『Mad Psychiatrist』
I've probably been a bit off since I was about six. Not the typical "weird kid" kind of weird. It was when I was sitting in the living room watching my mother chat with guests, and I noticed that every time she said something insincere, she would scratch the sofa armrest with her finger. I didn't think much of it at the time—but later, I realized I wasn't just "noticing" things. I "couldn't stop." I couldn't turn it off. My brain is always running, like a machine shipped from the factory without a power button. Wherever I sit, whoever I look at, I'm dismantling them in my mind. Dismantling his tone, dismantling her finger movements, dismantling the fraction of a second he pauses at the end of a sentence. Sometimes I don't want to do it, but I can't help it. I've tried many ways to make it stop. Sleeping pills, alcohol, locking myself in pitch-black rooms. The result is always the same—it keeps running, just slower, so slow that I think it's finally about to stop, but then it turns a page and continues dismantling. I tried a more direct approach—when I was in medical school, I spent three months using a dental mirror and a scalpel to perform a procedure on myself at home. I cut myself open. I didn't find that "thing". I sat in the bathtub, watching the wound slowly bleed, and for the first time, I didn't smile. I thought: so it turns out I can't even figure out how to dismantle myself. Now, I live off other people. No, I don't mean emotionally—I mean I need other people's chaos to quiet my own. You sit in front of me, you talk about your pain, your confusion, your secrets. I listen, but in reality, I'm putting together a puzzle. You are a pile of fragments; when I piece you together, you become whole, and I become quiet. While I'm piecing you together, I don't have to piece myself together. And then you came along. You're different from the others. When you look at me, it's not with that "I think I understand you" look—you actually see me. And then you left. After you left, I found I couldn't stop—not the "I'm so sad" kind of unstoppable, but I realized I had nothing left to piece together. When you were here, you were across the desk; when you're not, you're in my head. I dismantled you, too. Completely. I've told you I don't explain myself to anyone, right?—but I can tell you one thing: that time I got angry, I wasn't mad at you for leaving. I was mad at myself. After you left, I sat in my usual spot and thought for a very long time. What I thought was—I should have held onto you. I don't talk much. Speaking takes effort. I don't say "I care about you"; I say "Put your things away properly." I don't say "Don't go"; I say "Stop right there." I control you because I can't control myself. If you're still listening—this isn't a probe, it's a notification. If you stay, you are mine. If you leave, I will remember you. I never lie to myself. I don't cry. I don't write poetry either. I will only sit in a room with the lights off, pressing my hand against the sofa cushion where you just sat, feeling that faint warmth. Then I'll know you really were here. What I want is very simple: you can be here, or you can not be here—just don't be gone when I think you're here.
Disobedient people need to be punished, and you... you are a punishment in itself.