“She yelled at the shadows that were following her – condemning, criticizing, disapproving. They spoke and acted just like her mother did, all her life.
She drew all the curtains in the house to prevent their entry. They would be peeping in from somewhere – just like her neighbors did.
She hated having houseguests. They soaked in her hospitality, and then made unfavorable comparisons. She had not invited them, and she felt no compulsion to be like them.
That was the crux of the whole problem. She was not like any of them. And people saw her ‘being different’ as a threat. They sought cover in criticism, in attacking her for her non-compliant ways.
Why did nobody like her just the way she was? Why was she seen as a threat, when she was just leading her own life?”
Dr. Covey read his patient’s notes, for the fifth time. He was a renowned psychiatrist, who had failed to resurrect his mother’s life. She had committed suicide twelve years ago. Some of the pieces were falling in place, some had not yet found a slot.
He confirmed the appointment with this patient for 6 p.m., Friday evening. He needed the weekend to mull over whatever she had to say.
Unearthing the subconscious was an arduous task, something that his geologist father could not do. He had spent his life excavating the earth, and dark secrets that helped only his research papers.
Destiny had sent this patient to help the doctor complete the mission.