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No More Doctor Nice Guy Part 16 free porn video
No More Doctor Nice Guy Part 16
Dr Black begins to elaborate on his justification for why I'm
incarcerated here. As he had said, to help me remember who I really am.
He summoned Michael to rejoin us. I'm not sure if that was to add
impetus to his account or as a corroborative witness. Nonetheless it
was a little intimidating to be in the presence of these two men,
especially when they were about to dissect me. Not so much physically,
or literally, I hoped, but in a psychological sense.
I suppose, feeling as if my mind was now quite tumultuous, clouded by
uncertainty, Dr Black's explanation for me was definitely the more
feasible one.
No supernatural beings or body transformations required. It would make
a lot more sense to me, and the world, if I was simply insane.
But I had felt so certain I wasn't. That everything that had happened
to me was real. Maybe that's the true insidiousness of lunacy; all
these occurrences seeming so possible, even when there is just no way
they could be.
In any case, Dr Black took it upon himself to tell me the 'true' facts
of my life, for my mental illness had blocked a lot of this out, and
made it so difficult for me to remember.
"Your parents died when you were very young," he began. This was true
no matter who I was, it seemed.
"Your grandfather Donald Ward took you in as your only living relative.
But he was very elderly. And one day he came to hospital after becoming
ill. Whilst there he had a heart attack, and although every effort was
made to save him, he died. You were with him at the time, and witnessed
the resuscitative efforts. You were still only little, about 9 I think,
and it was quite traumatizing for you."
My thoughts immediately honed in on my first day as a nurse when I
'became' Alex Moore. Mr Donald was the name of the man who died.
Exactly the way Dr Black described. Had I incorporated my grandfather's
death into my far fetched fantasies?
"After he was gone you were put in the foster system, and that didn't
go well for you. You were sexually abused from an early age, which is
where your dissociative identity disorder first gestated."
I had heard this story, but the point of reference had changed.
"But that never happened to me!" I articulated my internal
machinations. "That was Kevin. He was sexually abused as a young girl."
Dr Black sighed in response to that.
"Alex, that just proves our point," he said. "You are Kevin. Or more
precisely he's one of your constructed personalities. You invented him.
He's not real. It's very common for those suffering childhood trauma
and abuse, to create protective identities they can hide in."
"But he was real. I loved him!" That feeling poured out of me so
readily. "I know what I felt. I couldn't feel that for something
fictional."
"Yes. You could. And you did. Like anyone you are so desperate to be
loved. That's true. So you did invent that whole happy family thing,"
he condescends. "It's a little sad."
"But the baby." I still wasn't done with my defense. "The miscarriage.
I still have the pain from my D&C."
"Your pelvic pain is a separate thing. That's a chronic problem. And
yes you have been pregnant, but you never had a miscarriage. Just give
me a moment and I'll get to that."
I remain silent now. He has an explanation for everything. Michael sits
there wordlessly nodding agreement to all Dr Black says. The
realization dawns on me that my arguments are both baseless and
pointless. I have to acknowledge the simple fact these men are telling
the truth.
"Anyway. After years of abuse, when you were old enough, a teen, you
ran away and lived on the street. Recurrent bouts of chlamydia and
Gonorrhea from you doing what you needed to survive have given you
Pelvic inflammatory disease. You have lots of adhesions and scarring.
You've always got pelvic pain. As a result you became dependent on
narcotics, both recreational and prescribed, which is why you're on the
methadone now. Still, in spite of all that scarring, you did end up
pregnant a couple of times. You couldn't always afford the pill and
sometimes your clients didn't wear a condom if they paid you a little
extra. But there were cheap solutions to your pregnancy problems at
hand. After one very unsterile backyard abortion you very nearly bled
to death. The Doctors in the Emergency department were only just able
to save you. You needed a lot of blood transfusions."
Apparently I had rewritten that as a miscarriage in my deluded version
of events.
"Your mental health deteriorated over the years. Once, when you were
24, you took a massive overdose of tricyclic antidepressants and as
before, very nearly died. Yet again the emergency Doctors and nurses
saved you. So for more than a decade you've been in and out of
Emergency departments, and in and out of here.
This is why you created these particular personalities, Alex Turner the
psychiatrist, or Alex Moore the Emergency nurse, because of your vast
exposure to these types of people. And all the other characters in your
fantasy worlds may be based on, or be actual Doctors and nurses you've
encountered along the way."
So it was clearly certain. I was so psychotic I had formed and lived in
my own more favourable reality. Making up implausible stories to
justify it all. I had dragged real people into my delusions as well as
creating plenty of imaginary ones. I wasn't really a psychiatrist or a
nurse. I'd just been surrounded by them for so long I had pulled
excerpts from their interactions with me into my make believe world. I
must be so significantly unwell to have drifted this far from
normality.
Notably, all of Alex Turner's phobias and hates were my actualities.
He hated women with chronic pelvic pain, which I have. He was so afraid
of ending up a street whore. Which is what I have been. What I am.
Furthermore, all of Alex Moore's memorable nursing moments were my
actual life events. Mr Donald's death. My grandfather. The tricyclic
overdose was actually me. And I did nearly bleed to death, not from a
miscarriage, but from a septic abortion.
How cleverly my mind had deceived me. How had I made such a ridiculous
life story seem palatable?
I had to process all this, I couldn't take any more right now. I asked
Dr Black to stop and leave me alone for a while.
They, he and Michael, complied but left my arms in restraint.
I slumped my head forward in the ensuing silence.
It was all very believable, the story they had told me.
Sensible even. Far more sensible than what I had previously thought.
But the bottom line was. This was not what I remembered. None of that
timeline.
All I remembered was my fictitious world.
Where I had been Alex Turner for the first 30 years of my life, then
Alex Moore for the last one. If these were false memories, where were
my real ones?
Would more medication and therapy eventually unveil them?
Or would that treatment in fact, implant them?
Was it possible, even remotely, that Dr Black was the malevolent being
I believed him to be, and this was his latest trickery?
Or was my thought disorder just making me hang on to that.
I had no proof of anything, and he had an answer for everything.
Did I actually possess the knowledge of a trainee psychiatrist; or a
critical care trained nurse for that matter? Or did I just think I did?
I couldn't be sure. I felt I knew things that a patient, no matter how
assimilated they were, couldn't possibly know. But I now doubted
everything.
I needed time to decide. To search for clues and find the truth.
The good thing I guess, about being locked up in a mental institution,
time is something I'll have plenty of.
*******
Thankfully, after another 24 hours, Dr Black could see I was making
progress; coming around to their way of thinking. I remained docile and
cooperative so I was let out of restraints and seclusion and allowed to
interact with the other patients.
I couldn't remember ever being violent. I still couldn't imagine how I
ever could have been. But my false memories seemed so entrenched I
clearly couldn't remember anything that had really happened in the
past.
It pained me to think I was a bad person. A violent one. Even telling
myself my mental illness made me so wasn't helpful. Trying to absolve
myself from responsibility by pleading insanity simply didn't wash.
If I had hit and kicked and spat, like the behaviour of the people
around me implied I did, it just made me hate myself all the more.
Perhaps it was a blessing that I couldn't remember any such sinister
acts.
If I had a friend at all in the world I was unaware of them, given I
could remember nothing real before my life behind these four walls.
Could I interact adequately with the people confined here such as I?
Could I form social bonds?
I guess the only way to find out was to try.
So I joined the other patients in their day to day activities.
Smoking was the favorite past time of psychiatric inpatients.
Cigarettes were the major currency amongst us. With my history of drug
use I figured surely it was another vice I'd be familiar with and
accustomed to. But my first attempt at smoking a cigarette, courtesy of
a kind donation, told me this was certainly not the case. I coughed and
spluttered. It was probably nothing, but this little inconsistency
sewed doubt and set my treatment back. But perhaps I truly had enough
problems without a smoker being one of them.
Patients would come and go. The depressives were no fun, and most of
the schizophrenics were burnt out.
Every now and then though, someone acutely psychotic would arrive to
liven things up.
After I'd been there for 5 days that I actually recalled, (although I
had been there much longer, I just couldn't remember) they brought in
such a man.
He was mid to late 20s maybe, unkempt and pretty out there.
Those of us with enough presence of mind would form a little welcoming
committee.
'Who are you? What you in for? Are you voluntary? (Very unlikely in his
case!) Got any cigarettes or things to trade?'
He called himself Tim. No last name. He told us the 'White train of
judgment' was coming for us all. Some of us felt it had already
arrived.
He asked me my name.
I told him.
"Ha! Alex! The lady with a man's name. I was warned about you."
Personally I felt there were an equal amount of Alex's of both genders.
After all Alexis was shortened too. But it was a little ironic. Given
in my delusions I had been a man named Alex.
I don't really think he'd been warned about me. I was pretty harmless
compared to some of my cohort. But maybe my propensity for violence was
legendary and I completely underestimated my own ability for mayhem.
"The arrogant wolf," he directed at me. "You know what that means!"
I didn't. Was he implying I was an arrogant wolf? In sheep's clothing
perhaps? Was he somehow alluding to Alex Turner? Who was a bit of a
caricature now that I thought about him. But he sure was arrogant. How
could this man possibly know?
As Tim wandered away mumbling I realized what I was doing. I was
styling the rantings of a mad man to fit into my delusions.
He didn't know me, and he certainly didn't know Alex Turner. There was
nothing in my false memories of an encounter with this man as Dr
Turner, and I'd overheard staff saying that this was Tim's first
presentation.
I needed to stop this. Pulling random things from the real world into
my idealized one. I would never get better until I ceased doing that.
*******
In my next session with Dr Black I confessed how I was still letting
such influences distort my recovery.
For the first time in our 6 days of therapy his face darkened in my
presence.
He wanted to know all about what Tim had said and why, even dragging
him in to ask him directly.
But the big doses of Olanzapine had kicked in and Tim, now extremely
sedate and muted, appeared to have no recollection of saying any of the
things he had; and further seemed very unclear as to whether he even
recalled meeting me at all.
It made me anxious to see Dr Black agitated and upset with me. I hated
that I had done that. I needed to redouble my efforts.
I was determined to prove to him that I realized the truth. That I
really was Alexandra Ward, child abuse survivor. (Which is probably a
misnomer, as no one ever really 'survives' child abuse. Not undamaged
in any case. Clearly I had not escaped unscathed, given how deranged I
was.) Also I would confirm to him that I knew I had dissociative
identity disorder which manifest as delusional thoughts and multiple
personalities. Finally, I would prove over the coming days I will soon
be ready to return to society, and try henceforth to live a more
productive life.
***
Over the next few weeks Dr Black and Registrar Dr Michael saw me every
day.
Aside from the depot injection I received additional medication for my
mental state on top of my usual cocktail of painkillers and
antibiotics.
Their therapy helped a great deal. I felt like I was getting better.
The ridiculous thoughts became far less intrusive and eventually
settled altogether.
I even felt confident I was starting to remember the things from my
past they had told me about.
It seemed, thanks to them, for the first time in years, I'll be able to
keep a grip on normality for good.
Well relative normality at least. I knew I would never be 'quite
right.' As they say.
I sensed I was getting close to being discharged; which should have
been cause for celebration; but instead my anxiety began to escalate.
I was frightened of life 'out there.'
How would I ever integrate?
What could I do?
I have no qualifications.
I didn't even finish high school.
It was too overwhelming to contemplate.
Conversely it felt safe in here.
It was true I suppose that I was institutionalized.
Even if I couldn't remember it, I'd clearly spent so much time here
that it became a haven.
But I knew I had to be brave or I would never evolve. And more
specifically I suppose, never leave.
The medications blunted my emotions. Although I still felt things. To
an extent. Everything was just more subdued. It was if my colour wheel
had been ransacked and all the bright ones discarded leaving the more
subtle hues. I know it had to be done. Things had to be that way.
Trouble was it made my interaction with people much more pedestrian. I
knew I should make friends, it was just really hard. With one exception
though.
Tim. Once he was shaved, showered and suitably treated he was probably
the most enticing company of all the choices I had.
It's not that I specifically had any romantic leanings towards him. I
mean I would fuck him of course, should the opportunity arise. But
options were limited with regard to doing so, both in terms of location
and supervision. The staff regimentally discouraged 'intimate
fraternisation' and there was no such thing as privacy on a psych ward.
One time I'd snuck into one of the seclusion rooms, left empty and
unlocked, with some random guy.
I was just going to give him a blow job. He had promised me chocolate.
But Ros caught me in the midst of it and had dragged me off him.
She called me all sorts of unflattering names and told Dr Black.
I was fretful about consequences but Dr Black was nicer. He seemed a
little disappointed but mostly bemused. He had said I was only human
after all, which seemed patronizing but possibly true.
Not because I needed sex. Which is what he seemed to think.
Honestly I was just desperate for some chocolate.
In any case, Tim and I never carnalised our friendship. Maybe when we
were both released that could be on the cards. I wasn't too fussed one
way or the other to be honest.
***
When the day of my discharge finally came I was a whole palate of mixed
emotions. Insomuch as my treatment allowed me to feel depth of emotion
I guess.
I had reduced my methadone dose considerably and my pelvic pain was
being adequately managed with simple paracetamol (acetaminophen) or
ibuprofen.
These were a plus. I was determined to no longer be a slave to
analgesics. Or any drugs for that matter.
The gynaecology team had inserted an Implanon in my upper arm, to
prevent any more accidental pregnancies.
My hepatitis and HIV serology remained negative, which Ros had snidely
remarked was the proof of miracles. Although I had grown not to like
her I felt that maybe this was a fair call. I probably should have
caught Hep B or C at the very least, one way or other.
I must have avoided sharing needles.
Even though I felt I could remember some things I couldn't recall my
drug taking patterns.
I knew, from all the education that I should adhere to this behaviour
of using clean needles but to think I actually had put that into
practice showed far more common sense than I thought myself capable of.
With regard to the other route by which one can contract those viruses,
again I'd been lucky. I had to assume the 'johns'; (which was the
quaint archaic way Dr Black described the men who paid to fuck me; he
said clients made it seem far too much like a business decision rather
than what it truly was; the actions of a desperate wastrel); were more
often than not concerned enough about their own health that condoms
were used in the majority of cases.
So I did wonder if someone had been looking out for me.
Not that I believed in God.
When your delusions are based around persecutory religious fixations,
like demons and the devil, sanity dramatically alters your stance. Once
you are better you can't help but realize the absurdity of it.
Dr Black said I wasn't the first person to accuse him of being the
devil, but I think he was just being nice.
So all in all there was cause for optimism.
I had discussed at length with Dr Black what I could do in terms of
finding a job.
I had suggested training as a nurse's aid or patient service attendant
but he said I had to stay well away from anything of a medical nature
in case that fed back into my delusions.
It was hard at 31 too to start over. I thought maybe I could train as a
barista or possibly even get a hairdressing apprenticeship.
Dr Black thought these may be beyond my capabilities and I'd be
competing with teens in any case. I would be less preferable.
Especially with a history of mental illness.
In the end I thought I might try for kitchen or laundry work. Or in a
factory.
Jobs I wouldn't have to interact too much with people.
I would cross that bridge when I got to it I suppose, but I didn't just
want to languish around, festering. Idle hands and all. I thought
keeping busy would help me stay well.
Although saying my treatment was curative might have been overstating
things I definitely wasn't haunted by my alternative personalities any
more.
No more delusions about awful Alex Turner or sweet, kindly Alex Moore.
They were two extremes of the spectrum. Make believe grotesques at the
polar opposites of my emotional range.
I'd like to think the real me was somewhere in the middle.
Perhaps in the past I had been down the Alex Turner end. But I was
working towards the Alex Moore end.
I'd been good to those around me.
By which I meant the other patients and staff.
I was never cruel or violent like I once had been.
Sometimes I'd hoped Dr Black would be proud of me.
The hardest part of my delusions to give up was Kevin Moore.
It was so nice to imagine I had someone who cared about me.
It wasn't lost on me the silliness that even though this was my make
believe world that I could set all the rules in I still couldn't bring
my fictional husband to love me. Something to do with my lack of self
esteem or belief in my self worth and so forth.
At least that's what Dr Black thought.
I wondered some times, perhaps even wished, that I would find my own
Kevin Moore in the real world.
Really love someone. And be loved.
Warily, but maybe wisely, I suspected that the mediocre indifference
and convenience that I felt towards Tim was as close as I may ever get.
So it wasn't a teary goodbye when I parted ways with him on my
departure day.
"We should catch up when you're out," I remarked casually.
"That would be good Alexandra," Tim replied. Although his lack of
enthusiasm matched my own.
"Ha!" I scoffed. "Still think Alex is a boy's name?" He had used my
full name.
"What?" he looked perturbed.
"That's the first thing you ever said to me remember? Admittedly you
were fair off your gourd. You said I was a lady with a man's name. You
even called me an arrogant wolf."
Tim's brow furrowed deeply and I could see him straining to remember. I
immediately felt bad for teasing him. Especially when I recalled, after
my comment, how Dr Black had already grilled him about it, and he'd
completely forgotten.
I didn't like to be reminded of when I was punching and kicking. I'm
glad I couldn't remember. So I wished I hadn't brought it up for the
same reason.
"No!" he retorts with effort. "That's not what I said. Or if it is
it's not what I meant."
"Hey." I'm quick to be conciliatory. "It's okay. I'm just teasing. We
all say and do stupid shit when we're off. There's no way you'd
remember. And it doesn't mean anything."
He's silent for a while. It feels like he's studying me. I worry for a
moment I've really done some damage to him. Am I about to set him off?
Have I caused a major relapse?
Oh God.
I didn't mean to.
What if he hurts me?
But when he does speak he's not elevated.
"But I do remember!" he emphasizes.
"You told Dr Black you didn't," I remind him gently.
"I had my reasons," he seems guarded again. Maybe he's not quite at the
same place I am. Psychologically speaking.
"You aren't the lady with a man's name. I wasn't referring to you," he
assures me. "It was actually a message for you from the lady with the
man's name. And I can't remember the message exactly but it was
something like 'Remember the arrogant wolf.'"
"What?" I squeak meekly as all the air rushes from my lungs. I feel a
thin film of sweat break out all over me.
"What lady with a man's name?" I demand from him.
But I felt I already knew the answer to that question. Or my foolish
lonely heart did. It leapt to its own conclusion. And the rest of me
fell headlong after it.
Meanwhile I could suddenly feel the walls of my world crumbling around
me and the earth shattering beneath my feet.
Things were clearly not at all what they seemed.
TBC
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