The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [13]
I understood what he was telling the psychiatrist, for I felt in my own skin what he meant. When the psychiatrist approached me, he used techniques and interpretations that I immediately rejected. He dealt with the act of suicide, but not with the ravaged human being inside me. His theory might be useful in predictable situations, especially when the patient seeks help, but not in situations where the patient rejects help or has lost hope. I was resistant. First, I needed to be touched by the psychiatrist the man. And later, by the psychiatrist the professional. Because he had approached me as an illness, and not as a person, I perceived him as an invader and withdrew.
The dreamseller took the opposite approach. He started with the sandwich; he asked me deep questions to know more about who I was, like nourishment that reached down into my bones. Only then did he deal with the act of suicide.
The psychiatrist, though he had been called a poet of existence, didn’t like being called out by some shabbily dressed stranger with no credentials. He didn’t seem happy at all that I no longer wanted to commit suicide. Damn his envy! I wanted to make him see that he was missing the bigger picture. But then again, I’d done the same thing inside the sacred temple of my classroom.
Then, the dreamseller placed a hand on the shoulder of the young fire chief and told him, “Thank you, son, for the risks you have taken to save people you don’t know. You are a dreamseller.”
The dreamseller turned and headed toward the elevator, and I followed him. The psychiatrist turned to the police chief to speak just as the dreamseller turned around to say something himself, and, amazingly, they said the same thing:
“Crazy people understand each other.”
The psychiatrist turned red. He must have asked himself, as I did, “How could they have been thinking the same thing?”
The dreamseller saw there was time for one final and unforgettable lesson at the top of that building. He told the psychiatrist, “Some people’s craziness is obvious. For others, it’s hidden. Which type is yours?”
“Not me, I’m normal!” the psychiatrist snapped.
“Well, mine is visible,” the dreamseller said.
He then turned his back and began to walk, his hands on my shoulders. After three steps, he looked toward the sky and said, “God save me from ‘normal’ people!”
Exorcising the Demons
WE RODE DOWN THE ELEVATOR SILENTLY. I WAS LOST IN thought, the dreamseller calmly whistling and staring ahead. We passed through the immense lobby, richly decorated with chandeliers, antique furniture and an enormous reception desk of dark mahogany. Only then did I realize their beauty. Before, my world was colored by my own dark emotions.
Outside, the lights shone brightly, lighting the crowd that was anxiously awaiting news from the top of the building. News that I would do my best not to provide. Truth be told, I wanted to hide, forget the commotion, turn the page and not think about my pain for a second longer. I was ashamed and shrank from the attention. But I couldn’t teleport myself out of there. I had to face the stares of my audience. For a brief moment I was angry with myself. I thought, “There were other ways I could have faced my demons. Why didn’t I choose one of them?” But pain blinds us, and frustration clouds our thinking.
When we left the San Pablo Building and broke through the police tape, I wanted to cover my face and leave quickly, but the huge crowd made it impossible; there was no room to run. The media wanted information. I made my way through this Trail of Tears, eyes downcast.
The dreamseller kept my secret. No one knew what had really happened atop the building; the rich exchange I had with that mystery man remained lodged in my head alone.
As we escaped the media and began walking among the crowd, I was startled. We were treated like celebrities. I was famous, but not in the way I had hoped.
To the dreamseller, society’s obsession with worshipping celebrities was the clearest sign that we were losing our minds.