Depression

I go to see Dr. Scalioni on Tuesdays. Dr. Scalioni is my therapist.

His office is in a brownstone on a tree-lined street on Manhattan's East Side. It is a quiet street. I have a sneaking suspicion that no one actually lives in these houses anymore, and that they have all been converted into therapist's offices. I would take some pleasure from this but for the fact that it is too cold to take much pleasure from anything, and so I find myself scurrying between my office and Dr. Scalioni's, too miserable to take note of all the other Manhattanites racing to make their own appointments.

Dr. Scalioni's office is full of books and a strange yellow light that makes him look creepy. He is creepy enough as it is – his thick belly and scragly white beard makes him look like Santa Claus, if Santa Claus were a sex offender – but the yellow light adds a sickly pallor that is off-putting. Behind his head, a large clock reminds you how much time you have left.

I began to see Dr. Scalioni because I learned that someday all the stars in the universe would someday go cold. This was a traumatic moment for me.

Our first meeting went something like this:

“So, Mr. Furlong, what brings you here?”

“Well, as I understand it, someday we’re all going to freeze to death. ”

Dr. Scalioni’s eyes brightened in a manner designed to signify “encouragement.”

“Really?” he said, “tell me about that.”

Credit: Gary Larson

It was pretty much downhill from there. Dr. Scalioni studiously avoided saying anything about anything, prefering instead to let the patient babble on for 60 minutes at a time, presumably under the assumption that this exercise would eventually lead to some form of self discovery. Inasmuch as I was not seeking self discovery, but rather an answer to how to survive a solar burnout, I eventually opted to simply sit and stare at the man until our 60 minutes was up.

Over time, Scalioni and I grew to hate each other – I hated him because he could not solve my problems, and he hated me because I knew he was a fraud.

Our sessions always began as follows: I would sit down in the leather chair in his study, and he would sit in a chair directly across from me. Before he sat down, he would grab his foot and pull it under his rear-end so that when he sat down, he was sitting on one leg and it looked like a foot was growing out of his ass. It was one of Scalioni’s many eccentricities.

One day I was sitting in Sr. Scalioni’s chair, talking about my problems. He was looking at me reproachfully. He didn’t look reproachful often – I think they are taught not to look this way in psychology school – but it happened every now and then.

“I havn’t seen you in a while,” said Scalioni.

“I know,” I said. It was true. I had become depressed and I knew seeing Scalioni would depress me further.

"In point of fact," I said, "my emotions have been on a see-saw lately, going back and forth between something like depression to something else entirely."

"Oh," said Dr. Scalioni, "and what is that?"

"Rage," I said.