This has been framed by REM song lyrics. Because I'm on an REM kick. So there. Songs used are listed at the bottom of the page.

For Alex, who finally got out of the driver's seat and decided to push.

I Don't Want To Be The Hollow Man

"I’m half a world away here. My head sworn to go it alone."

Since you arrived here, it seems like all you've done is answer the same pointless questions over and over. They've become so painfully redundant that you've seriously contemplated locating a sharp object and puncturing your own eardrums for relief. Not that you actually have access to any sharp objects, or even objects in general. The closest thing you've got is your toothbrush, and you'd probably have to file it down if you wanted it to fit in your ear canal properly. They don't even have butter knives in the cafeteria. Here at Mayfield, everything is consumed by way of a child safe spork.

At least four different people have conducted varying degrees of a patient history, and that's not including the additional time you've spent being grilled by Dr. Nolan, who is the proud ring master of this circus of the shrinks. You know you filled out about ten pages of paperwork upon your admittance, which definitely included certain basic information. Yet you find yourself being repeatedly asked such questions as your name and age, and whether you're allergic to any medication.

And you naturally attempted to weasel your way through those conversations without having to list any actual symptoms. You felt like the fact that you were there should have been indication enough of your state of mind. There simply isn't any watered down medical nomenclature for I see, hear and carry on in depth conversations with non-existent persons. You'd like to think the fact that you knew the were nonexistent was in your favor. But you're still wondering if anyone has considered patenting the term psychosis light, for those folks not quite ready to commit to the idea of being committed.

You eventually told them about the hallucinations, mostly because Wilson had already provided them with that information over the phone. They at least seemed pleased that you were willing to acknowledge that they were hallucinations. Naturally they wanted to know whether or not you'd undergone any recent surgical procedures or experienced any head trauma. Hoping to spare yourself the task of listing every single asinine thing that you'd done to your body in the last few years, you gave them permission to access your medical records and signed a form consenting to any new imaging studies they deemed necessary.

Then they asked you how long you'd been depressed, and whether you were taking anything for it. They didn't ask if you were depressed. They asked how long. And you'd probably have demanded to know where they got off making such assumptions, especially from just looking at you. Except that you have unfortunately also looked at you. When you were first arrived, you had to use the restroom to fill a urine specimen cup, and managed to catch a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You figure that Wilson probably mentioned your sunny disposition when calling ahead to arrange for your admittance.

So you told them that yeah, you're depressed. You couldn't say for sure how long. It wasn't like you woke up one morning and consciously decided to stop enjoying life. You're actually not sure if you've ever enjoyed it. But it wasn't sudden. It had to be something that happened gradually, over time. When they gave you a piece of paper and asked you list all the major life events you'd experienced in the last five years, including anything related to your health, relationships, family or career, you wrote as small as you could, but still ended up using both sides and requesting an additional sheet.

After surveying the extent of your grievances against God and humanity, they were naturally amazed that you were still among the living and wanted to know whether or not you'd ever attempted suicide. You probably could have gotten away with a lie. But since you'd already foolishly signed a form that gave them access to your medical records, you decided it would be pointless to bother attempting to mislead them, about that anyway. So you admitted that you had indeed tried to end your own life before, and assured them that you wouldn't currently consider yourself suicidal.

Next came the drug history. You furnished them with the name of the pain management specialist who prescribed you the methadone, back in February. You opted to omit all the ambiguously illegal substances you sampled during your college years and simply included the Vicodin and whatever else they were bound to discover anyway, once they finished running your tox-screen.

You saw no point in mentioning the drinking. Because you knew they'd run a tox-screen and liver panel anyway. And besides that, your attending's awareness of your alcohol addiction did very little to ease the withdrawal. He'd apparently decided that while your condition was serious, it wasn't quite dire enough to warrant putting you into a chemically induced coma. There was too great a risk of respiratory distress. So you were forced to remain conscious for the process.

The first psychologist you encountered considered the fact that you were never married and had yet to produce any offspring to be a cause for alarm. Because apparently all normal, healthy, well adjusted people want to get married and have children. So he combined that with your history of hydrocodone usage and assumed the only reasonable explanation was that your equipment wasn't functioning. Can you achieve an erection? Can you orgasm in a fairly reasonable amount of time? Any problems with premature ejaculation or nocturnal emissions?

While you were initially tempted to whip out your dick and give him a demonstration, you decided that was probably unwise. You saw a patient do that once during your first residency in Michigan, and they ended up being carried away in full body restraints. Of course he also ingested some of his own semen in the process. But you calmly reported that while you weren't currently in a relationship and you hadn't had sex with anyone recently, you did on occasion masturbate, and everything seemed to be in working order. He wanted all the details on that as well, how often you did it and how long it took you to finish.

You thought for sure the guy must have had some sort of fetish, until you ended up answering the same series of questions all over again for another two doctors, both of which appeared to be taking notes of some kind. Either that or they were just playing tic-tac-toe. But either way, you were confused as to why they'd think that any of that information was interesting enough to bear repeating.

One of the therapists somehow managed to pick up on your aversion to discussing your childhood, and cleverly annoyed you into admitting that your father had been technically abusive. And you had stressed the technically, as in probably by today's standards.

When you weren't immediately forthcoming with the details of said abuse, the therapist asked you if it was sexual in nature. Because that was apparently the only reason why someone would be reluctant to discuss something. Of course you told them no, which they interpreted as some kind of cue to inquire more forcefully. Are you sure? Do you need more time to think about it?

You struggled to conceal your exasperation, lest it be mistaken for repressed anger and reminded them that you'd been a doctor for over twenty years. You think you'd know if you'd been molested.

You've never seen the point of dwelling on the past, and pretty much the first eighteen years of your life would be better off forgotten. But if your therapists wanted to know how often you masturbated, then they obviously thought that everything was relevant. While you've come to accept the fact that your father was abusive, you also believe that basically all parents are abusive. It is literally impossible to raise children and not scar them in some capacity, whether it be emotionally or physically. So really there's no point in dwelling on it. It's not like you can go back and do it again.

Fortunately most of the remaining questions were rather harmless, at least compared to those regarding your drug use and masturbatory practices. So you told them what they wanted to know, all the places you'd lived as a kid, how often you'd moved, all the schools you'd attended and all the bridges you'd managed to burn in the process. Yes, you excelled academically and participated in sports and other extra curricular activities. No, you didn't have many friends.

Okay, you didn't really have any friends. You weren't particularly well liked by your peers or instructors. But you'd like to think that your lack of meaningful relationships was a choice, a decision you made, and not a result of something outside the realm of your control.

You repeated these things so many times, that you eventually began to doubt whether or not they were true. It was as though Dr. Nolan and his team of sadistically interrogative mental health professionals were trying to trick you into giving inconsistent answers, so they would finally have something on which to base their brilliant diagnosis. You fully expected them to tie you to a chair and start burning you with a heated blade, until you rewarded them with some dramatic, tearful confession that would suddenly make sense of your symptoms.

And while you could personally identify with both the goal to diagnose and the desire to use such underhanded methods, it was still as annoying as fuck.

"Offer me solutions. Offer me alternatives and I decline."

You slouch against the lumpy cushions on the sofa in Dr. Nolan's office, mostly because sitting up properly might give him the false impression that you actually want to be there. Behind him there's a massive shelving unit with a fake, wood veneer. It's just the sort of thing that looks fancy on the outside, but is actually crap. It's empty, except for a PDR, a DSM IV and row of family photographs. Pictured are two, possibly three different children, each clad in a variety of athletic uniforms, several dogs, a cat, some kind of classic automobile that appears to have been restored to its original condition and of course a beautiful wife. It's indisputable evidence of a life well lived, displayed in coordinating pewter frames.

You honestly can't stand being subjected to visual testaments of other people's happiness, especially not for a whole hour at a time, five days a week. But you make an exception because outside of a wilted potted plant and an empty pencil cup that was left by a pharmaceutical rep, there's literally nothing else to look at. And theorizing about Dr. Nolan's family members is sufficient distraction from his tired, little speech, about how you're sabotaging your own recovery and how you’re not going to get any better if you can't stop playing these ridiculous, infantile games.

Your arms are folded across your chest, eyes appropriately rolling. You've long since mastered the art of body language designed to let people know just what you think of their advice and where they can stick it. He's either oblivious to the significance of your rebellious posture, or he just doesn't care. Because he continues undaunted with his pretentious psycho-babble and preachy, I know what's best for you rhetoric.

Fortunately between his lovely array of photographs and your forty-something years of practice disrespecting authority figures, tuning him out is rather effortless. You've heard this all before anyway. It's just the same old bullshit in a different package. And nothing this guy has said or done so far suggests that he's any different from any other stuffed shirt or talking head who has dared to assume they know what it's like to be you.

But you take a huge leap from annoyed to downright insulted, when the dull hum of Dr. Nolan's voice manages to penetrate the barrier of your indifference. He dares to utter the phrase I understand. He tells you that there's nothing you're feeling, saying or doing right now that can't be explained. You're just resisting and lashing out because you're hurting and he understands. It's okay to be angry and sad. It's okay to be affected by pain and death and loss. It's okay to be afraid.

And you think that's a whole lot of horse shit, of course. Because even if you were sad or angry or afraid, which you're most definitely not, none of those paltry concepts would apply to you. You're just a nasty bastard who has come to terms with how completely pointless everything is, and no amount of therapy or medication is going to reverse that now. And he sure as hell doesn't understand you. He could read through the mountain of paperwork that's accumulated in front of him and still never hope to really understand who you are.

Your session isn't over yet. In fact you're not even halfway through. But you can't listen to any more of this crap. That stupid pencil cup on his desk is empty, meaning there's nothing nearby with which you could puncture your eardrums, and it doesn't seem like he's planning to stop talking any time soon. So you decide you're just going to have to leave instead.

When you stand up to do so, his calm, rational pleas for you to stay only serve to irritate you further. Because you're making a dramatic exit. And while you realize that you're not looking particularly suave with your hospital issue quad cane, your gesture isn't having the desired effect.

You're walking out on him. He should be angry. He should be offended. He should consider himself a failure as a therapist and a human being. He should tell you not to come back, or that he never wanted to help you anyway, or that everything that's gone wrong in your life is your own damn fault and you deserve to be miserable and alone. That's his role in this scenario, and your role is to keep resisting his efforts.

He doesn't say any of those things. He only gazes at you sympathetically. You want nothing more than to wipe that expression from his face, to never see it or anything like it ever again. But up until now, your usual brand of abrasive discourtesy has gone to waste on him. So you opt for escalation.

You punctuate your hasty departure with a series of racial epithets, the likes of which you have never before used while sober or with any sort of seriousness. You know that it's never mattered to anyone anyway, whether or not you actually mean the things you say. When it comes to hurtful words, the degree of sincerity is irrelevant to the recipient. No amount of just kidding will erase the memory of what's been said.

Although you don't much like it, there's a certain comforting sense of order to the fact that every terrible thing you do and say will be held against you forever.

And besides that, you wouldn't even have to resort to such tactics if you hadn't been so completely disarmed. You’ve got no painkillers or alcohol, no whiteboard and markers, no ball to throw, no cases to solve and no cherry flavored suckers to occupy your mouth.

Crude obstinany is your only defense against this environment, against the constant assault of invasive questions and uncomfortable silences. He just keeps asking and asking. You find it puzzling that you feel as threatened as you do, because there's nothing remotely forceful about his methods. He's content to draw information out of you in measured doses, whatever tender morsels you're willing to relinquish into his eager hands. And God, it's just annoying.

You hate that he thinks he understands why you're being so difficult, as though your motives could possibly be that simple. You've decided that you hate him too, even though you admittedly know nothing about him at all, outside of what you can extrapolate from his preppy, Aéropostale apparel and minimal office decor. You tell him so. You tell him what you think of him and his advice and his supposedly deeper understanding of your problems, and the pictures of his wonderful, perfectly pewter-framed family. Then you exit his office, before he can issue a reply.

"I took the prize last night for complicatedness, for saying things I didn’t mean and don’t believe."

Back in your room, you lay down on your bed. It's your only real sanctuary in this God forsaken place, if a flimsy, twin sized mattress suspended by wire mesh can be considered a sanctuary. You fold your arms behind your head and stare at the ceiling, eyes tracing a crack you’ve been picking apart in your mind for what feels like forever. Over the course of the last month, the days have sort of bled together and your concept of time has been drastically altered. There's a calendar on the wall in Dr. Nolan's office and there are clocks all over the fucking place. But if you didn't know any better, you would honestly think you'd been here for years.

You'd only allowed yourself to be admitted, because you were under the naive impression that you'd be immediately released, once you'd been relieved of your initial psychosis. Except that the visual hallucinations stopped within days of starting the Loxapine, and even with the additional antidepressants, methadone and tranquilizers to tide you over, you're not really feeling any better than you were when you got here.

You're still unhappy and confused, your thoughts still dark and disorganized. And after considering the wealth of information you so foolishly supplied him with, Dr. Nolan decided that although you were technically no longer psychotic, it was possible that your initial symptoms were not the result of an underlying physiology. In other words, regardless of your attempts to convince yourself otherwise, apparently all of this is in your head. So the irony is, you came here by choice. But now you can't leave until you're done addressing all of your unresolved issues.

You can't help noticing that the crack on the ceiling is sort of like you, the way it randomly curves, each end left open and unfinished. It has no idea where it's going or what the hell it's for. It's just there, an interruption that people are expected to tolerate, a blemish upon a surface that would otherwise be flawless. It's something to be resented and despised and dismissed. But you're not going to give too much merit to that observation, since you're currently on four different kinds of psychoactive drugs and when you squint, it just as closely resembles a snowman holding a trumpet.

You're certain that Dr. Nolan is going to punish you somehow. No way will there not be consequences, because everything you do has some kind of consequence. You learned that lesson the hard way, thanks to dear, old Dad. He'll revoke your television privileges, or make some scathing, permanent notation in your chart, or maybe tell the people in the cafeteria to withhold your after dinner cookie for the remainder of your stay, which is sadly the only thing you have to look forward to anymore.

Worse yet, maybe he'll just lock you up in one of those dreadful isolation rooms with the ridiculously uncomfortable beds and prison cell ambiance. Even though you'd be reluctant to admit it, the hours you've already spent in there were fairly terrifying. And although you take full responsibility for ambitiously attempting to take on three orderlies at once, you've already had about all the quiet time you can handle.

Detox is apparently top priority at Mayfield, surpassing even self mutilation, suicidal or homicidal behavior and extreme forms of psychosis. Because chances are that for most patients, those symptoms are a result of drug use anyway. It's only after your system has been cleared of those evil, controlled substances, that you're awarded the luxury of dealing with the symptoms that brought you there in the first place, which of course will probably involve the use of some entirely new controlled substances.

And everyone knows the first step in curing you of your addiction is making you suffer for it. It's you're fault you're an addict, so you deserve to endure whatever withdrawals ensue. It's when you have absolutely no choice but to confront how pathetic you've become, that you will finally conquer you chemical dependence. Shame is a great motivator, second only to physical pain or discomfort. But when used together, they can't possibly fail.

It's Thursday. So you won't get a break from Dr. Nolan until after your appointment tomorrow afternoon, and then you'll have to see him again on Monday. You try not to obsess over it, or speculate as to why he's yet to penalize you for your behavior.

As the hour of your next appointment slowly approaches, you find yourself running out of excuses not to show. It's not like there's anywhere for you to hide. You’re pretty sure he’d just come and find you anyway, even if he had to search every nook and cranny. Because not only does he run the place, he sort of seems to give a damn, and that’s what you hate about him most.

He’s actually been fairly civil to you, unlike most of the staff members here. You know it's probably only because he's supposedly a friend of Wilson's. After all, that's the only reason you're here in the first place. His interest in you is based solely on some obligation to a third party, a favor owed for some undoubtedly selfless acts that took place almost twenty years ago.

Everyone else here tired of you rather quickly and dismissed you as uncooperative and antagonistic. And that's actually not all that unreasonable. Because when you really think about it, you're actually worse than any of the other patients. They at least have an excuse. They're fucking crazy. Some of them will never know a life outside of this building, outside of someone telling them what medication to take and when to eat or bathe or go to sleep.

But you, you're just a miserable asshole. And why Dr. Nolan can't seem to grasp that you're a colossal waste of his time, you'll never know. You think that maybe you will try again to convince him today. It shouldn't be hard after what happened at your last session. It shouldn't take much. At this point, he's probably already on the verge of hating you. So it's just a matter of pushing him over the edge.

"I'm not that easy. I am not your horse to water."

When you finally do walk back into his office on Friday afternoon, you find him looking as agreeable as ever. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was happy to see you. Except that isn't possible, because no one is ever happy to see you. Even the patients whose lives you save aren't happy to see you. So you decide it must be smugness. You showing up means that on some level, you've acknowledged that he's in charge here, that you don't have a choice. And naturally, he's basking in it.

He gestures for you to sit and opens up your file. You sink down onto the couch, lay aside your hideously unfashionable cane, and fold your hands in your lap. He says nothing at first and you consider the unfortunate possibility that he's waiting for you to start.

And for a moment, you allow yourself to savor that power. You're the patient. So you shouldn't have to do anything you don't want to do. You shouldn't have to answer any stupid questions. You shouldn't even have to talk at all. You could just spend your sixty minutes ignoring him, or picking the lint off of your pants, or just plain staring into space.

But then he breaks the silence with a sigh.

He tells you to imagine that the two of you are alone on a highway and your car is out of gas. You don't have a phone and there are no other cars, call boxes or buildings in sight. The gas station is hours away by foot. But the good news is, he knows exactly how to get there.

He says that you are still in the driver’s seat, because you’re convinced that is where you will maintain the most control over the situation. Except that’s an illusion, since the car is out of gas. Meanwhile he is already outside, trying to push the car down the road. But because you refuse to relinquish possession of the steering wheel, put the car in neutral or get out and help him, you don't seem to be getting anywhere.

And well, you’re a sucker for metaphors. It’s practically your equivalent to dinner and a movie. But this one's got a few holes in it. You point out that for one thing, you're crippled. So you really wouldn't be much use, pushing a car along the highway, with or without someone else's help. And besides that, you have no proof that he really knows where the gas station is. Maybe he just thinks he does. And not only that, but it's possible that the car isn’t really out of gas after all and there’s something else wrong with it entirely, something that can’t be fixed. You could waste all that time and energy and find out that there's no gas station at all, just miles and miles of road, and by that time there would be vultures circling overhead.

He says those are very reasonable concerns. But you will never know anything for sure, unless you try. If you do nothing at all, then there's no mystery. There's no risk. You already know what the outcome will be. And while you’ll be able to once again congratulate yourself on being right, it also means you’ll be staying broken down on that highway forever, while Heckle and Jeckle contemplate your nutritional value.

Then he sits back in his chair and begins glancing through some paperwork. Easily two minutes pass before you realize that he's done talking, for now anyway. He's giving you time to work it out, to consider what he’s proposing, to decide if you want to keep playing the role of the one who resists his efforts or if you want to get out of the car and help him push.

He nods at you when you leave. Except he doesn't bother saying that he'll see you on Monday. You wonder if perhaps he's finally decided there's no point in investing himself in your recovery, when you're openly and blatantly refusing to do the same.

"I was central. I had control. I lost my head. I need this. I need this."

You're not sure how it started exactly. Story of your life, right? Someone says something and then you say something and before you know it, you're on the floor, in a time out, fired, arrested, or abandoned.

Of course this time, you're being intentionally confrontational. You go into it knowing it has the potential to result in someone taking a swing at you. It's possible that's exactly what you want. It's like you need it, or something.

You don't even know the guy really. You've only seen him around. He's quiet in group sessions, kind of like you, keeping his cards close to his vest, uncertain of the others. You've overheard him mentioning to another patient that he has issues with anger management, that he's currently in the process of trying to get visitation rights of his children. He apparently mistreated in some ambiguous capacity and is seeking treatment for that behavior. That alone is fodder enough for antagonism. So on some subconscious level, you know this guy will be spoiling for a fight, and that his buttons won't be hard to push.

You aren't even concerned about the size differential. He's easily your height, but slightly heavier, meaty arms filling out his faded, Harley Davidson t-shirt. But the satisfaction of finally having a reason to punch someone is invigorating. Because you can't punch your shrink, obviously. Well you probably can. But this is so much easier.

It's only because of the endorphin rush that you don't process the blows that are being rained upon you. All you can feel is the thud of your own knuckles, colliding with this guy's chest, jaw and gut, everything around you fading away into a lovely, white haze of anger and heat.

The thrill is cut short when you're flanked by a nurse and a team of orderlies. The other patient withdraws rather eagerly. Despite the fact that he could have easily kicked your ass, he seems relieved by the intervention. But by now you're so fired up, that you can't just stop. Your fists are balled, nails digging into your palms. You're panting hard, your heart racing, and if it wasn't for your bum leg, you're certain that you could run the hundred yard dash and make it in record time.

But they don't just restrain you or take you aside. They lift you off the ground completely. And when you realize where it is they're headed, you begin to struggle with every ounce of strength in your body.

They're putting you in the quiet room again and well, you panic. It's horribly shameful. You hate even letting them know how much it scares you. Because then they'll know just how to control you. But you can’t help it. You don’t want to go in there again. You can think of about a billion things you’d rather do, including allowing them to fit you for a straight jacket and giving up any of your limited privileges.

They seem disinterested in your attempts to plea bargain. You know you aren’t calm enough to sound remotely rational. You sound like exactly what they probably think you are, a raving lunatic. But you tell them that it isn't necessary to isolate you. You're pretty sure you can calm down if they’d just give you a few milligrams of Ativan.

They say that according to your chart you're already being given a tranquilizer as a part of your daily regimen, and that anything else would be classified as recreational. You feel like you should know that. Or maybe you already did know and just forgot. They're giving you all kinds of stuff. Despite the fact that you're a physician, you honestly can't identify every single orally administered drug by sight alone. The shape and color tend to vary by manufacturer. But the idea that you could be lacking in self awareness about something so banal only angers you more. You feel like you'd been set up. Here they're supposedly giving you something for anxiety, and yet you're clearly anxious.

You scream at them that it doesn’t seem to be helping, that maybe they’ve been giving you a placebo, that they don’t really want to help you at all. Even if by some chance you weren't really crazy when you got here, they’re going to make you crazy by locking you up.

By the time the orderlies wrestle you into the room and get the door shut and locked, you’ve crossed over into some completely primeval state of emotion that you never even knew existed. You find yourself longing to go back to your room, to retreat to the safety of your uncomfortable bed. Even the company of your eccentric, obsessive-compulsive room mate would be preferable to being left alone in this tiny enclosure.

When the door is shut and you tire of screaming and pounding on it, you lean against the wall to catch your breath. You contemplate how very small your world had become over the past month. You have to battle for even the slightest freedoms, things you've taken for granted for the past fifty years, like being able to take a dump in private or choosing what channel to watch on the television.

You miss being able to decide what you should eat and when. You miss being in control of what you put into your body. You miss feeling like you're in charge of something, no matter how ridiculous. You miss intelligent conversation with people who didn’t think you’re crazy. Most of all you miss Wilson, and there's a horrible ache in your chest when you come to that particular realization.

When the nurse comes to check on you at nine, she informs you that you'll probably be spending the night in isolation. Dr. Nolan has been paged and he will decide what is to be done with you, as soon as he calls them back.

You just assume you're screwed. After your outburst the other day, Dr. Nolan is probably rather eager to find an excuse to lock you up and throw away the key. And here you are offering up one to him on a silver platter. And it's lights out at ten anyway. So by the time Dr. Nolan calls them back it will be late, and he'll probably just tell them to leave you until morning.

"I had to knock a few buildings over; I make an ugly mess. I had to blow a gasket, drop transmission. I had to decompress."

You're seated on the floor, somewhere between asleep and awake, when you hear the a key scraping against the inside of a lock. When you open your eyes, you see Dr. Nolan standing there. He's wearing what must be his version of casual attire, jeans and a short sleeved polo shirt. He enters the room, slipping the massive ring of keys into his pocket and closing the door behind him.

You're a little startled, because you were certain that he would at the very most call back. You don't know how far from the hospital he lives. But you didn't think he'd come all the way down here on a Sunday night, just for little, old you.

He sits down on the edge of the flimsy cot, and regards you with that same concerned expression.

The weird thing is, it doesn't offend you this time. After getting into a fist fight, throwing a massive tantrum, being manhandled by three orderlies, and then tossed into solitary confinement for some yet to be determined length of time, it's a relief that there's still someone around who is willing to listen to you.

You assume he's waiting for some sort of explanation. But you have no idea what you're supposed to say. There's no reasonable excuse for what you did. And yet you know that a failure to convincingly defend your actions means it's highly unlikely that he's going to let you out of here anytime soon.

He sighs, remarking only still hanging onto that steering wheel, huh?

And you're suddenly ashamed, not because of what you did. You've done worse. You've done a lot worse and enjoyed it. No, it's that he was expecting it. He knew you'd fail. He knew that you would rather kick and fuss and cause trouble, possibly even making your situation worse, than actually accept his help.

When a few minutes pass and you've yet to reply, he gets up again and heads for the door. You're certain that he's leaving you. He's going to leave you in here all night long, until you finally surrender and agree to do things his way.

But then he gestures with his hand and tells you to come on.

You brace yourself to stand and limp the short distance to the door. He hands you your cane, which was apparently left in the hallway, and you accept it curiously. It's around eleven o'clock. Everything is dark, but for the security lights along the walls and the lamp at the nurse's station. He quietly walks the distance with you, courteously accommodating the reduced speed that results from your handicap.

When you reach the end of the hallway, he turns right instead of left. And since that's not in the direction of your room, you have to wonder where the hell he's taking you.

I'm hungry, he says with peculiar casualty. Are you hungry?

I guess so, you reply. You're still not completely sure what's going on. But dinner was over five hours ago and you burned off a lot of energy fighting and screaming. So you're not going to turn down a midnight snack, if that's indeed what this is going to be.

The cafeteria is dark. He flips a few switches, until there's just enough illumination to see where you're going. He unlocks the door to the kitchen with one of the many keys on his ring, disappears into some kind of refrigeration unit and emerges with two cartons of milk and two shrink wrapped, chocolate chip cookies. He leads you back out to the cafeteria, sets the items down on a table, and locks the kitchen door again.

So you sit at a table in the dimly lit cafeteria, drinking your milk and eating your cookie. And you don't talk at first, because you have no idea what to say. He asks you if you're hurt. You tell him no. Your jaw is sore and you suspect there may be a bruise forming. But you don't see any reason to trouble him with that, so you assure him that you are uninjured.

He tells you that he loves these cookies, that they're made by a local bakery who donates them for the tax deduction. And his wife is on some health kick and has decided to temporarily give up chocolate. So the only cookies in his house are reduced fat Vanilla Wafers.

You really have no idea what sort of response he's expecting. So you just nod politely.

When you're both done, he stand up again and disposes of the empty cartons and plastic wrap, and you make your way back to your room.

You're not quite there yet, when you stop mid-stride. Because you've got to know. This doesn't make any kind of sense. You want some clarification, or at least some clue as to why he's letting you off the hook, why he's choosing to reward you with cookies instead of punishing you for noncompliance.

The words get stuck in your throat. But he seems to miraculously know exactly what you're thinking.

I can't help you if you don't want to be helped, he explains. I'll be waiting...halfway, until you're ready to meet me there.

You swallow hard, an involuntary reaction to something that you can't quite define.

I don’t know how to do this, you finally say. You feel incredibly stupid. You're certain this is the lowest point of your life.

That, he says, is the smartest thing you’ve said since you got here.

You walk the rest of the way back to your room. When you get there he tells you to go to sleep, to not think about anything tonight, to try not to obsess over what it all means or to even worry about what's going to happen. What's important right now is that you get some rest. You can discuss it during your session the following afternoon.

"No time to question the choices I make. I’ve got to follow another direction."

For the first time since you've arrived at Mayfield, you find yourself looking forward to your next session. It's not quite the same kind of anticipation as a child looking forward to Christmas. But it's anticipation all the same.

It's only fifteen hours that you end up having to wait. But it feels like an eternity. You're sort of excited, anxious and scared at the same time. You know that willingly participating in therapy is something that sounds great in theory. You really do want to try. It's just that if you admit that, there's no turning back. It could be awful. It could be torturously humiliating. It might not work at all, and then you'll be right back where you started, all that energy wasted.

You sink down onto his couch, and he greets you with a smile. But somehow you can tell that it's not smugness. He's glad you're here, that you showed up. He's acknowledging that this is your choice. It's not something he can force you to do. You have to want it. And he wants you to want it.

Your sheepishly mumbled apology comes as a bit of a surprise, to you anyway. You don't even say what you're apologizing for. But he accepts your regrets with a polite nod, markedly bereft of shock. His reply indicates that he realizes you're referring to what happened during your session on Thursday and not what you did to warrant a trip to the quiet room.

He says that he knows you were just upset. You felt threatened and you wanted out of the situation. So you said what you thought would afford you the most immediate escape. Since you know very little about his personal life, you went with whatever was most obvious.

He jokes that you could just as easily have insulted his wardrobe, and that if you'd have examined him a little more closely you'd have realized that his socks were mismatched and his shirt cuff was missing a button. He then adds that he figured you would apologize eventually. But even if you didn't, it would be unethical for him to withhold his forgiveness or allow it to affect your doctor patient relationship. Because this isn't about him. It's about you. You being here is about you.

You aren't sure exactly how to respond to that. You're not really used to anyone forgiving you, especially not that easily. And you're definitely not used to anyone putting you first, even if it's based solely on a professional obligation. You can't fathom what might have made him think you might be sorry. Because you're pretty sure you didn't look remotely sorry at the time, and you sure as hell didn't feel sorry. You honestly weren't planning to apologize, the next day or ever. But damn if it isn't a whole lot easier to look him in the eyes, now that you've gotten that out of the way. It's almost like the event has been erased.

Your stomach suddenly kind of hurts. Not in any particular way that you’re used to. You’re assuming it isn’t the result of gastrointestinal upset or anything purely physiological, if the accompanying tightness in your chest and throat are any indication. And for half a second, you pray to a God that as far as anyone else is concerned, you don’t believe in, that you will not start crying in front of this man. Because that would be a fate worse than death, or detox, or any number of hours spent in the quiet room. Unless the whole forgiveness thing was a ruse. This actually is your punishment for being such a dick. Maybe he’s just that good.

Except he doesn’t seem to be running into the end zone or spiking the ball or doing any sort of celebratory dance. And he doesn't feel the need to point out the obvious, that your range of emotion apparently isn’t confined to boredom, moderate amusement, irritation and violent rage. Not that you have any idea what it is that you’re feeling right now at all. You just know that it happens to be resulting in a very unfortunate physical response. And even though on some level you realize that he's probably not nearly as concerned about it as you obviously are, you damn your parasympathetic nervous system for thinking this would be a good time to lubricate your eyes.

It's at this point that you realize maybe not every terrible thing you do and say is going to be held against you forever, at least not by this person. So you take a chance, albeit a rather large one. Because you almost kind of trust him and since the feeling is entirely foreign, you have no idea how quickly it will pass.

You tell him something that you've never said out loud before, at least not in the presence of another human being. Sometimes you really hate yourself. Sometimes you wish you could just shut the fuck up and stop offending everyone you meet. You don't want to be miserable or in pain. You never wanted to be like this at all. You're sorry, so very sorry, even if no one ever believes it. And it's possible that maybe you'd like to try getting out of the car and helping him push, as long as he realizes that you’re probably going to kick and scream and throw another few dozen temper tantrums along the way.

He doesn't cut you short or interrupt you with patronizing instructions on how to fix your life. He doesn't even agree and say how glad he is that you're finally realizing what a tremendous tool you are. He waits until you're finished speaking, and then he once again uses the words I understand. Except that this time it doesn't sound like a lie. Because he apparently doesn't just understand you, he also believes you. He believes that you're sorry, evidenced by his acceptance of your apology with no strings or conditions. He believes that you don't really want to live like this, and he believes that you'd try to change if you really thought it was possible to do so.

And for a few minutes, you feel kind of okay with yourself. You feel like just maybe you aren't totally evil. Maybe there is a deeper reason for all the things you do and say. Maybe you are just a product of your experiences. Maybe what you're going through now isn't completely your fault, which means things might get better. You might be able to change. And maybe if you did, the other people in your life would accept those changes. Maybe they wouldn't just assume that they were temporary, or that you were full of crap, or that you had an ulterior motive. Maybe they would really start to see you differently. And God, maybe they would even treat you differently.

It's the closest you've come to hope in a long time -possibly ever- and you honestly don’t know what to do with it. It's like something warm and alive in your hands, that needs to be nurtured and loved or else it will die.

Your mind is spinning with all the issues you need to tackle. You're not sure if you're even capable, if you're genuinely willing to move past this point in any manner that isn't theoretical. But for the first time you realize that you really do want to try, even if it's going to be hard, even if there's no guarantee that it will work. You want to get better, whatever the hell that means. You want to feel better. You have no idea what you’re going to do with the rest of your life, but you know you sure as hell don’t want to spend it here, staring at the crack on the ceiling and eating your food with a safety spork.

Dr. Nolan tells you that the first step towards changing is to start examining what you believe and why. You have to decide what's healthy and what's not. Things that aren't contributing anything positive to your life are most likely unhealthy and need to be changed.

He tells you that you need to start challenging the lies that you've become comfortable with, and he somehow seems to know exactly what those lies are: that people are right to abandon you, that you deserve to be in pain, that you don't deserve to be cared for, that your value as a person is determined not by the strength of your character, but by the majority opinion or by whatever skills or knowledge you have that can be objectively measured.

And you know that deep down that you do believe these things, even if there's a more logical part of you that realizes they aren't true. You're grateful that he can see that, without you having to come right out and tell him. But you also know that as clever and insightful as he is, there's only so much he can deduce on his own.

So you ever so slowly start to answer some of those more difficult questions, the ones he's been asking since the moment you first sat down in his office. And he draws the information out of you in increasingly measured doses. The more you talk, the easier it gets, and the less it feels like some kind of torture reserved for punishing the socially unacceptable.

You try hard to ignore his smile, to not interpret it as validation. Even though at this point in your life, it would be really nice to know that someone thinks you're doing okay. You don't want to assume anything, because for all you know this is how he treats all of his patients. For all you know, he thinks everyone is doing okay.

As much as you'd like to believe you could do this yourself, you know you can't. You don't want to be here. You wish you didn't have to be here or do this at all. But you are, and it doesn't look like that's going to be changing anytime soon. Because the alternative would be literally surrendering to the misery and confusion, you're going to make the best of this time, of this opportunity, of this person who for no reason other than to rescue you from your own suffering, is offering to help you dig yourself out of this mess. You're still not sure that you understand why. But he seems to think you’re worth saving, and you'd be a fool not to take advantage of that.

When your hour is up, you stand to leave. He tells you that he'll see you tomorrow and even though you don't reply, you suddenly realize that you actually want to come back, that he wants you to come back. You would be willing to do this all again tomorrow and the day after. Whatever it takes to get you better again.

"You trusted me. I want to show you. I don’t want to be the hollow man."

So, he says, you're going home tomorrow. You nod. The official decision to discharge you was made four days ago, at your last session and you've been avoiding him ever since.

You tell yourself your reason for avoiding him is that he knows everything that goes on here anyway. So it's not like you really need to go out of your way to say goodbye. It's not like you'd be able to slip out without him noticing. You're grateful for everything he's done for you. But you also know that have no idea how to communicate that. You wish you were capable of saying thank you. You changed my life. You did everything you said you were going to do. You made good on your promises and I know I didn't make it easy. But even after all the growth you've made, you still have no idea how to verbalize such thoughts. You knew that seeing him again would force you to reckon with that. So you simply avoided him instead.

You've never been the hugging type. Your mom, sure. But even that was superficial somehow. It was like something she did out of duty or obligation. She was never someone to whom you'd cleave in moments of peril. And your dad, well hugging just didn't fit in with his tough guy image. You never actually saw him embrace anyone but your mother and that was a rarity in and of itself. Certainly you never hugged any of the few friends you managed to accumulate over the years, and any physical affection you exchanged with Stacy was based purely on sexual attraction.

Rather suddenly, Dr. Nolan wraps his arms around you and pulls you close.

Usually being touched in this way has the tendency to make you panic. Except this time your reason for panicking is based on the fear that he'll let go right away, that this will be quick and meaningless, a practiced gesture that is used on everyone.

But he doesn't let go right away.

Your fists are balled against his back, nails digging into your palms, just like they were when you were duking it out with that other patient. Then you remember that this isn't a boxing match. You're not fighting. It's just a hug. So you ever so slowly open them.

And well, you hang on for a minute. Because you know that your life is about to become incredibly scary. Standing here with him now, all that you've discussed still fresh in your mind, his wealth of knowledge about the ins and outs of your psyche, you're still safe. But the second you step out that door, you're in the real world again, where people don't give a flying fuck about your past, present or future or why you do all the things you do.

You know that you may very well forget everything you've learned and eventually go right back to the way you were before you came here. You honestly don't want that to happen. But you know yourself too well. Some things will stick. But most of them probably won't. So you savor the moment, because you realize it's entirely possible that you might not ever feel this safe again.

He looks you in the eyes and makes you promise that you'll call him. If you ever need to just talk, if things ever get hectic and it feels like no one is on your side, if everything suddenly begins to unravel, that you'll call him. Then he says something that no one has ever said to you before, at least not unconditionally, I'm here for you if you need me.

He smiles at you and walks out. He knows this is about all the confrontation you can handle.

And even though he hasn't said so, you think it's remotely possible that he might be proud of you.

R.E.M. "Half a World Away." Out of Time. Warner Bros. Records. 1991.

R.E.M. "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)." Document. I.R.S. Records. 1987.

R.E.M. "Hollow Man." Accelerate. Warner Bros. Records. 2008.

R.E.M. "Horse To Water." Accelerate. Warner Bros. Records. 2008.

R.E.M. "Country Feedback." Out of Time. Warner Bros. Records. 1991.

R.E.M. "The Wake-Up Bomb." New Adventures in Hi-Fi. Warner Bros. Records. 1996.

R.E.M. "Accelerate." Accelerate. Warner Bros. Records. 2008.