Drone: Chapter Three

    “I think I need something to sleep.”
    “You’re having trouble sleeping?”
    “Well, yes.”
    “How long do you normally sleep?”
    “It’s hard to say. I usually get distracted by things, and end up staying awake.  Then I sleep for maybe a couple of hours.  Whenever I can really.”
    I was sitting on my psychiatrist’s leather chair.  I couldn’t help from thinking how useless these sessions had been for me.  I hadn’t actually been prescribed anything and this was my fourth visit.  It was suggested by my parents that I see someone.  Since I refused to declare my major on the grounds that I didn’t have a good grasp on who I was and therefore what I wanted to do with my life.  They thought that a professional could help me “gain direction.”
    “How long has this been going on?”
    “Three...No maybe four months.  I don’t know I guess since around the beginning of the semester.”
    “Why do you think you’re having trouble sleeping?”
    “I don’t know.  Isn’t that you’re job.  Can I smoke in here?”  I asked with the cigarette already at my lips. 
    “Sure.” The doctor said as if he didn’t really want me to.
    I lit it anyway, with my gold Zippo.  Inhaled and tried to keep myself from looking at Dr. Shultz directly.  “What were we talking about?”
    “Your sleeping habits.”
    “Right.  So what do you think?”
    “Do you honestly think you have a problem sleeping.”
    “Again doc, I don’t know.  That is your job.”
    “Okay.  Let me ask you another question.  How is your outlook.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Your current condition.  How do you feel about you’re current state.”
    “Well...I’m very pessimistic.”
    “What are you pessimistic about?”
    “Well, I’m not really doing anything with my life.  I mean, school just seems very...unfulfilling.”
    “I see.  Are you seeing anyone?”
    “Well yeah.”
    “Is it serious?”
    “Of course it’s not serious.”
    “Have you been drinking a lot lately?”  He asked me plainly.
    “Not really.  Maybe three or four nights a week.”  I exhale more smoke.
    “How much do you drink on average?”
    “Maybe fifteen a night.  I...I don’t know.” 
    “I see.”  I saw him scribbling something on his pad.
    “What about drugs?”
    “Just pot.  I don't like it that much.  I don’t use it that much.”  I said this quickly, and then thought. “And some coke.  Only natural stuff, you know?”
    “Okay.”  He again scribbled something in his notes.  “Perhaps you should consider cutting back on your drinking habits.” 
    I stamped out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray that topped a mahogany stand.  Smoke streamed from my nostrils.  There was a stale silence in the room.  It smelled like wood varnish, but it still smelled like a doctors office.  I slight hint of rubbing alcohol seemed to be present, but I might have just been projecting.  I looked at the doctor finally, “Heh, that's a good one doc.”
    He responded mildly, “Look, I think you might be depressed, but I can’t prescribe you anything.  It wouldn’t mix well with your current lifestyle.  If you want to see a change you have to make an effort to change.”
    “Christ.  This is pointless.  I’m a fucking college student.  I drink, Okay?”   My persona was still stable, but his logical analysis was  honestly pissing me off.
    “You have to see that if you are truly depressed your alcohol and drug use is probably an attempt to self medicate.”
    “I don’t think that’s what it is.  I’m not depressed.  I’m just trying to figure out what I’m looking for.”
    “Well, what do you want?”
    “I don’t know.”  I Looked down for a moment to think about it.  “I know I want more than this,” I said finally.
    He scribbled another line on the pad.  Then looking at his watch said, “Okay.  Well ponder that for next week.  Our time is up.”