104 I Was Walking Along I was walking along the corridor of my office, my glasses set firmly on my nose and my pace simple and unhurried. I skimmed through the files I had been given for the zillionth time, but they remained empty—or with minimum content—every time I looked. I don't know how no one can diagnose it, or why they can't do so. I don't think any psychological problem can be so vast that it remains undiscovered and undiagnosable. Some psychologists say she never spoke in their presence; some say she spoke too much, but they could not pinpoint what the problem was. In the end, at the Vance Laboratory of Developmental Psychology in Veridia City, the case fell into my hands simply because it was too complicated for them. They likely thought that, as a mediocre psychologist, I would be happy giving my time to this unsolvable case—or that I would simply stay busy handling it since I have no others. In my case, the latter seems like the most likely reason. Not to mention, this is the first time they have ever given me any patient to deal with. The most common thing in a psychiatrist's life is that patients rarely tell the truth immediately. They lie to protect themselves, or they simply don't have the words to describe the pain. A psychiatrist's life is a constant game of "Connecting the Dots." We are looking for the one word that doesn't fit, the one gesture that contradicts a story, or the "burst of flavor" in a bland sentence. I have been sitting idly, thinking about this case a lot. Why couldn't anyone diagnose it? What has happened that turned her into such a mystery? Why are these diagnostic reports so empty? I was supposed to see her yesterday, but I had to move the appointment one day later because of the questions clogging my mind. If my own mind wasn't empty, I wouldn't be able to truly listen to her. A psychiatrist's mind should be void of its own thoughts; we should just listen to the patient's story and try to diagnose what the problem is. I turned the corner of the corridor, reaching the section of psychological wards and doctors' offices. Mine is in the same area, but at the very end of the hall. I quickened my pace to reach my door. There it was: Dr. Aris Varma. The nameplate was shining, as always. Although it may not shine in two hours, if this case doesn't work_if I am unable to uncover whatever is wrong with her. Elara June. That is her name. She is an unmarried woman in her 20s who finds it hard to settle down or find any peace because of the thoughts that keep her awake at night. She has cycled through many doctors, eventually landing at our clinic because of its high-stakes reputation. She just wants to feel "normal"—or, at least, that's what her previous diagnostic reports claim. I took a deep breath and opened the door. I walked towards my recliner and sat down calmly, intentionally not looking at the woman on the sofa in front of me. The first thing I noticed was her fidgeting; she was nervous. I placed the file on the glass table, then got up to light a lavender-scented candle on my desk. It relaxes patients. If she is nervous, she might not tell me her whole story, or she might try to change it to keep me from seeing the dark parts. She needed to relax.
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