I used to call them torture methods—these so-called modes of education and experiences that promised to elevate but only seemed to suffocate. After my release from the mental institution, where I had been trapped in the dark theatrics of my own mind, I felt an inexplicable pull to resume my education, which had been interrupted just three years shy of completion. Those years had slipped away like sand through my fingers, each moment soaked in the promise of a life half-lived.
As I stepped back into the world, I reconnected with her—my beacon during those turbulent times. Her love had been unconditional, a rare purity in a world steeped in deception. She had loved me when self-love was an alien concept to me, igniting hope in a soul I had deemed beyond saving. In the shadow of her light, I found fleeting moments of reprieve from the incessant gloom that had become my constant companion in the solitude of dark rooms and darker thoughts. We shared ideals, passionately debating how to forge a perfect logic that could help humanity transcend its primal conflicts. Unlike many, who mastered the art of pretense, she was a paragon of authenticity, her uniqueness undeniable. Together, we tackled every conceivable problem plaguing our world, our dialogues a blend of passion and intellect.
Then university hit me like a train. I wasn’t prepared at all. But aren’t we all unprepared? The first torture method was the university I chose that year. It wasn’t that I was stupid; I just couldn’t stop criticizing the system, as I always do. While others worked hard to succeed, I kept complaining—not without reason, but fighting for a lost cause nonetheless. After failing that year, I moved on to the next torture method. Slowly, I realized that we were lab rats, fed extravagant amounts of information with no real purpose other than to discard it when we were done. Moving to a new place, I tried not to repeat my mistakes, but I ended up losing another year. Darkness returned to me. I spent months without shelter, far from home, keeping my bad and sad feelings to myself. I never expressed them. One day, I felt great despair, but I didn’t shed a tear. Every evening, as night approached, I felt an unbearable weight on my shoulders—sorrow deeper than anything I had experienced, even in the hospital. I had moments of intense sadness. You might think black is the darkest thing in life, but you haven’t seen my soul back then.
I lived through days of homelessness, questioning my worth once again. I told myself, “Jack, with all the knowledge you have, you’re still thrown away like trash,” and I laughed, “I am trash indeed.” For a moment, everything glitched, and I thought that was it for me—soon, I’d lose my sanity. I clung to bad habits, staying up all night, harboring dark thoughts, becoming an extreme pessimist. The experience I gained was born from the pain I felt.
One day, I went to spend the night at a friend’s place. He was living in a dorm, a university student like me. He left to buy something from outside, and since I was so tired, I fell asleep immediately. After a while, I heard someone whispering in my ear: “Wake up! Open the door!” I woke up and went to the door, but as I touched it, someone yelled, “Open the door!” I found myself back in bed as if I hadn’t woken up at all. The same voice grew louder and louder in my ears: “Open the door! Open the door! Wake up from your sleep!” But every time I reached the door, I was back in bed, trying to open it again. I started yelling and cursing, “Go away! I’m not opening the door! Leave me alone!” The voice insisted, “You should open it—open the door.” I felt trapped in an infinite loop, in limbo. My friend was scared to death; my pillow was soaked in blood from my nose. He woke me up and said, “You were yelling and screaming, talking to someone, and I couldn’t wake you up.” He added, “You should get help, bro.” I asked, “What can I do?” “Go see a psychotherapist,” he suggested.
Since every phone is spying on us, I was surfing the net and saw a lot of ads for competent doctors who could help with psychological issues. I chose one at random, not believing it would make any difference.
When I say the word “psychotherapist,” I break it down to “psycho the rapist”—isn’t that funny? I called for an appointment and got one. A few days later, I was in the waiting room, and my turn came. One thing about mental hospitals, asylums, and psychotherapists—they all have a depressing vibe. You’re not there to be healed; you’re someone with an illness that even the doctors pretend to understand, but believe me, they don’t. They’ll start asking weird questions or throw every pill they have at you to chemically suppress every emotion—good or bad. They’ll dissect your brain with brutal methods—not physically, although some do physical damage—but most use mental probing to mess with your sanity. You’re a subject, a toy in their hands, to do with as they please.
The doctor knew my name but asked anyway: “What’s your name?” I replied, “Am I a joke to you? Of course, you know my name; it’s written there.” “Please answer the question.” “Jack.” “Why are you here, Jack?” “Why am I here? Why are you here?” She started writing things on her paper that I couldn’t see. Suddenly, I began seeing things in the office moving around. Was it a ghost? No, I was hallucinating. Someone stood behind the doctor and said, “Jack, why did you come here? I’m not your enemy—she’ll mess you up. You’ll go back to the asylum again.” I started yelling, “You’re the one messing me up!” The voice replied, “Don’t yell. I only exist in your mind. She’ll think you’re crazy—she can’t see me, only you can see me.”
The doctor asked, “What did you say?” “Nothing, I was just thinking out loud, that’s all.” The voice called again, “Tell her what she wrote on the paper is wrong.” I replied, “But I don’t know what she wrote.” It said, “Aggressive personality, extreme schizophrenia, unstable—should get special help.” I told her what the ghost had said, and she didn’t understand a thing—and neither did I.