Sitting in my chair, my mind is filled with so much noise. Yet, not a sound is heard in the room. Is all the chaos inside my head? This room, where I’ve been alone for a long time, reminds me of the past.
A velvet armchair, bookshelves, and an old-fashioned telephone with a cord.
Desk lamps and a porcelain Chinese teapot waiting for tea to brew.
Everyone understands that the reason for designing the room like this is to give people a sense of “home.”
It seems a bit “cozy” for a psychiatric room.
Of course, this warmth doesn’t affect me much. After a long silence, the door opens, and a woman enters, dressed in cream-colored pants and a white shirt, which I can’t exactly call young. She wears glasses, but they seem about to fall off. This indicates her quick movements. She has a file in her hand and marks on her arms from leaning on the table. I can tell how tired she is from the coffee stain on her shirt and the redness in her eyes. She’s probably not aware of the coffee stain, or else she would have wiped it off right away. I can tell she’s quite meticulous from her neatly ironed clothes and her hair tied up. Finally, her voice reaches my ears in the tone I expected:
“Hello! I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
“It’s okay, Doctor. Take some rest, I have time.”
She looks at me with surprise and sits in the blue chair in front of me.
“Let’s begin, please.”
She flips through the pages of her file and continues:
“You were brought here from the London Mental and Nervous Diseases Hospital. I’ve read your report.”
“I know what it says. It simply says ‘emotionless.’“
She studies my face for a while.
“Yes, but I don’t find it sufficient for your hospitalization, especially in London. How did you come here?”
“Some matters take too long to explain, Doctor.”
“I have time. Please tell me where and how you lost your emotions.”
I take a deep breath and try not to pay attention to the voices in my head.
“You seem tired. I don’t want to bother you.”
I begin my long monologue:
“I was eight years old. I feel the tension at home deeply. I don’t understand. Something is happening inside me. I don’t understand that either, and I run to my sister. I ask about the movements inside me, and she simply says it’s just tension because guests are coming.
I’m twelve years old. We’re celebrating a friend’s birthday. There’s so much noise. I hide under the table, covering my ears with my hands. Once again, my sister finds me. It’s always my sister who comes to my aid, Doctor. I ask again what’s happening, and my sister answers, ‘fear!’
I’m thirteen. My sister is sick. I can’t bear to see her like that, and again, I can’t understand why she’s like that. I go to her and seek refuge in her thin arms, like a little child. This time, I can’t ask about the movements inside me.
I’m fourteen. But how lively I am. I run to my sister’s room. She’s still sick. I go to her and tell her what’s happening inside me. She says, ‘childhood love’ and smiles.
Now I know three emotions, Doctor.
I’m sixteen. I’m at the cemetery. My sister is being buried, and I’m just watching. This time, it feels like I have no one to ask.
I’m eighteen. A friend of mine says bad things about my sister, and I want to destroy my entire room. The new emotion I feel is anger.
I’m twenty-two. I’m taken outside forcefully by my cousin. She complains because I locked myself in the house. She’s driving a convertible car, and I feel the wind caressing my face. I ask my cousin about this feeling, and she says, ‘excitement.’
Now I’m 46 years old. I have another emotion inside me. It’s like… Ah, I can’t explain! Can you tell me, Doctor?”
She looks at me in shock.
“Grief,” she says, taking a deep breath.
I continue:
“Are you a religious person, Doctor? I didn’t used to define myself that way. But meeting certain people and reading certain books brought me closer to religion. I realized how much I need it, aware of my helplessness, in my first prostration. A friend of mine, leaning towards me while returning home, said, ‘Tell your weary heart, God exists.’
You’re not the first person I’ve opened up to, Doctor. I told my condition to my Prayer mat for the first time. Since that day, it’s the only place where I’ve shed tears.”
I notice that the Doctor is looking at me thoughtfully. “I think I got carried away,” I think to myself.
“There’s more to tell, Doctor, but I think we should save them for later.”
“Alright,” she says, calling the hospital staff. One word in the notes she takes catches my eye: “Alexithymia.”[1]
[1] Inability to recognize, describe, and explain emotions.
