Post-Traumatic Death Disorder

“The alarm clock rang before the sun was even down,” I told the shrink. “I was afraid to get out of my coffin, I mean, it was still daylight out! Why would I have to get up before even sundown?”

“Now Myron,” he responded in that thready but reasonable tone that always made me want a piece of him. “A good Jewish boy like you shouldn’t ought to be spending his money, time, and thoughts on this dreadful fantasy of yours. Why spend money getting your teeth sharpened? Why spend it on a coffin and black suit? You would be better off putting your money into a nice pension fund or CD with a decent return. Maybe meet a nice Jewish girl and settle down, raise a couple of kids.”

I had known that was what he would say. It was such a canned response. It was like he was channeling my mother from beyond the grave, and I wasn't talking beyond like me, either. Every time I’d come here since my death I’d had to lay on his thread-bare couch and listen to the same old crappola that I’d spent a small fortune hearing before my untimely demise. And I was still coming to the same old shrink too, and for the same reason. Dr. Johannson was the only psychiatrist in the area that kept evening hours. But before it had been my job that made me need a shrink, and need one after working hours. Now it was simply my condition: Post-Traumatic Death Syndrome was what it was called by my new family. They were the ones urging me to see the shrink. I needed to accept my un-life condition and move on, get myself an un-life companion to spend eternity with. According to them, un-life had lots of benefits, and few drawbacks. Course they didn’t seem to realize that this shrink didn’t believe in un-life, or for that matter, much of anything except money. And I'd never had any luck with the ladies; not even before I'd died.

"What was the reason for living, I’d asked them when they’d “brought me over." I mean, I’d never been that sure that there was any real purpose for living before, but now? That was the first thing I’d asked Dr. Johnson when I’d kept my first post-death appointment. But then, I’d also asked him that before, and he’d hemmed and hawed and muttered something about, “There is a purpose for every creature God creates, and it’s not up to us to ask, just to live the life we’re given.” Crap then, but certainly crap now. What, I should find purpose in my un-life? The shrink cleared his throat before asking -- his lovely throat nicely exposed by the open collar and loosened tie of the blue shirt, I noticed -- "How are you feeling about your new job? Are you settling in?"

"It's no different from my old job. I still just sit for hours looking at spreadsheets and putting numbers in the columns." I had never even wanted to be a book-keeper, but my options had been limited by the Community College degree which was all I could afford.

"But it's a night-club. Certainly a better environment to meet ladies. If I recall correctly," and he stopped momentarily to rustle though the pages of my file, "you have always had a hard time meeting woman." And suddenly I heard his thought loud and clear, "even at Synagogue, what a loser."

I ran my hand through my damp, thinning hair while shaking his voice out of my head. I had to have imagined that, didn't I? "Well, my boss is nicer," I muttered, suddenly realizing it was true, "and the other employees don't steal my lunch out of the refrigerator. Some of them even include me in conversations."

"Well, it sounds like you are settling in nicely then," he said outloud, while his thoughts were saying something about 'I should maybe spend a bit of money on my wardrobe, lose the worn black suit and maybe, just maybe, they'd notice me even more.'

Again I shook my head trying to get his thoughts out of my head, and he continued, "Have you kept in touch with any of the people from your old job? You worked there a good ten years; I know you mentioned a Judy several times. Didn't you even ask her out?"

Even while I recoiled from the memory of her laughter at my invitation to a movie, a part of me -- the new part -- began to speculate on what sort of dinner she might make for me in my new, changed state. Maybe I could pay her back for her laughter. "No," I said, pulling my attention back to the present. "I don't keep in touch with them. After I died and they didn't bother even sending flowers, I didn't much want to associate with them."

"Died! You aren't dead, and you need to give up that fantasy. You are sitting right here in my office talking to me. You need to face reality! Face what is, stop trying to attract women by putting on some bad-boy Goth image with the black suit and the teeth," he said, even while I could overhear his thoughts running on the option for the loony-bin if I continued talking that crazy. But even that idea was overlaid with thoughts of how much he could make off my continuing visits -- I certainly wasn't sane. "You have a nice job, a good apartment, didn't you mention that you moved?" and again he rustled ostentatiously though the file to find the address change.

"I'm closer to the nightclub. I wanted a total change of scene," and, I added to myself with a small smile -- afraid to say it to my shrink who wouldn't want to hear it, 'my landlady wouldn't want a walking corpse staying in the old unit after she had been the one to find my exsanguinated body laying on the bed. The only time I had ever given up and bought a woman, and it wound up with me dead! So not fair! But anyway, if I had post-traumatic death syndrome, the landlady had it in spades too.' Then it struck me that the new apartment really was a much nicer apartment: a shared lawn that I didn't have to care for, a nice terrace, and private entrances to each unit. It really was ideal for someone in my condition that kept somewhat odd hours and had an unusual lifestyle.

Dr. Johannson cleared this throat, his really lovely throat, loudly, and I realized a giggle had escaped. I caught the quickly buried thought from his head that he wished he had gone into practice in a better area with better, more appealing clients. He really didn't like me. I made him uncomfortable. And as that came through clearly, it struck me that I had power. I had control. He rustled through my file again, as through trying to find a safe thing to ask me about, a safe topic that would restore his rapidly diminishing control over me. But I knew exactly what was in that file. I had helped compile it after all. I wasn't in that file. The man in that file had died, been buried -- file closed -- and been reborn. But of course, the shrink wasn't to know that, was he? And for that moment, that shining moment, I was content with what I had become, cured and content.

"I can see our time is up for this week, Myron," he squeaked before his voice equalized as he asked glancing at the schedule always kept next to his chair, "Would you like the same time next week? I see the time is open?"

And I sighed, slipping into the old me, the tired and true me, the me I had always known. Then standing and heading for the door, I told him yes.

"I think we are making some progress," he said as touched the door-knob, "so don't be discouraged."

And as I walked out to meet my new "mother" in the lobby of the building, I hoped it was true. In order to survive and thrive I needed to get over this Post-Traumatic Death Syndrome. I was starting to get hungry, and I had just walked away from a perfectly good meal.