December 2

D., age 22. A very handsome and articulate young man. His facial features remind me of my son. His father is a psychiatrist, he says. He doesn't mention his mother.

D. had problems in elementary school, in secondary school. He went to a school for children with special ed needs, but he didn't want to be there. He begged his parents every day to let him go to a regular secondary school. They promised him, but they never did it. Then his parents moved to a different country. He refused to go with them and spent a lot of his time with his grandmother. Currently he is working as a cook. His coworkers annoy him. His boss has a habit of rubbing the palms of his hands together in very annoying way. D.'s father is a psychiatrist. He doesn't mention his mother.

On D.'s nightstand: Books by Goethe, Nietzsche, Schopenhauer. He brings a book on Leonardo da Vinci to our session. And his journal. A  nicely bound leather journal one of his former therapists gave him. It contains quotes by Schopenhauer. In rather faulty spelling by D. He wants to be an artist, like Leonardo. He wants to go to college. His father is a psychiatrist. He doesn't mention his mother.

I talk to him about his love of books. He hasn't read even one of them. The last piece of printed matter he read was a comic book. D.'s father is a medical doctor, a psychiatrist, whose son couldn't get through elementary school without repeating a school year. Today, he can't even remember the number of his hospital room. "I have a problem with my memory. I guess I won't be going to college." Yesterday at work he announced that he was going to buy a rope and hang himself. His father is a psychiatrist. He doesn't mention his mother.

D. knows the term "borderline." He heard it from his father. He doesn't mention his mother. 

D. knows some things about "being borderline."

Apparently, he doesn't know a thing about the word "mother."

We can't help him. D. is going to a different department to be put back on meds. He grabs his belongings, takes his books. Schopenhauer, Goethe, Leonardo ..., holding on to them ever so tightly as I gently squeeze his arm good-bye. I look in his handsome face, notice his blonde hair that he wants to dye black. His facial features remind me of my son. D. turns around and leaves. My two male colleagues glance at each other and silently walk down the hall to their offices.

I go to the ladies restroom so they can't see me cry.