Treatment

Therapeutic Dialogue Fiction by Caleb Caudell

This story is one of five featured in SUM FLUX, V.3: “Plumbing.” Our mission is to spotlight the finest writers on Substack, curating a dynamic collection of original fiction. See the full contents page here.

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Psychotherapist: “Feelings of frustration . . . let’s call them persistent. Rumination, depression . . . Anxiety, that unleashed beetle feeling, a rustling in the underbelly, something like that. Worse than before. How about the exercises we went over? Are they helping?”

Patient: “No, not really. I think they made things worse. I found them a little patronizing.”

Therapist: “Hmm. I was afraid of that, you’re probably too self-aware for such things. Well, let’s summarize. Repetition and recapitulation are unavoidable . . . sometimes we forget what we’ve done . . . we forget what we’ve just gone over, our own histories and those of others. But you repeat it enough times and then you remember, or sometimes it makes things worse, but we have to try either way. Okay, it’s a classic malaise, a low mood and that jittery pointlessness, manifesting in protracted, piecemeal bathroom sessions, a . . . let me check my notes . . . a regular irregularity in the bowels.

Patient: “Yeah, it’s a bummer. And my sleep is off. Some nights I sleep way too long, other nights I’m gaping awake after 4 hours, with my heart beating so hard in my chest, and I haven’t even dreamed, I don’t remember anything, it’s not like I’m coming out of a nightmare, it’s just this sudden flip, a burger patty turning over all of a sudden, eyes open to the glare and grease of existence, and my chest is about to explode. From darkness to light, there’s no transition, there are no phases, it scares me.”

Therapist: “And you think these physical symptoms or these unsettling experiences refer to your professional and artistic issues.”

Patient: “I don’t see what else it could be. Things just aren’t working out. I’ve been trying to build this writing career, I never thought I’d make it big, I never had those illusions, but I thought maybe it would be a little more fulfilling . . . I thought I’d get more out of that . . . sense of recognition our . . . community. Validation I guess? I know that sounds pathetic.”

Therapist: “You feel neglected, overlooked.”

Patient: “How could I not? I’ve published three books in the last four years, and every other article about contemporary literature is about how the exact category of person I am doesn’t write or read books anymore, or, if they do manage to write a book, they’re afraid to be honest and describe their actual experience, and it’s their fault if they aren’t getting attention. But I’ve never been scared or censored myself to fit in. My lack of success or notoriety is blamed on an hallucinated diffidence? It’s absurd. I’ve tried to not let it bother me but the truth is, it grates my sack. Being ignored in general, I think I could handle that, or criticized directly, if I had a better sense that I just wasn’t good enough, well, that would sting, but it would provide some clarity, at least. But when there’s this discourse that creates this imaginary version of me that’s a cringing weakling or a video game playing and podcast listening and sports betting buffoon, and that covers up the me that’s there actually doing the very thing everyone says people like me aren’t doing, it’s exasperating.”

Therapist: “Yes, I can see how that would be upsetting. I have one suggestion, and then something of a theory, a change of perspective that might be of use to you. First, have you tried . . . doing more to elevate others, bring more attention to other neglected artists? You might find it enjoyable, and it might end up benefitting you down the line.”

Patient: “I could probably stand to be a little less selfish. I could talk more about other artists, boost or compliment people doing good work. But it’s not like I never do it, and it still feels inconsequential.”

Therapist: “I recommend pushing it on that front. Try to focus your efforts on supporting others, turn it into the dominant impulse. But apart from that, maybe a shift in viewpoint is in order. Consider this:

You think of your artistic output as a product, a reproduction of your mind, a solid, finished work that reflects your inner worth, except that worth must be recognized by others before it shines back on you and you reinternalize it. And you assume that these tools you use, this network, these platforms, that the purpose of them is to communicate, to share and connect with others, and when you can’t do any of that, you feel frustrated, denied, like a failure.

But the internet, all these writing platforms and media reservations which will necessarily be owned by ass kissers of authoritarians, you should try looking at them like a vast, virtual sewage system, the purpose of which isn’t to build communities and share information, but to dump excess energy, expel psychic waste. Think of it like this, and I know this will sound a little negative. You, as a being, are completely extraneous, you exist as an accident, and you’re constantly filling up with energy from the sun, which is also an accident, and is just constantly pumping away, it’s on its own schedule, it’s not thinking of balance, it’s not adjusting its power so that every little sprout and shoot has the exact right amount of energy. It goes way beyond that. Don’t even think of light as a color or visibility thing. Think of it like a nonrenewable but superabundant resource, a radiant oil. Think of the sun as a blazing bright well of oil that’s constantly spilling its riches, and the only real task on this accidental earth that just so happens to aerially and elliptically creep in the orbit of a celestial slick is finding different ways to discharge all the pointless buildup.

People have made a big deal about attention. How it’s scarce. Everyone worries about short attention spans. They worry because they think they’re losing touch with objects, subjects, matters, they think the point of attention is to hold specific topics together. But attention is mental energy, it piles up in your head and it needs to be unloaded. The reason distraction feels dissatisfying or even painful is because it inadequately relieves that rising pressure in your brain. Sustained attention feels better because it’s more like an uninterrupted flow of that psychic energy, which is really just waste, it’s not supposed to do anything or go anywhere.

If you write a book, that’s a physical version of a blog or newsletter on the internet, it’s a septic tank, the purpose is to get that material out of you, not to impose it on others, and you shouldn’t expect anything coming back, in fact, there’s something revolting about dwelling on it, inspecting it, waiting around to see what others think about it. And when you read books and you read articles on the internet, you’re splashing around in a toilet, you’re squeezing yourself into dirty copper tubes and absorbing the excretions of numberless others. It only makes the slightest bit of sense if you need to release some energetic surplus, and then, sure, read some articles or chat logs, read some books. But try not to think of it as a question of connection, or an issue of recognition, or community, or creating a movement, try not to bring in metrics of success, and don’t think about money, either. The only reason to do any of it, to read or write on the internet, to write books, to be an artist of any sort, is to dump your mental waste into a complex of reservoirs and deposits, landfills, enjoy the fleeting relief of a lighter head or chest, and then get ready to do it again, because the sun isn’t going to stop streaming, and you’re going to have to do something. How does this make you feel?

Patient: “I don’t know. Sounds a little bleak. I guess I get how I could frame all of life as an absurd expenditure and maybe draw some excitement from that, it could motivate me in the short term to overcome certain inhibitions or neuroses. But it also sounds a little like something an overprivileged yet bored crypto fascist might insincerely conceive as a way of titillating himself and others while avoiding more serious and fraught endeavors. At that point why bother trying to shape anything into recognizable art, why not just a barrage of hogwash? My heart aches to be understood, I’m pretty sure that’s why I bother with all this.”

Therapist: “Well, don’t just dismiss it, give it some time, think it over, maybe just consider it a supplementary perspective. And, if you still aren’t feeling any better next week, I can write you a prescription for Esketamine.”

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Artwork by:

Jon T

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