So I’m Max Sullivan. I live in London. Or at least I used to. Lots have happened. But eh, life goes on. Just another day, eh? I’m 42. I’m not getting any younger; man I do miss being able to be young and free, especially free. Well, physically, but mentally, I’ll always be free. The mind always has to be free, the core of your mind is sacred, always has to be sacred. That place I intend to always keep safe. I won’t ever let anyone spoil that section of me. Ever.
As a child, did you ever have an imaginary friend? Imagined something that was never there? Ever wondered what it would be like to actually imagine something that feels so real, yet actually isn’t there? No probably never really crossed your mind, has it? How it might feel, or look. Feeling totally convinced that something is out there, after you. No, you’re probably thinking ‘What the hell?’ Yeah I think I’d have probably been the same 32 years ago. Or maybe not. Who knows?
Well, as a matter of fact, I had an imaginary friend. Well I always assumed it was one. My mother, now my mother, Julie. One of the loveliest women you’d have probably ever met. Not that I remember much, but eh, when you’ve been through lots, your mind kind of gets scrambled. Yeah, I remember her smile, her simple, natural smile. She smiled a lot. Probably why I remember her smile. She would smile and the house would suddenly come to life, be colour to the walls, the room would go warm under her radiant expression. Her soft skin, yes, she has such perfect skin. I clearly remember the scent of her skin; it was a bed full of roses, such a sweet subtle smell. Roses and Daisies. She used to put daisies around the house; she said she put them there, so you smile when you see them. They remind you of how perfect the world is and how much you should love the place in which you live, but most of all to smile when you see them. They made her smile. So that made me smile.
Of course now, then, I was only 10. Wow, time really does fly past? So fast. Almost, too fast. As a child, I don’t think I found anything too fast, it was always so slow. Days used to feel like weeks, and weeks felt like years. Well, at one point this was. I liked it. It gave me time to think, and to write. All I ever did, or wanted to do was writing. I remember mother saying I was a natural; I was naturally talented to writing. That I was going to claim all the fame. Dreams are so amazing, I enjoyed her enthusiasm. Being 10, I don’t think I really understood what she meant. But she smiled, and when she smiles, I smile. Those days were so perfect.
Murphy; that’s the name of my imaginary friend. I don’t really know why I just called him ‘imaginary’, because, to me he simply wasn’t imaginary. He didn’t look like a ghost. He didn’t come and go. In fact he’s always been the one constant thing in my life. He was my best friend. He talked to me, and made me laugh. We always had private jokes, and I’d laugh all the time.
Mother would ask what I was laughing at. Father would simply ignore it. I would tell mother it was Murphy and she’d smile, that all too familiar smile. Smile and go,
‘Oh Max, that’s lovely, what is Murphy? Is he a small person like you? Or is he a big grizzly bear?’
I never really understood why she thought Murphy was a grizzly bear. Of course he was a small person like me. He’s my friend and he goes everywhere with me. School, around the home, even out on the streets! He would tell me all these tales of what he wanted to do. Talk of his days he used to run around, climb and sing. Murphy was a great singer. We sang ‘all things bright and wonderful’, Mother thought this was a beautiful song and that we had such lovely voices. Mother was always so optimistic. Always believed in me, and always had me in hope. I don’t know what I’d have done without her. She was my smile. Murphy never left my side though. People at school always said that they had a best friend when they were younger. Now they say they are your guardian angel. Or so they think. How do they know? Well they say an imaginary friend is your angel of protection. But they also said you’d forget them and move away, that they became a small part of you. That you never recognise them, after your young years. Murphy isn’t any of these things; he was always there, if anything he became stronger, more real, and yet my closest friend that understood me more than anything in the world. They think they know. Actually they know of nothing. People like to have their own stories and make up happenings. I’m not like that, I don’t make things up. Apart from my stories. But we all make up our stories, yes? I always did.
Then it all changed. So I stopped.
Now, I don’t write at all. I can’t afford to, so they say.
“You don’t need to bother yourself with words Mr. Sullivan, concentrate on getting better first.”
They actually mean, “Don’t write books, because you are crazy.” Why do doctors treat you as if you’re mad, when you know that full well what’s happening is in the real world? Yet they constantly, politely, still try to drum in the fact that everything you say is wrong. I’m not one to let down if I’m wrong. I’m stubborn. It’s nature. God intended me to be stubborn, so I will be, must be there for a reason? I don’t worry about it. It’s the last thing on my mind when such things are going on around me! They won’t listen. Why is it so hard for people to listen? Everyone just needs someone to understand, yes, really understand them. Doctors can be so ignorant and just assume everything they say has to be right. It’s patronising. The look in their eye, they don’t actually care, they pretend. Everything is just pretence. It upsets me greatly, that they have been granted the position of having one of the most caring occupations, where they are meant to help you. Yes, they may make you better, physically, but emotionally they just push you to the ground. Is that really the job description of a doctor? I’m sure it is.
Routine. It’s all routine in life, that’s why the doctors don’t care. I shouldn’t be stereotypic against all doctors, as I’m sure there are many that do care. Life gets repetitive, so really, they probably do actually care and do their best, yet they’ve done the same thing over and over again, so naturally it’s got boring. That’s why they don’t see me for who I really am. Simply because they see me as a schizophrenic. A case study. Another hopeless experiment.
“How have you been Mr. Sullivan?”
“Fine, thank you” I replied, trying not to sound repetitive.
Doctor Avery gave me a once over glance, she was clearly looking for any signs of me lying. I wasn’t fidgeting and I wasn’t actually lying. I did honestly feel completely fine today. I feel more than fine when I’m writing. There was no awkward body language. I know she didn’t find anything in me to be doubtful about, so she hit back to her questions with a surprised, yet cautious tone.
“How is your medication going?” she asked, again looking suspiciously.
“Perfectly fine, thank you” I answered with a sigh.
“So you’re not fe-“she began, I interrupted, simply because I knew what she was going to ask before she did.
“No, everything feels, just, fine thank you, also I’m eating well, and sleeping fine, I haven’t seen or heard anything for a good few days since my medication has been altered”
I cleared my throat.
She shuffled around and after a few moments looked up at me and went “Right, well, yes, that sounds good, is there anything else I should know or hear about, regarding your position or health?”
Avery pushed her glasses down to the bottom of her nose and looked over the top, holding her hands tight together. She actually looked very sexy. I went back to thinking, trying to figure the best way to tell her my latest thought.
It was as if she actually really cared for that moment, as if she was going to really listen to me, but she’s a doctor. She went back to her papers and started writing away, looking up to press me to reply to her buzzing question, she was looking for me to say something. Maybe confess that I was mad and that I needed help, or that I made everything up perhaps?
“I want to start writing again” I quickly confessed and hung my head low as not to meet her gaze.
She clicked her pen and put it down.
“Mr. Sullivan, I thought we had talked about this?”
Being patronising again. I tried not to take notice and pretend she was being sympathetic.
“Yes... Well, no, not really, everyone had told me to... stop writing, and I underst-“ I was determined to fight my corner, I had perfectly good reasons to state.
“Look, I thought we decided it wasn’t in your best interest to write anymore, as it didn’t help your health, it unsettles you, I know you enjoy writing Max, but it really would be wise not to write, I mean the few weeks where you haven’t been writing you’ve been feeling better, isn’t that right?”
I couldn’t argue. She was right, I had been feeling better since I hadn’t, but how could I give up my only talent? Writing was all that I knew and understood words were second nature to me, and they are my life. I know they are where I belong.
“Yes.” I replied in a small voice. I felt incredibly stupid.
“I’m glad you understand this Max, I am truly sorry that you can’t feel to express yourself well, maybe you could try other Medias and see where they may take you?”
I felt annoyed that she was determined to let my only talent down.
“Doctor... I don’t wish to sound rude or anything, but writing is my only passion, ever since I was a young child, I was always encouraged, and it’s something I’ve always enjoyed, there’s something inside me that is telling me I have to write” I knew this was going to take me somewhere I shouldn’t go, but I had to press my view. “I’ve never wanted to do anything else, I’ve written before, I want to try again, with the medication being so much better than before, maybe that will help me?” I wasn’t about to stop, I needed to get it out before she tried stopping me again. “What if I wrote about me, and my experiences, maybe that could help me, maybe I could try and give everyone a better understanding of my illness from my point of view?” I had stopped. Doctor was looking at me shocked by my desperation for her understanding.
Again she looked me over; I could see that she was re-playing the words in her head, grasping my meaning for such a confession. She picked up her pen and clicked it and started writing on her board, a few seconds later she looked up at me, and looked me in the eye, deep into my eyes. She opened her mouth to speak and then closed, then once again clicked her pen and started rolling it around the desk. Starting to rock on her chair and then began to speak.
“Max, do you honestly think, speaking, writing your ‘story’ as it were, would help your progress?”
There was a pause.
I tried to stay calm, I knew she was going to give it up and allow me to do the story.
“Yes, I think it would be of benefit...”
She looked at me with huge curiosity. She was waiting for more.
“I do honestly believe it would help, my understanding of my own illness, and let the ghosts that are haunting me, go.”
“Right.” She continued looking and leaned forward “Max, if I let you do this, will you promise that you’ll contact me at first signs of anything unusual?”
“Yes, I promise.”
We had a deal.
Copyright of Imogene Rogers
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