I visited a psychiatrist once

Greatly troubled by memories 

From childhood.

Dark, debilitating intrusions

That growled and spat 

Ripped and shredded

All decency and peace:

Pulses of Hatred

From childhood -

Ghouls in my head

Lying in wait!

 

He sat behind a huge desk

A small person

Fortressed by this great plank

Covered with papers and pens

Books stacked in disparate bundles

Titles turned away from the patient.

Not quite neat – not quite messy.

I liked him at once.

He looked a sensitive man

Not really comfortable with other people's pain

But soldiering on.

I remember thinking: 'He's a little bit scared.

Yet – he works.'

I valued his input before he opened his mouth.

 

So we discussed: Hatred

My cause for counselling.

'I do not want to be ripped apart

By Hate, again,' I tried to explain.

'It's a useless emotion

Accomplishing nothing but destruction

Of myself and the people I love.

Logically, I refuse Hate

But my mind plays games with me

In sleep.

Not even definable dreams.

Emotions - like acids in my brain -

Eating away my finer sensibilities.'

 

We saw each other on two occasions

Talked, almost like friends

And even chuckled over tea.

Just the norm, I thought, but not really sure.

I had no experience.

I remember both pleasure and privilege.

 

After the second hour had fully passed

In amiable conversation on deep topics

He said, 'I really don't know which one of us

Should be on which side of this desk.'

And I gasped.

'Go home, Cynthia.' he said  quietly.

'Be wholly assured, you are not ill now.

And you will not be ill again.

These bad moments will pass.

Maybe not immediately -

There is much stress in your life right now.

But they will pass

Because you choose not to nurture them.'

 

I shook his hand

Knowing - knowing! - he was a doctor, not a friend.

Moved, and buoyed, by his simple humanism

His shared wisdom and knowledge.

And he was right.

I knew he was right that very day

As I drove home.

Yet, all I remember of him really 

Is His Essence.