Insomniac
May 14,2006
Insomniac
A certain individual has a terrifying and unexplainable bout of insomnia in which he is tormented into wakefulness by the most monstrous nightmares. Doctors at the hospital tell him that he must enter a program in order to receive the proper monitoring of medication. He agrees out of desperation.
The hospital waiting room is like a deserted train station at night: grim lighting, no windows, hardwood benches, no pictures on the walls. A doctor in a white coat comes silently and motions the prospective patient into a narrow room with a single weather- beaten desk. He asks the normal questions of personal identification without looking up from the forms on which he is writing nonstop. Then, all of a sudden, he asks the patient why he has come there. The question seems out of order in view of the patient’s current frame of mind after five sleepless days and nights and yet the patient is surprised to find that he has a ready answer. He says without a moment’s hesitation: “I hate my life.”
The doctor looks up at the patient with curiosity. Perhaps he is not used to such direct answers.
The patient cannot explain why he said that. He was unaware that he felt that way. Sometimes there are answers that one carries around for a whole lifetime without knowing it, waiting for someone to ask the required question. When the question is finally put it’s like a password that opens a secret door so that the answer, long imprisoned, is at last free to express itself. Enlightenment often comes by that route. So do not think that you don’t know the answers: they’re all there if and when you need to know them. Ask your emotions to speak. Ask them to put words in their mouths so you can understand what they want. They will answer.
Insomniac
A certain individual has a terrifying and unexplainable bout of insomnia in which he is tormented into wakefulness by the most monstrous nightmares. Doctors at the hospital tell him that he must enter a program in order to receive the proper monitoring of medication. He agrees out of desperation.
The hospital waiting room is like a deserted train station at night: grim lighting, no windows, hardwood benches, no pictures on the walls. A doctor in a white coat comes silently and motions the prospective patient into a narrow room with a single weather- beaten desk. He asks the normal questions of personal identification without looking up from the forms on which he is writing nonstop. Then, all of a sudden, he asks the patient why he has come there. The question seems out of order in view of the patient’s current frame of mind after five sleepless days and nights and yet the patient is surprised to find that he has a ready answer. He says without a moment’s hesitation: “I hate my life.”
The doctor looks up at the patient with curiosity. Perhaps he is not used to such direct answers.
The patient cannot explain why he said that. He was unaware that he felt that way. Sometimes there are answers that one carries around for a whole lifetime without knowing it, waiting for someone to ask the required question. When the question is finally put it’s like a password that opens a secret door so that the answer, long imprisoned, is at last free to express itself. Enlightenment often comes by that route. So do not think that you don’t know the answers: they’re all there if and when you need to know them. Ask your emotions to speak. Ask them to put words in their mouths so you can understand what they want. They will answer.
posted by nagg at 12:39 PM
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