Post by DR. BENEDICT MILNER on Aug 15, 2012 20:33:47 GMT -5
Benedict had, as a psychiatrist, obviously had to encounter patients with the same diagnosis as his mother -- paranoid schizophrenia. It was an unavoidable happenstance, in his line of work, regardless of the fact he'd only been working in this field for a little over five years. However, regardless of how well he outwardly handled each case, every single one was a trial for him. They all reminded him of her, little things. Little fixations he had noticed in her. He always worried that he'd receive a call that they'd hanged themselves, that they'd done it from a ceiling fan with bedsheets.
Schizophrenia patients put him on edge.
And he was meeting a new one today.
He knew that he should not have been wound so tightly about this. If there were any sorts of patients that needed him to be relaxed, it was the ones with schizophrenia. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't help remembering the way that the room two doors from his had a ceiling fan and how he had told himself that he was never, ever going to enter that room. He couldn't help being just a little bit afraid of them.
But he couldn't show that. He couldn't show that he had that vulnerability, not if he wanted to help them. They needed to see someone who wasn't afraid of them. And that was who Ben was going to be.
He got there early for his next appointment by about five minutes. He often ran at least twenty minutes late (his watch was almost always slow), so he had left thirty minutes early that morning, just for the sake of arriving on time for this next case.
Hurrying into his office with his thermos in hand, he pulled out his mug of the day and poured himself a cup, throwing half of it back before he pulled out the patient's file. Immediately, the feeling of the warm, mildly sweetened liquid going down his throat soothed his nerves; his eyelids flickered slightly, and as he set the mug down on his desk, he assured himself that he was more than capable of handling this case adequately.
He'd placed the patient's file on his desk when he'd left the evening before -- thinking ahead, as he had to due to his chronic lateness. Making sure his thermos was safely screwed closed, he flipped the file open, scanning it quickly with his bluish eyes.
Victor Mayer. 29. Paranoid schizophrenia. Fixation on rhymes and the color orange. Legal guardian was his younger sister, Victoria. Both parents deceased.
Alright, then.
Checking his watch, he noted it was one minute past ten, and immediately sprung out of his seat. He straightened his scarf, ran a hand through his orange hair, and poked his head out the door to look around for his patient. "Victor?"
ooc: outfit!
Schizophrenia patients put him on edge.
And he was meeting a new one today.
He knew that he should not have been wound so tightly about this. If there were any sorts of patients that needed him to be relaxed, it was the ones with schizophrenia. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't help remembering the way that the room two doors from his had a ceiling fan and how he had told himself that he was never, ever going to enter that room. He couldn't help being just a little bit afraid of them.
But he couldn't show that. He couldn't show that he had that vulnerability, not if he wanted to help them. They needed to see someone who wasn't afraid of them. And that was who Ben was going to be.
He got there early for his next appointment by about five minutes. He often ran at least twenty minutes late (his watch was almost always slow), so he had left thirty minutes early that morning, just for the sake of arriving on time for this next case.
Hurrying into his office with his thermos in hand, he pulled out his mug of the day and poured himself a cup, throwing half of it back before he pulled out the patient's file. Immediately, the feeling of the warm, mildly sweetened liquid going down his throat soothed his nerves; his eyelids flickered slightly, and as he set the mug down on his desk, he assured himself that he was more than capable of handling this case adequately.
He'd placed the patient's file on his desk when he'd left the evening before -- thinking ahead, as he had to due to his chronic lateness. Making sure his thermos was safely screwed closed, he flipped the file open, scanning it quickly with his bluish eyes.
Victor Mayer. 29. Paranoid schizophrenia. Fixation on rhymes and the color orange. Legal guardian was his younger sister, Victoria. Both parents deceased.
Alright, then.
Checking his watch, he noted it was one minute past ten, and immediately sprung out of his seat. He straightened his scarf, ran a hand through his orange hair, and poked his head out the door to look around for his patient. "Victor?"
ooc: outfit!
