Dark Room A Memoir -- (Author) NoordzeeRain

[llsadmin]

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 20, 2024 at 6:46 AM
Content: WARNING: This story is mostly based on my true experiences, my childhood, my come-of-age, my self discovery, events that drastically shaped me and impacted me until today, some of which are traumatic. Once you step inside the world of mine you’ll know me better than 99% of my real world friends. Be careful because the growing pains can hardly be glorified.

The original story is written in my first language, feel free to write comments on grammar and polishing sentences.

Edited: Re-translated and re-polished, chatGPT is better, although I'm a google fan, but it really sucks at literature translation.

Disclaimer: I know nothing about psychology, please don't take it seriously and if you need you should seek professional help.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 20, 2024 at 6:54 AM
Content: Chapter 1

Actually, after I finished watching The Butterfly Effect, I had serious doubts about the major flaws in its theory. I don't really believe that a butterfly's flutter on the other side of the world could cause a catastrophic disaster in a completely unrelated place, nor do I believe that a small childhood decision could entirely change one's life trajectory—it's just not that absolute.

However, it seems that when we look back on the past, we all have that one moment of deep regret, which we call a "turning point." We often daydream about how things might have turned out if we had chosen a different path. If there's no such moment, perhaps it's the day we were born.

Before that, no one had anticipated the arrival of evil. Many years later, a 22-year-old McCamer stood there, burning a letter he had written with his own hand. He flipped through a classic book to a page he knew all too well, and offered his final prayer by the fireplace:


"For man does not know his time. Like fish that are taken in an evil net, and like birds that are caught in a snare, so the children of man are snared at an evil time, when it suddenly falls upon them."

Memories surfaced before his eyes one by one. He was born at the beginning of the second millennium, in a seaside city, on January 1, 2000, where the first ray of sunlight of the new millennium rose over the country. Time had raced through two millennia, and the old grudges on this land had subsided. Yet, what remained eternal was poverty, in varying degrees.

Back then, he was still too young to know that soon he would part from his homeland. All he could recall were the fields of his hometown and the distant horizon across the sea. At that time, he didn't know hatred, poverty, or farewells. Beyond that, there was little else. He tried to extract more memories, but to no avail. Time and scars had wiped them clean. Happiness tends to disappear without a trace.

"Memory is a form of pain," he murmured to himself, ending his long prayer. He opened his eyes and gazed at the fireplace before him. He watched the letter burn slowly, then turn to ash, leaving only the flickering flames. Yet, he stood there, unmoved for a long time, before letting out a faint, bitter laugh. He recalled sitting by the fireplace with his grandmother in the past—same fireplace, same warmth, though with much less sorrow and grief.

It wasn't happiness, just an ordinary day, an ordinary action, yet for him, it was heaven. Just like how even the poorest artist wouldn't sell his paints and brushes, it was one of the few things that kept him going.

He walked toward the door. Sunlight had already begun to stream in, a faint beam piercing through the floor, though the room remained cloaked in darkness, with the rest of the floor still shrouded in shadows. Step by step, slowly and quietly, he walked toward the door, his feet moving with great care, making no sound. As one foot rested on the dark wooden floor and the other was about to step into the light, he paused for a full three seconds in mid-air, before stepping onto the floor.

He opened the door. Sunlight fell on him, though the room behind remained too dark to see. He stood there for a long while as if observing the world one last time before leaving. He clearly remembered that in his long-gone childhood, he would never have gazed and observed like this. When he was still curious, he would only glance over things, never standing still for long, always running, without yet attaching any life-extending meaning to the act of running itself.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Another ordinary day. The world seemed unchanged.

"So, what exactly were you going to do that day?" his therapist asked.

McCamer paused for a moment, clenched his left hand against his nose, pressed his right hand tightly to his left, took a deep breath, and said, "I went to see someone very important to me. We hadn’t met in 10 years since I left at the age of 12."

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 20, 2024 at 7:16 AM
Content: Chapter 2

He was sitting comfortably in the therapist's office, having arrived early that morning. Before this, he had been sitting on a hospital bench, waiting. Buildings like this are always decorated in all white, because even a hint of color could foster emotions unrelated to reason. This place was no paradise of fantasies. The hospital was bustling with people—everyone rushing but going nowhere. Because unless it’s necessary, no one comes here. The crowd was noisy, yet no one seemed to speak, as human joys and sorrows are never truly shared.

He loathed all forms of waiting; anything uncertain made him unusually anxious. Sometimes, he would finish what he needed to do ahead of time, and other times, he would delay it extremely. On this day, he did both—he had delayed his visit to the therapy room for months until he could no longer bear it.

Coughs occasionally echoed from the waiting room. He sat on the bench, thinking about why he was there. Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to a balcony opposite the waiting room. Though, it was more like a sky garden, surrounded by high-rise buildings. There were children playing inside, small trees and grass growing on the ground—though not naturally, the bright green color pierced through the daylight. "How happy," he thought, watching the children play. "Even here, they are." He looked up at the sky, blue and cloudless above him.

He knew he couldn’t sit there any longer. He had to go for a better place. This time, he looked up at the sky and where it met the towering buildings. The high-rises lined up in neat rows, each window composed of four square panes, the frames between them resembling the crosses found in church schools.

"Berlin is guarded by two angels," he recalled a movie he had seen, "I wonder if there are angels here too, since this is the highest point in the building." He thought for a moment, then murmured to himself, "But even if there were, I'm too old to see them now," glancing again at the children playing below. "And even if they existed, it would be cruel."

"Angels, cast out for their grievous sins by the Almighty, forced to watch the world's goodness and evil from a distance, forever."

With that thought, he closed his eyes heavily and leaned back in the chair on the balcony. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before his phone buzzed. He opened his eyes, glanced at his phone, then left the balcony and walked back into the corridor.

He didn’t use his phone much. Most of his work was done on his computer. To him, the phone was only for receiving messages and making payments. When he was out, he never buried his head in any electronic device; he was always observing, maybe quietly assessing. But this wasn’t because he loved the scenery along the way.

"Excuse me, are you Mr. McCamer?" The person standing before him was someone he had seen online before, but in person, they looked even kinder, as if the photo had frozen them in a single moment.

"Yes," McCamer responded in a foreign language.

"You mentioned in your email that you are a very 'interesting' case. I can’t think of anyone without psychological issues who would describe it that way. But don’t worry, no matter what’s happened to you, we can work through it," the therapist said in a calm tone, attempting to lower McCamer’s defenses. "How about we head inside? I have the whole afternoon, and you can start from the beginning."

"What should I call you?" McCamer asked again, in a foreign language.

"Just call me Steve," the therapist replied, leading him into the consulting room.

The interior was quite different from the white sterile walls of the outside. While the base color was still white, there were many splashes of bright colors—reds, blacks, blues, and pinks. Though other colors were present, McCamer only saw two pairs: red and black, blue and pink. Or rather, he only wanted to see those pairs, because one represented progress and conservatism, while the other represented men and women. And there were many plants scattered everywhere—always plants, always green.

McCamer sat down and glanced at the clock on the wall. The second hand moved silently, ticking forward without a sound.

"I'm curious, how did you find me?" Steve began, breaking the silence as McCamer sat quietly. "Most of my clients are foreign, though I do have some locals, but they are rare. After all, forcing oneself into a foreign language environment can be quite the mental strain. Your foreign language skills are excellent, better than many locals I’ve seen, so I imagine you must be quite confident in that area."

"It wasn't hard," McCamer replied, his words flowing smoothly despite the length of the sentence. "I searched for foreign therapists online, and there were only four in the country. I read through all your profiles, and here I am."

"Oh, really?" Steve chuckled softly, smiling—a smile that felt like a reflex, perhaps from years of being a therapist. Maybe it was true that smiling could ease a patient’s pain, even just a little.

"But there’s a 3/4 chance it could have been someone else. Could you tell me why you chose me?" Steve asked politely, giving McCamer the feeling of being respected.

"Yes, you’re right. But the other three had bios, mostly just personal introductions, maybe a bit of experience thrown in. Their background photos were warm and comforting, but…” McCamer paused for a moment. “Only you had a blog."

Steve’s expression remained calm as he listened attentively. Then he responded gently, "Ah, you must mean the case studies, though they haven’t been updated in about four or five years."

"Yeah, that’s what I mean. Who even blogs anymore? That’s almost like something from ten years ago!" Before Steve could finish, McCamer jumped in eagerly, sharing his opinion. "Everyone watches videos now. Nobody reads anymore, especially long texts. No readers, no writers. But the world needs writers. There were hardly any comments under your cases, and if there were, they were from random people posting ads. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother updating either."

Steve smiled again, this time his expression more genuine, as the muscles in his face moved naturally.

"Yes, you’re right. Completely right. I see you’re quite an interesting person. Your foreign language skills are incredible. Can you tell me why?"

"Language is just a disguise, Doctor," McCamer replied coolly this time, a stark contrast to his earlier excitement.

Sensing the sudden shift in tone, Steve employed a therapist’s technique—self-disclosure—to express understanding, or at least to attempt understanding. It’s a way to help patients feel respected. "Maybe it holds special meaning for you, but to me, it's more of a tool. I do enjoy learning new things sometimes, though. It’s necessary at times. Can you elaborate on what you mean by a 'mask,' and why you feel the need for one?"

"Because I can project my emotions in a completely foreign environment without worrying about being discovered. In my childhood, electronic diaries weren’t as popular yet. Many people still wrote in physical diaries. I remember back then, some people even used diaries with locks. It was laughable. Some clever kids invented new languages or codes just for themselves."

"Another thing is that a different language gives you a completely foreign atmosphere. In such an environment, you can break free from old shackles, free from many emotional burdens."

At this point, Steve had already formed a basic outline of the person sitting in front of him. The most important part of therapy was listening and observing. The subtle differences in tone and variations in body language often revealed unique personality traits. If there were a Sherlock Holmes of psychology, this might be how it worked. But his job wasn’t to uncover the truth and catch criminals. His role was to help patients uncover their hidden selves.

Three words floated into his mind: "passionately cold, nostalgic, and solitary." Yet "cold" seemed to carry a question mark. He didn’t think it was an accurate description, so he tried to replace it: "Rather than cold, maybe 'disappointed'? Or ‘powerlessness’ would be more fitting." His professional intuition urged him to explore McCamer's childhood further, and his unconscious nostalgia supported this.

"It always comes back to childhood," he thought with a hint of disdain.

"Every psychology book boils down to those two words: 'Blame it all on childhood.'" Like a grandmaster who resents beginner’s moves, he didn’t want to bring up that issue just yet. Besides, he wasn’t the type to charge head-on into key issues right away. That wasn’t his style. He preferred to gather more information first.

"It seems like you have things to hide, but you came here today to bring them into the light. That must take a lot of courage. You’re very brave. Please, share with me. I’m here to listen."

"Thank you for your understanding. I mentioned before that you seem like an interesting person to me, but I’d like you to make a choice. Option A: I’ll tell you the reason, and you can guess the result. Option B: I’ll tell you the result, and you guess the reason. I strongly suggest the second option—it’s more fun, more challenging. The first option might be too easy for you. What do you say? Will you play along with me?"

Several words flashed through Steve’s mind: "Arrogant? Proud? Domineering?" He quickly scratched them out one by one and asked with measured reasoning, “(Laughter), it seems you’re not really giving me a choice. You hope I’ll choose the second option, so I guess I’ll have to."

"You’re right. You’re smarter than I expected."

"Alright, I’ll choose the second option. What’s the result, and what’s the reason?"

McCamer sat with his legs crossed, his hands clasped on the leg he had crossed over. His head was slightly raised to ensure that his gaze at the doctor was slightly from above. A faint smile lingered on his face. To those who didn’t understand him, this could seem like an arrogant posture. Hearing Steve’s response, he stood up, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked toward the whiteboard in the room.

He grabbed a black marker with one hand while the other remained behind his back. "Three years ago, I went to another hospital's psychiatric department. It was a terrible experience. There, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. You should know what kind of illness that is. But at the time, I didn’t. I thought I had depression. Later, I researched it, compared my behavior to the listed symptoms, and it matched perfectly. So, I accepted it." He wrote on the board:

"1. Bipolar Disorder."

"BP," Steve’s brain registered. This word unravelled an endless string of associations that rolled out, too many to fit on a single page. But Steve didn’t need to focus on them—they were already filed away in his brain from his student days.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 20, 2024 at 8:22 AM
Content: Chapter 3

"You must not have taken your medication, right?" Steve decided to trust his instincts, though it was obvious. "You're in a manic state right now. The question is, do you know it?" Yet Steve already had his answer. He knew McCamer was aware.

"I know."

"I know I’m a bit excited right now because I’m facing my problems head-on. I’ve been imagining this day for a long time."

"Medication isn't the goal; control is the goal. If you feel you can avoid harm with pure reason, medication might not be the primary option. But I wouldn’t recommend that approach, because as far as I know, no one has absolute control over their mind. No one can completely control their brain. In reality, we know very little about the human brain," Steve replied, almost instinctively.

"Almost everyone thinks they have full control over their brain, but that's actually a ridiculous idea. No one can fully know what’s going on in their mind. By fully, I mean that you might be thinking about one thing, but you're unaware of the motivations in your subconscious..."

"I know why, Doctor," McCamer interrupted before Steve could finish.

"But you’re not 100% sure," Steve countered.

"I’m mostly sure, and I’m confident it’s the main cause of my current state."

"I’m glad to hear that," Steve relaxed his tone, no longer as serious as before. "You’re doing better than most patients. Some are sad, some are angry, some act bizarrely. They come to me asking for answers, and what I do is help them find their second self and guide them back on track. If I had to use a metaphor to better explain it to a patient, it would be like a detective story."

He noticed McCamer's expression remained blank. He had hoped the metaphor would strike a chord, but he continued nonetheless.

"Clarity is a good thing, but everyone who comes here needs a little help. I believe you came here seeking help as well, didn’t you? So let’s not focus too much on that cause you mentioned. Let’s start from zero. Let me get a full understanding of your past, and we can try to help you. How does that sound?" Steve tried using a "balanced approach," a linguistic strategy commonly used in ancient advisors’ petitions to kings, designed to make patients (or kings) feel respected.

"I don’t think your comparison and praise have made me feel any better. In fact, I don’t care about the other people who come here," McCamer said coldly, his face still emotionless.

"I’m sorry to make you feel that way. But please listen to what I have to say next, because I think you’re a smart person."

"Psychology isn’t a mysterious science. Rather than calling myself a psychologist, I’d prefer to be called a deductionist. Psychology, at its core, is cause-and-effect deduction. It should be called psychological causal deduction. As you mentioned earlier, causal deduction comes in two forms: one is to infer results from causes, called induction; the other is to infer causes from results, called deduction. In therapy, the latter is used more often. Which boy wouldn’t love Sherlock Holmes’ method of deduction? In fact, those psychological questionnaires you fill out rely on induction. For example, depression scales list a series of depressive symptoms, and then ask, 'Do you think you are?' When you answer, 'I think I am,' then you are. More bluntly, the entire questionnaire can be summed up as, 'Do you think you’re depressed?' 'Yes, I do.' For centuries, experts in this field have engaged in endless causal deductions. We use control variable methods, comparing minute structural or numerical differences between healthy and patient groups to infer whether a set of factors shows significant differences in different outcomes. People argue over whether something is significant or not—some think it is, some think it isn't, and some think it's both. Ultimately, it’s all subjective. Nothing in this world is absolutely right."

McCamer stood quietly, listening. As Steve finished, a new wave of interest seemed to spark in McCamer, and he turned back to the whiteboard to write:

"2. Anxiety."

"I'm quite certain I have anxiety, because whenever I drink caffeinated beverages, my leg muscles become weak, I can’t walk a step, my breathing becomes unusually rapid, my mind races, and I have irrational fears, as if my soul has been sucked out..."

"I understand," Steve interjected. "So, you’re both excited and afraid right now, aren’t you? Do you think your unconscious leg shaking, your hands constantly crossing and uncrossing, and your fists clenching are part of this? Or is that just how you naturally behave?"

"How would I know? Isn’t that your job to tell me?" McCamer retorted.

"Human behavior is hard to predict. No two things are completely related. I’m not a mind reader. What makes people happy differs for everyone, and what scares people is equally unique. But still, their responses are generally the same—they either unconsciously protect themselves or consciously harm themselves. I think you could try to stop the impulse to pick at your nails. Even though you’re using another finger instead of biting them, which looks better, I think you’re still someone who cares about how others perceive you."

McCamer said nothing and stopped the unconscious motion. He spread his hands open and placed them on his thighs, trying to suppress the repetitive impulse, but the next moment, he crossed his left leg over his right.

He didn't particularly enjoy the heavy feeling, nor was he sure if it offered the protection he sought. He only knew that the feeling gave him a sense of real existence. After a while, that heavy feeling would become numbness. He thought of Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and murmured, "The heaviest of burdens crushes us; we feel this weight constantly. But once the burden is lifted, our bodies become so light, as if we’ve lost everything..."

He had never read the book, not a single page, but the quote was etched in his memory. Heavy or light? He had thought about it before. He believed that this weight was what kept someone alive—perhaps an unfulfilled dream from youth, or...

He glanced up at the always-smiling, kind therapist. Suddenly, he realized they were from two entirely different worlds. It was a familiar feeling—an overwhelming sense of helpless loneliness. Before coming here, he hadn’t had any real friends. It always seemed to be just him. He loved literature, loved fantasy worlds. If he could, he would build a castle in that non-existent world, hiding within to protect fragile beauty. But this man before him, he thought, loved reality too much. He cared for his patients, encouraged them with words, gave them the strength to avoid falling into the abyss of delusion. He was too happy, too brave, McCamer thought. This was his dream, his burden. Without it, without his patients, he would become a patient himself. Not some Sherlock Holmes trick—it was merely an added bonus.

"This is the 'unbearable lightness of being,'" McCamer muttered.

"Yes, I'm afraid of many things. Everyone’s afraid of something," he added with the tone of a philosopher, "I fear the sudden death of loved ones, the collapse of a plane mid-air, I fear waking up tomorrow and finding the sun has set forever."

"But those are such low-probability events, aren’t they? So, there’s no need to be afraid this building will be bombed suddenly. You’re perfectly safe here," Steve said reassuringly.

"It’s alright," Steve added.

"Put one finger under your nose, and take a deep breath."

"Or cross your hands over your chest like a butterfly and alternately pat yourself."

Steve demonstrated the movements as he spoke, but McCamer sat quietly, watching him perform the whole action.

"I’m not at that point, Doctor."

"Of course I know what it feels like, and besides, I haven’t had much coffee before coming here."

"And when I truly feel anxious, it’s more often anger—especially at noise, and at anyone talking to me. I just tell them to get lost and leave me alone. If I were really in that state right now, you and I wouldn’t be in this room. Either you’d be gone, or I would."

Steve burst out laughing, completely unfazed by the challenge.

"That could be your bipolar disorder. In contrast to the passion and impulsiveness of mania, when patients are in a depressive state, they feel not only sadness and a lack of self-worth but also sudden anger. Or they might experience sudden anger, followed by depression, self-doubt, and self-harm. The absolute confidence they accumulated in the manic state disappears in an instant. I must say, this is a much more severe illness than unipolar depression. And I’m sorry to say, some patients develop violent tendencies."

"Oh, by the way," Steve said, opening a drawer in front of him and pulling out a sheet of paper. "Please forgive me. I got so caught up in therapy that I forgot something important."

He handed the paper to McCamer, who glanced at it. It was a confidentiality agreement. He quickly skimmed through it:

"Without the patient’s permission, the doctor is not authorized to disclose any information about the patient to anyone..."

"Except in the following cases:"

"The patient shows serious suicidal tendencies; the patient shows severe violent tendencies and poses a serious threat to others’ lives; the patient is indicted by judicial authorities as a suspect."

After reading it, McCamer let out a cold, harsh laugh.

"You could have completely forgotten about it—it’s nothing but a worthless piece of paper."

"Suicide and homicide—they're eternal topics of discussion in this world."

"But if you ask me, everyone has suicidal tendencies. It's just a matter of degree. How do you even define 'serious'? As for homicide, detective novels might have exciting plots, but the motives are far more intriguing."

With that, he swiftly signed his name: "McCamer, February 24, 2024," and handed the paper back to Steve.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 20, 2024 at 9:03 AM
Content: Chapter 4

Steve placed the paper in the drawer, then looked at the man sitting before him—a man who could easily be described as a literary giant. In that moment, Steve realized that McCamer might be one of the most fascinating patients he had ever encountered. But Steve quickly suppressed the thought. As a doctor, he couldn’t allow himself to empathize with any patient, let alone invest his emotions in them. He was a doctor, not an angel. He didn’t have the power to save everyone from the abyss.

With a smile to ease the moment, Steve responded, "You’re absolutely right. But we do have a very scientific, comprehensive system for assessing the severity of symptoms."

"But don’t worry," Steve reassured him again. "Someone with your artistic sensibilities couldn’t possibly harm others, right?"

"Van Gogh was the most famous bipolar artist, but all he did throughout his life was destroy himself."

"So, do you like his work?" McCamer asked curiously.

"I don't have enough of an artistic sense to appreciate a master’s work," Steve replied. At that moment, his brain noted the word "art" and associated it with his patient, but he ignored the message entirely—it happened in less than a second. It wasn’t surprising, given the disproportionately high prevalence of bipolar disorder among artists.
Steve’s mind wandered back to his youth, when he had a peculiar music teacher. No matter what piece of piano music she played, her eyes would eventually fill with tears. At first, he thought he was imagining things. How could someone be so sensitive? But later, his classmates started talking about it too.

Children are always curious about anything new, but with time, everything eventually settles into normalcy.

A pang of sadness welled up inside him. At this moment, the only thing he was truly curious about was what kind of experience had shaped McCamer. After all, no one is born an artist. Steve was even more curious about what had led McCamer to this room. For a fleeting moment, he felt uneasy. He hesitated, wondering if now was the right time to press on with the most crucial questions. But again, he suppressed his emotions. He needed absolute rationality—no room for sentiment.

Suddenly, it started raining outside, drawing the attention of both men in the room.

McCamer instinctively turned toward the window, watching the raindrops fall rapidly. He stood still, his gaze fixed.

Steve looked at McCamer's profile, noting how thin he was, his prominent cheekbones sharp and defined, though time had not yet left its mark. A head of dark, long hair framed his face, as though it had long pulled him into darkness. His eyes were warm, watching the rain intently, giving him an air of gravity and depth, but from his lips, Steve could detect a faint trace of excitement.

Suddenly, McCamer stood up and walked directly to the window, clasping his hands behind his back, still gazing at the rain with an air of solemnity. Seconds later, he extended his right hand, while keeping his left behind him, and with his index finger, he gently and slowly began tracing patterns on the window, creating a piece of art—or perhaps, a work of graffiti.

Steve blinked in amazement, stunned by the sight. The strange behavior… he had seen it in his own child. The excitement hidden behind McCamer’s lips was really a kind of pure curiosity… If the roof weren’t there, he thought, McCamer would definitely not bother with an umbrella.

"No! He doesn’t care!"

"He doesn’t care if there’s an umbrella!"

"He just doesn’t care at all!"

Steve’s thoughts raced with a kind of frenzy. He blinked again and re-examined the fragile man before him. Steve could no longer contain his curiosity, because fear had already consumed him.

"Can you tell me…" Steve began hesitantly, "about your childhood?"

McCamer turned his head toward Steve, looking surprised. He wasn’t sure why Steve would suddenly ask this. His eyes were confused and bewildered, as if he didn’t know what was happening.

After a long silence, McCamer walked over to the only sofa in the room and lay down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of eye drops.

"I'm sorry, please wait a moment," he said. "I have dry eyes. They get irritated easily, and sometimes I can’t focus for long periods. These drops help with that."

With practiced ease, he used one hand to administer the drops to both eyes—first the left, then the right. He let the liquid flow into his eyes, and the sensation was indescribable.

Afterward, he closed his eyes, his face contorted with pain but also a trace of relief. Almost instantly, he slipped into his memories.

Steve watched him do all this, then gazed at him as though he had fallen into a deep sleep.

After a while, seeing that McCamer still had his eyes closed, Steve stood up out of boredom and walked over to the whiteboard. He stood in front of McCamer’s seemingly sleeping form and picked up the marker, writing:

"3. Megalomania."

"4. Misantropy."

"5."

Then he put the marker down, returned to his seat, and silently watched McCamer.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 20, 2024 at 9:47 AM
Content: Chapter 5

McCamer had already fallen deeply into his own dreamscape, though he wasn’t asleep. He had woven a dream for himself, returning to that summer, the day he left his homeland. The sky was clear, but somehow it was raining. He stood there, unsure of what to do, until his parents urged him to board the white bus. He didn’t know where he was headed—he only wanted to know when he would return. He remembered sitting in the back of the bus, turning to look out the window. His relatives waved him off one by one. The bus started, slowly picking up speed, and he watched as the family’s only puppy ran after it, until the speed left it behind, and it finally stopped.

He sat there, silently watching.

At that time, he was too young to understand how to say goodbye. He didn’t yet know the difference in lifespans between people and pets. But he had never considered the dog a pet. It was his companion. He always believed they would be together forever. He always believed he would return.

He didn’t want to continue the memory, because his tears were already mixing with the artificial tears. Though they were both man-made.
He wiped his eyes with a tissue and opened them again.

"I know what you’re going to write," he said in a somewhat smug tone.

"But I’m afraid you’re wrong."

"Although, the first few points seem pretty accurate."

Steve had been watching him closely. Now, McCamer’s face was back to the same composed state it had been before.

"You think I like men because you believe I don’t display masculine traits," McCamer continued. "But to directly infer an attraction to men from a lack of masculine traits is a serious logical fallacy. You’re confusing sufficient and necessary conditions."

"So," McCamer paused, "tell me, Mr. Deduction Expert, am I right?"

"You’re right," Steve admitted.

"I wonder how many non-binary patients you’ve treated. Do they all keep repeating the same question, making themselves look like the protagonists of some tragic novel?"

"Or," McCamer pulled out his phone, "shall we take a walk from the left side of the political spectrum to the right?"

"Let’s see, this is one of your case studies. Wendy, oh, who is she? She’s a devout Christian." His tone carried a hint of mockery. "She cares a lot about the afterlife. But, oh dear. Her daughter became a Buddhist. Oh, heavens!"

Speaking in a derisive tone, he continued, "Because she thought Buddhist philosophy suited her better. Thousands of words skipped."

"So, all of that was for such a small issue. I thought it was going to be something serious."

"I’m sorry," Steve apologized, his eyes fixed on McCamer, watching as he continued his monologue.

McCamer glanced at Steve, then said, "I’m curious, Doctor. How much does someone in your line of work make?"

"The first session is free, but after that, it’s charged by the hour."

"Then I think you must make money pretty easily. All you have to do is listen and say 'Yes.' Breaking news: A parrot that can say 'How do you feel about that?' has successfully earned a psychology license!"

After his joke, he looked at Steve, expecting to provoke him. But Steve didn’t get angry, which was not the reaction McCamer had anticipated. He had thought that Steve, as a professional, would stand up and defend his profession, leading to an intellectual debate. However, Steve’s calm response caught him off guard, and his own enthusiasm waned. Instead, a hint of guilt crept in. After all, he had attacked Steve’s livelihood—his very means of survival.

"I know you’re trying to provoke me to make yourself feel better. If you want, I can play along with your performance. I understand this isn’t your fault. You’ve been through a lot," Steve said, unfazed.

McCamer remained silent, realizing he had been utterly defeated. He thought for a moment about how he should respond. He imagined himself shouting at Steve, "I don’t care, I’m going to do it anyway!" But he realized how ridiculous and childish he would sound, so he abandoned the idea.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He knew that he wasn’t happy, though he didn’t want to think that way. Still, he couldn’t control the impulse.
A flood of memories rushed over him like a tidal wave. Despite having experienced it countless times, he had grown weary of it. Yet each emotional breakdown was a deeply painful experience, like a drowning man making futile attempts to stay afloat. He couldn’t stop it. Once the cycle started, it always ended with a total collapse, leaving him exhausted and without the strength to cry anymore.

"You’ve completely shattered me," he said, covering his eyes with his hands. "I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but congratulations."
His voice trembled slightly. Steve frowned seriously, realizing that he had just torn down a comedic performance, and now the moment demanded sadness. Everything had shifted so quickly. But even comedy roles aren’t truly happy—the essence of every comedy is tragedy.

"The journey from sadness to happiness is full of warmth and care, but the journey from happiness to sadness is an emotional disaster. Unfortunately, patients with bipolar disorder constantly experience the latter. No patient goes from a depressive state to mania in an instant. Only after complete emotional exhaustion do they sink into deep sleep. More regrettably, no patient can consciously control their switch—it’s always triggered unintentionally," Steve spoke softly, his fingers interlacing as he leaned forward.

"Tell me what triggers you, even though I can't help you control it."

"Tell me your story, because you already know it."

"Memories are beautiful, even though they hurt so much, aren’t they?"

"Take me back to that summer, even though it won’t dry your tears."

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 20, 2024 at 4:18 PM
Content: Actually I don't mind anyone posts anything between chapters on my story. Don't let the author feel lonely. I know it's heavy, but keep reading it will become more interesting! It's somewhere ambiguous due to poor translation. I won't update further chapters today because I want to know if it's hard for readers to understand.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 21, 2024 at 6:16 AM
Content:

kerry said:

It is difficult for reader to respond, even if they want to, when you post five chapters in a row in the middle of the night. (Remember that this is a US site.)

[End of quote]

I know. It's my first time posting a story. And the first few chapters are hard to read, I did it on purpose, to make suspense, unlike other stories, the AB side is way behind and will appear on far later chapters, I want to make it serious, dramatic. I have the nerve to do this, to be confident, but none for loneliness and embarrassment.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: NoordzeeRain
Timestamp: Oct 21, 2024 at 4:05 PM
Content: Chapter 6

Spoiler: TW: CSA

McCamer sat there, his hand reaching into his pocket once again. He pulled out a card, staring at the photograph on it with teary eyes. Using his other hand, he gently wiped the image, as if mourning an old friend.

After a few seconds, he handed the card to Steve.

"That was my school photo when I was a child. It’s my enrollment picture."

Steve took the card and examined it with almost the same careful gesture.

"But I don’t recognize him anymore. He’s already dead."

"At different stages in life, our feelings change. I can’t remember what I was like in my early years either. All I have are fleeting memories."

"Time is absurd. Human cells completely renew themselves every six years. You probably know that better than I do."

"That’s right," Steve agreed.

"I’m sorry I didn’t make it past my first six years."

Steve listened, confused by McCamer's cryptic statement, though his curiosity grew stronger with each moment. He felt a chill run down his spine, even though he had encountered countless patients with low self-esteem before. It was as if those patients appeared before him again, sitting in the very chair opposite him.

"I feel like such a failure," one patient had said.

"I just want to die right now," another had confessed.

"I don’t see the point anymore," yet another had admitted.

He forced his brain to stop playing this montage. McCamer was sitting in front of him, staring back at him, trying to uncover more information, but finding nothing. Steve realized that the way McCamer spoke was fundamentally different from his other patients. Most were direct, but McCamer’s words were always cloaked in hidden meanings. Always. That was his nature—a great artist, a great writer. From the moment he walked through the door, it seemed he had been hiding something crucial.

Steve's mind was tormented, his curiosity nearly breaking him. He desperately wanted to grab McCamer, pin him down, and demand he reveal the truth. He had a feeling this was a particularly fascinating case, unlike any other patient he had encountered. But why?

Then he calmed down, realizing that an "interesting" case usually meant the patient had suffered immensely. Fear began to spread in his brain again, mingling with his insatiable curiosity.

But he wasn’t some mad scientist or a cold-hearted mental hospital director. His professional ethics wouldn’t allow him to act that way—not even to imagine it.

Once again, he gazed at the photo McCamer had handed him. Yet the person in the picture remained expressionless, offering no clues.

"I had to leave my parents and live in a completely unfamiliar environment back then," McCamer began suddenly, breaking Steve’s frustration.

"I still remember that day when they sent me away—the sky was so blue, nothing like it is now."

"I can’t remember exactly how blue, but it was bluer than today."

"But I wasn’t happy that day. It was a deep sadness."

"If I could choose again, I would never go there."

In the memory, McCamer sat once again in the back of the bus. He wasn’t sure why he had gotten into a taxi this time or why he was sitting there. The bus sped along, leaving all the scenery behind. He cried the entire journey until they arrived in front of a strange house.
They walked all the way to the top floor, and a middle-aged couple greeted them at the door. He was led into the living room, where there were other children sitting silently.

The room was eerily quiet. He watched his parents talk to the couple, but they were too far away for him to hear what they were saying. He could only see the movement of their lips.

Soon, the conversation ended, and his parents turned to leave. He watched as the door closed behind them.

It was the first time he felt abandoned.

The room remained silent. He had just witnessed the departure of the only two people he knew. He realized he was alone now, and his only hope had walked away. All he could do was stop resisting and give up.

After a while, he was taken to the bathroom and reluctantly undressed. The woman helped him bathe, and his tears mixed with the hot water. She told him everything would be alright. Then he was dressed in pajamas and led to another room.

In that room, he lay on his side on the bed—a position he would remember for years to come, always that position. He would always remember that bed. It was where he witnessed all the good and the evil, where he stored all his night-time fantasies. He once drew on the ceiling, lay there, observing the world until all the fog in his life cleared, and he could see the path ahead.

The narrow, dim room housed three beds, and he had to share the space with two other children. The woman slept at the far end.

He imagined ghosts under the bed, and if there were any, they surely couldn’t endure his constant crying. Soon enough, he fell asleep.

That night, he dreamed of nothing. No heaven, no hell, no grassy fields, no castles.

Just the dark figure looming in a narrow, shadowy chamber. The next day, the sun rose as usual, with only a few rays slipping through the cracks in the door, casting light on the floor.

That first night, he wet the bed.

He had no memory of the morning that followed, only that he was quickly taken to school. At the entrance, a stone tablet bore the inscription, "There is no education without love." Soon, he was led into his classroom and seated at his desk.

He laid his head down on the desk, watching as his classmates trickled in, one by one. His desk mate was a girl with a few freckles. Almost everyone was crying, saying goodbye to their parents, but he didn’t react. He just rested his head and observed the scene.

The teacher entered the classroom and comforted the children, explaining the school rules and how to use their water bottles. McCamer glanced backward and saw his parents waving to him, but he didn’t react. He didn’t smile or speak.

That was the only time they ever visited him at school.

And he watched them leave, disappearing from view.

School life was uneventful. He was praised a few times. One of the moments that stuck out the most was when his handwriting was praised. Compared to the messy, illegible scrawl he produced now, his neat, rhythmic handwriting from back then was an artistic masterpiece. It was the product of long hours spent alone in that dark room, the result of intense focus. One day, the teacher displayed his work to the whole class, and everyone marveled at it. Perhaps, in some ways, such pure praise gave him just enough encouragement to survive the long winter.

He also remembered another time when the teacher addressed the class: "The homework assignment is just to complete this question. I didn’t assign the whole page. So, does everyone understand?"

He hadn’t known that before, but he was willing to comply.

Every day after school, the couple would pick him up, as they were responsible for all the children in the house. On the way home, distant houses would occasionally come into view, though he never knew if he would have a chance to explore the unknown world. He wondered about the distant scenery. He wondered what life was like on top of the clouds. He wondered if the sea had an end.

In art class, he would draw houses, birds, and skies, but never people. Perhaps drawing people was too difficult. His simple works would hang on the walls of his home for years, until one day, he would tear them down and destroy them completely.

“Today, the teacher said everyone has secrets I have mine too I don’t want to share them” he had written in his notebook, using a secret language he had invented.

“The teacher also said we should write interesting stories and reminded us that time and tide waits for no men” He closed the notebook and buried it at the bottom of his school bag.

But it didn’t remain hidden for long. One day, after he came home, as usual, sitting on the sofa in the living room doing his homework, one of the other children stood over him, holding that notebook in hand. With a sneer, the child demanded to know who had written those strange words. McCamer admitted it was him, and the punishment followed swiftly and without mercy.

The boy who beat him was five years older, and McCamer was forced to scribble over the writing in his notebook until it was completely blacked out. He did it without resistance because, by then, he had grown used to such treatment.

About a year later, on one of those nights when he was lying on that bed he knew all too well, curled up in the same position, he listened to a scene unfolding just outside his room. The parents of that boy were reprimanding him harshly, and he sat with his head bowed in silence. Then, without warning, one of the parents slapped the boy across the face. Shortly after that, the boy left the house for good.

Firstly, it had been verbal threats and physical violence, but later, McCamer would come to understand every bitterness of adult world.

On one sunny day, he followed instructions and entered that familiar room, only to be told to close the door behind him.


He continued his story, his voice growing quieter, more distant, “Although I hadn’t completely collapsed before, after that ‘dirty game’. I was shattered into pieces and would never be whole again. I fell into the abyss at the very beginning of my life, and everything afterward has been nothing but meaningless struggles. My entire life is one long, dark escape from a locked room.”