Wearing a brown fedora and a dark coat, Dr. Barris resembles a kind hearted detective I imagined reading about in my youth.

“You’ve had a traumatic bunch of events in life. Bless your heart,” he says, followed by a soft chuckle. 

      I’m not offended. His statement was so obvious that it was a tad humorous, but validating. Silently to myself, I justify–After all, I did more testing than most involuntary psych patients in a ward. Plus, maybe he’s as quirky as I am.

     He continues, saying, “Let’s calm your little brain down. Your brain must be on fire in there, so overwhelmed it doesn’t know how to sort things out.”

     Silence. I’m still thinking about the book I picked up from the used bookstore “Brain on Fire,” and how I told my Aunt that I probably shouldn’t watch the movie. I’m afraid it will scare me. 

I bring my attention back to the present. With my face to Dr. Barris, but struggling to make eye contact because now I’m too busy being distracted by the video of me on the screen.

I ask, “So I’m not borderline, autistic, ADHD, or the beginning stages of Alzheimers?”

Now uncomfortable, I shift in my writer’s chair, then cringe at the immediate memory of my voice.

     Shaking his head, with gentleness in his eyes, he says, “No, you have symptoms that feel like those things. Socially, you can be awkward because you live in a body that doesn’t feel safe. Your IQ is good. Attention span is messed up but your emotional state influences that. Chaotic personality dynamics- PTSD stuff. No big problems cognitively, only psycho-social stuff.”

     I nod in agreement and tell him, “I suspected as much.” 

     “I’m gonna try hard to help you feel better.” His tone is assuring. 

     “I’ve waited my whole life for this,” I say, pursing my lips into a stiff smile.

     Reaching for his tablet, he asks, “Alright, when can you come in?”