon.
Dr. Marek chose an office. I felt awful. I hated having no idea where I was going and I was too intact to “disappear.”
The office was narrow and I felt closed in, a rabbit in a cage. It was too much like being taken into those little offices in high school where you felt like a bug being observed under a microscope, as exposed as being nude onstage under floodlights before an awaiting audience.
I reminded myself there was no threat. I was busy taking in the contents of the room. The window, the blinds, the view outside, the number of floors in the building I could see through the window, the surface and color of the walls, the position of the seats, the marks on the floor, the surface of the
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