The Mariner

“We’ve just met, I can’t possibly comment, but I find that nothing is permanent. Take your alcoholism. I’m pretty sure you’re not an alcoholic at all, and you only drink the way you do because you’ve convinced yourself you’re dependant. Believe me, if you were physically dependant it would be a lot more than just a few shots! And you certainly wouldn’t have made it here today! I’ve had patients who drink a bottle of whiskey a day look like a corpse. No, it’s all in your head and everything in there can be undone.”

It sounded like the same promises he’d heard a thousand times before, and [the Mariner] nodded idly, allowing his interest to float back to the window and the Londoners below. There was no doubt the therapist with his warm eyes and round summer face meant every word, but truth be told, [the Mariner]’s heart wasn’t in it. He’d been through enough of these treatments to know nothing could be done. The past could not be changed.

The book slipped in his hands and gave a dull thud as it hit the carpet. He reached down, pausing as the bright cover caught his eye. It was a slave-ship, probably the Neptune, crashing through waves manned by an insane looking captain, more of a pirate than a merchant. The character reminded him of that old poem, The Ancient Mariner. It held his gaze, and the therapist must have picked up on this.

“I’ve often found that the root causes are hidden within us, and need to be identified, understood, and extracted. These are often events that we only partially remember, sometimes insignificant in the grand scheme of our lives, and yet they send our psyche spinning off in unwanted directions.”

[The Mariner] nodded vaguely, trying to follow the therapist’s explanation.

“Imagine for a moment that there is a ship, just like that one there, in an enormous ocean. The ship is your mind’s eye. Somewhere in that great ocean of your subconscious is an island containing the truth of your being. If we can find that truth, and remove it, your desolate ocean will become a blissful playground, rather than the stormy hell it is now.”

[The Mariner] couldn’t hide his cynicism. “If we find the island?”

His therapist persevered, thinking his analogy clever in linking to his patient’s nautical novel. “Not only do we need to find the island, but we need to get onto it, and often the islands are ringed with defences to keep us out.”

“Defences?”

“Yes. Mental disorders are like parasites, once they have taken hold, they would rather die than be dragged from their host against their will.” His eyes seemed to light up as the metaphor shifted. “The defences are natural, yet must be overcome.”

“I think I follow. And I’m willing to try anything you suggest, absolutely anything. But I’m not sure what can be done that hasn’t been tried before.”

“But you still came to me,” said the therapist, pulling his chair closer to the patient. “Which means you’ve heard I can get results that no-one else can. So you know that I have tools to break through these defences, tools other psychologists can only dream of.”

[The Mariner] became transfixed by the gentleman’s confidence. Could it be true? So many therapies had been meaningless, vague attempts to pretend the problem was not there. Would this one finally remove that corruption that ate at his soul?

“I want you to look in my eyes.”

“I hope you’re not going to try to hypnotise me,” he laughed, only half-joking.

“No, no, nothing like that. But, like hypnotism, I need you to work with me. You remember what I said a moment ago, likening root problems to islands in an ocean? Well I want you to begin locating those islands now. You said you identified with that ship in the book, well imagine now that you are that ship, searching them out, putting them on a map for me to find. Can you do that?”

[The Mariner] nodded, trying his best to think of all the worst moments in his life. They hopped and squawked for attention, and many needed suppression to make way for more destined chicks.

“Good lad,” the therapist said, his voice sounding almost hungry. “Focus on all the aspects you’d like to be rid of. Can you do that?”

Indeed he could, there was so much about himself that he found disgusting, repulsive and shameful. So much in his brain that had become wired in the wrong way, grown in the wrong directions. The idea that they could be removed, pruned back, truths weeded out, seemed the only clean path to take.

“Focus. Focus. You are aboard that ship. Searching… Searching… Where’s the island? Guide me to it…”

And indeed, he was almost upon that ship, with the salty wind in his hair and the open ocean stretched out ahead. Great islands containing his horrors and shames lay scattered across the horizon. He guided the sails as the ship soared towards them, eager to tackle the para—

WASP

—tackle the parasite—

WASP

—parasite within—

WASP!