“Mr. Morgan?” I’d zoned out and stopped listening a while ago. “Mr. Morgan?” I was literally itching for a hit. Just a little bit of smack, y’know? “Mr. Morgan!”
“Fuck off,” I growled. The woman on the other side of the desk sat back in her seat a little, completely unphased.
“Listen to me, Mr. Morgan. We are all that stands between you and jail. We believe we can help you. You know why you’re here and not in jail right now?”
“Because you think I have some kind of personality disorder and that I can’t help what I do unless you electrocute me five times a day,” I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’ve seen ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’.”
“Treatment has changed drastically since the time that film was set, Mr. Morgan. Electrotherapy is not nearly as common as it used to be,” her voice was as bland as her office. There was the obligatory plastic pot plant on the top of the filing cabinet, and a few framed certificates on the wall, but that was about it. Other than the plain cream paint and the desk, there really wasn’t anything in here. I get the feeling it was a deliberate move so the crazies didn’t get distracted while they were in here.
“Look, there’s nothing wrong with me, okay? I’m not insane, and I don’t need to be here. At least in jail the people there won’t try to tell me I’m crazy,” I snapped. I didn’t want to be here. All I got caught doing was stealing a car. They didn’t have anything on me for the drugs, or the illegal weapons, or anything. It’s hardly my first run in with the cops, either. Suddenly they decided that they see too much of me and sent me packing to the funny farm. “I don’t need to be here!” I shouted, slamming a hand down on her desk. I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to get out of there right there and then. She watched me as I got up.
“You’re not going to get very far if you walk out of that door, Mr. Morgan. You’re here because a court of law ordered you to be. This has to be better than prison. We can make this easy, and we can have a civil discussion about why you’re here, or we can just send you straight to jail for not agreeing to stay here as a patient. Now,” she carried on. I wondered how many people she’d dealt with like this, “your file says you have several drug addictions. I can assure you, these will be better treated here than they will in prison. Do you still want to walk out of here?” I hesitated. That part was true, unfortunately. “Well?”
Reluctantly, I sat down. I wanted to punch her. Like, really, really wanted to punch her. She could see it on my face.
“I told you not to call me that,” I snapped. It felt like all she wanted to do was provoke me.
“Sorry,” she apologized quickly enough, realizing her mistake. “Mr. Morgan… I’d like to get on with the discussion, if that’s alright with you.”
Instead of hitting her, I pulled one knee up to my chest and put my arms around it to hold it there – it usually worked when I wanted to hit someone I shouldn’t. “Go on then,” I spat the words out at her, but she went with it anyway.
“Well, the psychiatrist you saw earlier on in the week diagnosed you with antisocial personality disorder, and from what I’ve seen today, I’m inclined to agree.”
“Everyone can be antisocial,” I sneered, “how the fuck can it be a personality disorder?”
“You have a history of both drug abuse and a criminal record from before you were fifteen, correct?” I nodded. There was hardly any point pretending otherwise, “so then we can apply the DSM-IV’s diagnosis of the disorder,” she told me, taking this massive fucking book from a drawer in her desk. “You only need to fit three of the seven criteria, but I have a feeling you’ll fit more than that.”
She read them out to me from the book, and asked me which ones I thought I fitted. “I dunno. The impulsive one?”
“From your record, and from what I’ve seen today, I would say you have all of them, near enough. The failure to conform to social norms by repeatedly committing acts that are grounds for arrest, the habit you seem to have of lying or conning others for personal gain, impulsiveness, aggression that results in fights with others, a reckless disregard for the safety of yourself or others around you, the consistent irresponsibility, and, Mr. Morgan, you have the biggest lack of remorse for your actions that I have ever seen. You’re totally indifferent to everything you’ve done wrong.”
“Well anything’s gonna sound bad when you say it like that,” I scowled. She looked up at me from the book, with this look on her face that just said ‘you can shut up now; you’re crazy, end of discussion’.
“This is your room mate,” an orderly in white scrubs gestured at a mousy looking boy sat on his bed with a diary that he shut as soon as he realized I was actually going to be coming inside his room. “Let us know if you need anything,” the orderly walked off and left me in the pale blue room with the mousy looking boy, who looked like he was about to shit his pants at just the sight of me.