Bipolar or ASD?


Bipolar or Schizo, that is the question.

I jazzed the dream up big. Heinz was sucking on my psyche like a demented squirrel. He swallowed it whole. Germans are so easy to fuck with, unless of course you’re a Jew.
“It’s certainly an interesting dream, packed with significance, what do you make of it?”
“What do ‘I’ make of it? Hey, you’re the expert.”
“Take a layman’s guess.”
“Okay, it shows my sick, perverted mind.”

bipolar

“Sure, but this is unusual Dick, even for you. What do you think of the cavern?”
“Well it’s not John, Paul and Ringo.”
“Aren’t you forgetting George?”
“Who’s he?”
“The fourth member of the Beatles, and by far the most important, musically speaking.”
“Never heard of him.”
Heinz looked pained. I was really starting to enjoy myself.
“And who is the girl?”
‘The girl?”
“Yes”.
“Fuck knows.”
“I think you know more than you are letting on.”
Heinz was itching to dig into my brain. “Will you allow me to place you under hypnosis?”
The last thing I wanted was Mengele’s natural successor probing inside my skull. But it was quid pro quo, so I explained the deal.
“Look Heinz, I have to be honest, I’m in shit at work and I need your help sorting it out.”
“Why? What happened?”
I told Heinz about the Elena Rabbit incident. “She was that close to firing me, just for playing some easy listening music at reception.”
“What music?”
“Yeah, theme from Mash, know it?”
“Yes, it’s about Vietnam, about suicide. Is that what upset your boss?”
“Yeah, she’s such a brain-dead bimbo. I told her, I said “With all due respect Miss Rabbit, committing suicide is a dignified way to live. Look at these guys ” – now by this time they’re all humming along – ” when have you ever seen the patients this calm, looking so happy and chilled?” I even offered to compile a list of websites for the depressives to socialise with other depressives. It fell on deaf ears, she didn’t share my p.o.v.”
Heinz was shaking his head. “It astonishes me how blinkered these social care professionals can be. Anyway, how can I assist?”
(is Dick Bipolar?)
“I need a clinical letter to give to HR.”
“Of course.”
“Mention my condition, say it was severely aggravated by obscene amounts of stress and bullying work, hint about my boss.”
Heinz seized his fountain pen and scratched a note on a yellow sticky.
“Will Paranoid Schizophrenia be okay? Or would you prefer Bi-polar?”
“What’s your opinion?”
“Well, in my experience H R tend to be more sympathetic toward Bipolar. You see, on the whole mood swingers’s can function, though they’re a pain in the neck. Your average BP has low self-worth, he will accept minimum pay and conditions, whereas PS’s could raise a fuss. They’ll cut you more slack if you’re BP.
“Make it Bipolar.”
“Of course”, said Heinz, “I’ll get it typed up. Now, shall we begin?”

Agatha in the underworld sequence

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Therapy With Coffee


HEINZ wasn’t too thrilled to see me, he gave that shifty-eyed look.
‘Dick! Long time no see, come on in.’
There was a blonde chick sitting on the sofa, she reminded me of Princess; the grunge version.
I looked at Heinz, ‘Heinz, if I’m not mistaken that poor girl is in a state of – deshabille – (I pronounced the French word carefully), what have you been up to? Did you molest her under hypnosis?’
‘Dick, meet my daughter, Bronwyn. Bronwyn meet Dick.’
‘Fuck you,’ the charming girl said.
She stood up, her ripped tee-shirt was little more than a few strands held together with nasty looking pins. Her jeans looked as though she had slashed them with a knife. She glared at Heinz on the way out, ‘This is not over yet, not by a long shot.’
‘Bye bye Bronwyn,’ Heinz said, ‘say hi to mother for me.’
The sweet child left the office leaving a hole in the atmosphere, a hole full of words unspoken.
‘I apologise for that,’ Heinz said, ‘it’s the only way I could get rid of her. She despises my patients.’
That struck me as quite sinister, since I was a client of Heinz. ‘Wait a minute, she doesn’t even know me, unless you’ve been talking about me behind my back. Not professional of you Heinz. How could you betray the trust of your client?’
Heinz held up his palms, ‘whoah, whoah?’ He looked horrified. ‘You misunderstand Dick, my daughter hates people on principle, it’s part of her philosophy, she only likes her dog, “Snap” who is very appropriately named, I might add.
I got the picture, but I let him sweat. ‘Well, if you say so Heinz, but …’
Heinz shifted on his feet, he tried to look positive, as if delighted by my presence.
‘Never mind all that, I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about my defective child, let me make you a drink.’
The magic brew bubbled away in the corner and the scent was tantalizing, who would have though monkey shit could be so alluring.
When Heinz reached for the coffee pot, I saw the furtive glance. The words squeaked out of his throat. “Coffee? Or would you prefer a nice cup of English tea Dick?”
“Coffee please.”
For Heinz to offer me some of the golden nectar he obviously needed something from me. While Heinz poured the delicate aroma I racked my brains to figure out what the angle was, it didn’t add up. Here I was, the needy one, the helpless fool, the vulnerable idiot dependent on drugs, on therapy and yet Heinz was behaving as if I was the Queen.
“I’m glad you decided to give therapy another go, Dick.” Heinz said, wincing as he placed the precious nectar on the table in front of me.
“That is very presumptuous of you Heinz,’ I told him, ‘what makes you think I need treatment?”
Heinz raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you?’
Elena Rabbit had torn a strip out of me over the iPhone incident, she was ready to hand me the sack. So I needed a declaration from Heinz stating that I was suffering from PTSD. It sucked, but I didn’t have any other choice. I looked him straight in the eye. “No, no, Heinz I’m here to talk about a dream,, that’s all.”
Heinz chuckled to himself, “okay, ready when you are, Dick.”
He sat down. I wanted to smack the smug look off of his face. I watched him arranging himself neatly in his chair, crossing his corduroyed legs, and sipping his civet poo. I saw the little finger tweaking out; were all male psychiatrists faggots and mummy’s boys, I wondered? How he had managed to sire a little honey like the one I had just seen, was anyone’s guess.
Anyway, the dream was just a sideshow. Heinz was like a dog with a bone, as far as dreams went.
I yawned, conspicuously, then reached for the miniature thimble that passed for a cup.

Suicide Hotline


Heinz recommended redeployment and they put me typing in reception. Pointless me deal with the lost and the broken, since I had so many screws loose myself.

I jammed on the iPhone , slapped the headset on and got down to business. This was the shit. Just me and my machinery. Minimum human interaction. Even Singh knew better than to talk to me, he just dumped the tapes on the desk. all other communication was via email, and if the phone rang I ignored it,
The fax started screaming, it spit another document, marked urgent. I took it next door to Sue. She logged it on the system and tossed it in the ‘later’ tray
Sue said, ‘another person wantin’ to kill theirselves, wasting everyone’s flippin’ time.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Mr down under gave us a funny look from under his beard, it spelled trouble. There’s this queerness about me, whenever I smell trouble I have no choice but to make it worse, double it, triple it, quadruple it if possible. Especially when it comes to that dipstick.
Spencer drifted in from reception with a message for Singh.
‘I would have give it myself, but he’s not answering the phone,’ spencer said. ‘And he’s got three clients waiting for him in reception, they’re getting restless.’
I snatched the blue docket from his hand.
Someone rang the bell at the desk. It sounded angry. Spencer shuffled around on his feet.
‘Get back to the zombies’, I said
Mr down under glared at me from underneath his horn-rimmed spectacles, beady eyes glittering with indignation.
‘I think you should have more respect for our clients, Dick.’
‘We ought to have canned music out here in reception,’ I said ‘got to keep the customers satisfied.’
‘What sort of music would that be?’
‘Simon and Garfunkel.’
‘Oh good choice, I do like Simon and Garfunkel.’
I went back to the desk playing the theme tune from Mash on my iPhone.
I put the song on repeat in iTunes , Garfunkel ‘s soothing voice drifted into the lobby. I sat watching the crazies, hoping they were getting the message
Sour faces glared at me from the other side of the glass.
“Suicide is painless …”
Then Elena Rabbit walked in.