I Believe You

Chapter 8

I inspected the waiting area. The lighting was bright. There were many sofas along with some tables, all neatly placed, and a few stacks of magazines were resting on the tables. I stole a quick look at them. Most of them were parenting magazines.Jacky came forward with two cups of plain water. A few parents were with their young children (most of them below five years old). “It’s so empty here.” I whispered, taking a sip of the water. If I had spoken freely, my voice would have carried throughout the entire waiting area. “No worries.” Jacky patted my shoulder. The nurses at the counter were chatting with each other. A few doctors in their white coats walked in and out of their rooms, holding folders in their hand. I wondered which of them I would be allocated to. The nurse had said “Dr. Ong”. “Joanna Fung?” I glanced up. Out of nowhere, a tall young man was standing in front of me. He was wearing his doctor’s coat and looked like a decent chap, with his thick glasses and neat hairstyle. I stood up instantly and offered my hand for a handshake. “Come with me, will you?” he smiled. I turned and looked at Jacky. He was winking at me, and then relaxed on the sofa.I was led into Room 15, with the tag “Dr. Ong Kim Leng” on the door. The room had a sofa, a table strewn with toys, a big whiteboard and a desk with a computer. Dr. Ong sat on a chair and motioned for me to sit down. I looked around and realized that I should sit on the sofa. Never before had I sat on a sofa when I went to see a doctor. “Alright, Joanna, seventeen years old. Junior College student. National Junior College. Not bad.” He rolled his chair in front of me and pulled out a file with a pen. “Now, it’s only you and me. Just you, Joanna Fung, and me, Dr. Ong.” I nodded. “So whatever we say here, no one else is going to know. Alright? So we have a pact.” I nodded again, this time nervous. “I just want to let you know that coming here is the right choice. You know something is wrong, and you’re admitting it. Finally.” I did not wish to nod, but still, I did. He was very nagging. “Alright then, let’s not waste each other’s time. So, come on, tell me what’s bothering you.” Finally I got to talk. I told him everything that I had told Jacky about: The “curse”. Dr. Ong was amazingly attentive: he kept on listening, and while listening, he would write something on the file. Sometimes he would draw something and asked me irrelevant questions. “Tell me frankly, do you have a boyfriend?” “No.” “Are you happy when chatting with your best friend, Landy?” “Yes.” “How do you feel if I tell you that you’re a very creative thinker?” “I don’t know.” Finally, after an hour of confessing my problems to him, he closed his file. “Do you have any questions for me?” he asked me. I shook my head. “Alright then. What you’re suffering from is a mental illness called ‘Obsessive Compulsive Disorder’, or OCD for short.” I shrugged. I had never heard of this before. “Before I go on to tell you what OCD is, I’ll give you a simple example. Have you seen people in the coffee shop washing their hands almost every few minutes, rubbing their hands with soap till they tear their skin?” I nodded. I had known someone like that in my secondary school days. She just kept on going to the toilet to wash her hands. I always thought that she was just paying more attention to hygiene than us. “You see, they’re also suffering from OCD. They feel that their hands are always dirty, so they have the urge to wash them again and again. They’re obsessed with the thought of dirty hands. And they wash their hands to make them feel better. That’s their compulsion.” “And?” “You’re also suffering from OCD. Your case is a bit different. You’re obsessed with the thought that you’re ‘cursed’, hence you have the compulsion of not talking to others. It will make you feel better.”Crap, I thought. “In mental terms, we’re in a cycle of thought, behavior and feeling. You have the thought of fear when talking to others, fearing that you might curse them. So your behavior will be to avoid talking to them.” I toyed with my fingers. I was not paying attention. He stood up and began to draw the cycle for me to see. “So, we can’t change your thoughts. And your feeling, your fear, is created by your thoughts. So we can only help to change your behavior. Through a change in your behavior, your thoughts and feelings will change as well. We’ll go through a therapy called Cognitive Behavioral Psychotherapy to change your behavior. In other words, to be happy, you have to change the world or change your thinking. We’re here to change your thinking.” “Okay, so, when can we start?” Dr. Ong stared at me, his eyes and mouth wide open. I must have been the first patient to accept his diagnosis and treatment so straightforwardly.
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“Obsession Disordering Of …computing.” I explained to Jacky. “Eh, wait. OCD. Obsession Computer Disordering? I forgot the name of it. The short form is OCD.” “Sounds like the Police Force in Robocop, OCP. And what is it all about?” “I am obsessed with the ‘curse’. And I’m controlled by it. So they’re trying to change my thinking-eh, no. Not thinking. They’re trying to change my behavior. So that my thinking will change. And my feelings will change.” “The Thought-Feeling-Behavior cycle. I’ve heard of it before.” “Whatever.” I blurted. “And I’m supposed to meet this Mr. Kam later on. He’ll do a therapy on me. Change my behavior. Change my thoughts. Change my feelings.”

I was prescribed with medications that cost me well over ten bucks. It was “Fluoxetine”, some sort of SSRI (as mentioned by Dr Ong), or simply, an anti-depressant. We waited for another half an hour before Mr. Kam came forward to meet me. He was in his forties, with a lean build. We greeted each other and he led me to another room, leaving Jacky alone again. This time, the room was smaller. There were two small chairs, a small table and a desk. The walls were lined with drawings by children less than ten years old. I sat on one of the chairs. “I’ve read your files. I know everything about your condition, but I would like to hear the whole story again, from yourself.” And once again, I revealed my ‘curse’. Miraculously, I had now told three people about my ‘curse’ within two weeks. “Alright. OCD.” Mr. Kam did not seem to be as friendly as Dr. Ong. “This therapy involves doing something that is against your will. You think you can curse someone. So, come on. Curse me.” I was taken aback. He was insane. He must be. I had never expected that the fourth person I had confided my secret in would ask me to curse him. “Go on, curse me.” “I really have the curse” I said. “Don’t play these games.” He pointed at his forehead. “It’s all in the mind, Joanna. Your thoughts. Your thoughts are telling you it’s wrong. But I want to prove your mind wrong instead. Curse me. When your behavior changes, so do your thoughts, and eventually, your feelings. And then you’ll be cured. Come on.” I was thinking of Jacky. I wondered how he would react. This Mr. Kam was asking for trouble. He looked harmless though. “No.” I said. “Do you want to be cured?” “I’m not sick. I’m cursed.” “Trust me. Just this once. Just say that sentence. Prove me wrong.” “I don’t want to ruin you!” “You won’t. Curse me leniently then. We’ll do it slowly.” “No, please…” “Oh come on! Don’t make me bribe you with candies.” “Please don’t force me…” “Come on!” “Stop it…” “Curse me!” I could no longer take it. I stared at him, thought for a while then said softly, “You’ll break your arm within this week.” Mr. Kam smiled. He must be sick in the mind. He was the sick one, not me. That sicko! Trouble seeker. “Good, Joanna. How are you feeling now?” I kept quiet for a while. “Regretful. I just want to say sorry in advance to you. I hope you’ve bought insurance.” “Don’t worry, I’m insured. From a scale of one to hundred, one being least depressed, hundred being most depressed, how depressed are you feeling now?” “Hundred.” I said. He showed me a piece of paper with a table drawn on it and wrote something.We chatted about irrelevant things for the next ten minutes. He told me about the various kinds of obsessions people had, like the fear of using a fork and the fear of crossing the road. I was kind of amused yet at the same time amazed by these real-life stories. After fifteen minutes, he asked me how depressed I was again. I said hundred once more. An hour later, he asked again and I said hundred. Mr. Kam did not look pleased. He got me another date to come back for the next therapy session. “I believe by then your depression level won’t be hundred.” “Maybe more.” I said and went out to meet Jacky.When I told him what I had done, he just smiled. He did not believe in my curse as well. I would show him. I would show them just how powerful my curse is. Gosh, can’t they understand me?