I’m trying to convince my shrink, Nate Granger, that the images that oppress me are real and are not a delusion but a result of spiritual warfare.
I might be fighting a losing battle though in more ways than one—Nate’s a cynic and the mere mention of metaphysics gives him heartburn.
“A picture doesn’t haunt and torment—or make you desolate,” I argue, but it’s useless. He’s made up his mind
“No,” he whispers, “we do that to ourselves.”
“This isn’t something I made up, Nate—this is real, and it is warfare.”
He leans back in his chair and returns to staring out the window at the lake.
“Tell me about Claire,” he says matter of factly.
As he mentions her name, her image flashes into my mind—lovely dark tresses— transparent skin—violet eyes that are so bewitching.
“She’s forty-two and teaches American Lit at St. Michael’s College at the University of Toronto. She’s one of the most gentle, gracious women I have ever met.”
“She sounds wonderful—definitely someone you’d be drawn to and find attractive.”
I nod mutely.
“Is she—attractive?”
“She’s beautiful, if that’s what you mean—but she has inner beauty as well.”
“Hmm. No doubt. Have you slept with her?”
“No!” I say indignantly.
“Is that no, as in not yet, or no, we don’t have that sort of relationship?”
Again, he’s penetrated to the heart of the matter.
“I suppose it’s the former—no, as in we haven’t slept together yet.”
“But you probably will and you’re now unsure if you’re consorting with demons?”
“You make me sound like Faust.”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Ah yes—Faust. Such a tragic hero—his damned life and most deserved death. Is that what you envision for you—damnation, a second death in the pit of hell?”
“Damn you, Nate—are you trying to help or condemn?”
“Right now, I’d say neither. I’m trying to get at the facts—not run away from them or cover them up with theological fogging.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
He smiles good-naturedly. “Our ideas, Martin, are often the smokescreen for our wishes. I want you to think about that before I see next time.”
He’s an intriguing man, Nate Granger. Like the old Marlboro Man, he rides tall in the saddle and his eyes see forever.
I’m not sure how far Nate’s eyes really penetrate though—maybe all the way to Indonesia and those limestone caves filled with flickering nightmares.
Or maybe his examination light is like a retinoscope, illuming all the nerve pathways and synapses behind the eyes. Maybe he can even probe into the cave of the psyche and see the shadows Plato saw on the cave walls.
And in the end, maybe he can conclude that it’s all a sham—everything is rigged. My devils are only flickering shadows cast by the flames of desire.
He’s a good man, Nate Granger—but then again, he hasn’t stared into my Abyss.
He hasn’t seen what I see each night when I close my eyes and watch the parade of phantasmagoric visions begin.
