Psycho

MY PSYCHOLOGIST or psychiatrist or whatever the hell he was had a doctorate. His name was Dr Sloan Madden.

I probably met him once. He lived in Sydney.

Every few weeks I would be driven to the Kempsey Hospital where we would have a 20 minute conversation through a television screen.

“Wow,” I thought. “The future is here!”

Sometimes he appeared as a witness at my court hearings like this. Well, that’s what the experts told me since I wasn’t allowed to attend my hearings. He was a smooth shaven man who wore a fancy buttoned shirt of light blues and spoke in a calming deep voice.

I’d had many psychologists before. I respected this one. There was an unknown quality to him and the DOCS social workers and associated psychologists would in awe say “Oh, Dr Madden is a genius, oh Dr Madden is brilliant, oh Dr Madden will win a noble peace prize”.

Obviously, these people are being deliberately misquoted so I can portray bitterness, irony, cynicism.

Sometimes the good doctor would speak to my foster mother alone. I would be told to go outside but I would sneak back to eavesdrop through the door.

“I don’t think Chris is schizophrenic,” Dr Madden said, but his comment warped in my mind. I heard each word. But I sulked on the ride home. I heard “there is something wrong with Chris but I don’t know what it is.”

Grumpy cat

 

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