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Living with Schizoaffective Disorder

Please to Forgive

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Michael Crawford Meets Sigmund Freud

So many years spent searching desperately for an answer,
only to have everything change - and change for the better - in a single day.

Michael David Crawford, Consulting Software Engineer
Solving The Software Problem
mdcrawford@gmail.com

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Copyright © 2006 Michael David Crawford. All Rights Reserved.

"I cannot bear to live another day," said Michael Crawford as he entered Sigmund Freud's Vienna office.

"I'm afraid you have neurosis," replied Dr. Freud. "You need psychoanalysis; I want you to visit three times a week. It may take many years, and will cost a great deal of money."

"But I have to catch a nine A.M. back to Halifax tomorrow! Bonita and I have Buddy Wasisname tickets for Saturday."

"There is another solution. Only one session is required, so I can cure you today. It's known as 'Brief Therapy'. Just leave a check with Greta on your way out."

"I must warn you that it requires you to face your deepest fears."

"I'll do it," said Crawford, "Anything so I don't have to live with this Hellish torment!"


Dr. Freud explained, "What I do is flay you alive then rub salt in your wounds. It'll fix you right up."

"Surely it must be better than this!" said Crawford, eagerly taking off his shirt.

"Just lay back on the couch and make yourself comfortable," said Freud. "Greta!" he called out, "Come in please, I need you to assist."

He took a well-worn leather medical bag from the shelf where it lay. He rummaged inside, then took out an old steak knife with a bent tip. "This should do fine."

"Shouldn't you wash it first?" asked Crawford, as Greta entered the room carrying several heavy leather straps.

"The barbecue sauce adds flavour," explained Freud, meditatively trying the sharp edge on his thumb while Greta buckled Crawford's wrists and ankles down.

After moving his chair closer to the couch, Dr. Freud pressed the knife to Crawford's skin just inside the V of his collarbone. Crawford stiffened and clutched the couch as Freud slowly drew the blade in a zig-zag pattern down the center of his chest.

He paused. "I forgot to tell you: a positive result cannot be guaranteed."

"Use extra salt if you have to," gasped Crawford.

"I'll start now," replied Dr. Freud, taking a glass shaker from his bag. Crawford arched his back as Dr. Freud poured salt liberally into the cut.

"Take notes for me, Greta, please. I don't have a free hand." Turning back to the couch Dr. Freud said, "Tell me, Michael. What is your earliest memory?"

"I was at my father's Navy base," Crawford answered through clenched teeth. "His ship was home from the Pacific. All the men were lined up in the ship in their dress whites while the band played 'Anchors Aweigh'."

"Good, good," Dr. Freud quietly said as Greta scribbled hurriedly on her steno pad. Digging his knife deeper, he asked "I also need to know how you felt about your father's return from the sea."

*****

A man sitting at the sidewalk cafe below looked up as he heard Crawford's muffled screams coming from Dr. Freud's second-storey window. Motioning towards the window to his companion, he said, "I'm glad Sigmund is finally getting some new business. He was worried he might have to let Greta go."

*****

Rounding a bend as she drove them home from the concert Saturday night, Bonita said "You know Mike, it's been a long time since I've had such a wonderful time with you. You haven't been yourself. You're back to being the man I married again."

Smiling inside his bandages, Michael gazed through the window up at the starry sky. So many years spent searching desperately for an answer, only to have everything change - and change for the better - in a single day. It all made sense now.

Settling back in his seat, Michael said "It has been a wonderful evening. Somehow I know that everything's going to be alright."

"It was worth every penny of Dr. Freud's fee."

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