Prezly Writes

Perception

The office was cold. The walls, white.

She wondered why doctors’ walls were always white.
What was wrong with colour?
Perhaps it wasn’t neutral enough. White leaves space. One chooses what appears.

The psychiatrist’s voice was both gentle and academic. One could sense in her a devotion to scientific inquiry. Patients were both patients… and subjects.

She cared about them, that much was certain. Yet it was never entirely clear: was it compassion, or a form of study?

Isis supposed it had to be a mixture of both to do this work well.

“Isis, this is our third session, and so far you’ve done little but observe the walls and the window. Would you like to tell me what they inspire in you?” the psychiatrist asked.

“Well, to be honest, the only thing I like here is the garden outside.
It feels as if there’s no life in your office. And you, with all due respect… sometimes seem devoid of humanity yourself.”

“Thank you for your honesty. It isn’t every day one is met with such candour. And to be honest myself, it feels good.
You know, everyone likes a bit of feedback from time to time.

Let’s talk about perception, shall we? You’ve just given me one, about my office, and about me.
Would you like to tell me more about your perception of the world?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well… do you like this world?”

“Sometimes I find it dull,” said the psychiatrist. “Always the same routine, the same scenery.
I admit, I’d like to leave it from time to time.
I was told you have a remarkable gift, the ability to create worlds of your own.
Would you take me there? I think it would do me good.”

“Here… I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be bored,” Isis replied.
“I’m too busy: I think, I write, I dream, I live.
Boredom doesn’t exist.
I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
Sometimes everything moves too fast, or too slowly. But always… too intensely.”

“The routine? Yes, it exists. And it matters,” Isis went on.
“Without my letters, my paintings, my coffee, my flowers, everything would be harder.
But no two days are the same. No landscape ever stops revealing itself.
Well, except maybe Loucia Park. But even there, each day shows me something new.
And then there’s Café Maily. My letters carry me to twenty different worlds.”

“That’s fascinating. Tell me, what does Loucia Park reveal to you that’s different each day?” asked the psychiatrist.

“Each day it awakens a different emotion,” said Isis, smiling.
“It helps me rediscover joy, lightness… the mood of the moment.
It was also thanks to the wind, you know.
I met it there every day. I never knew where it would take me, but… I always trusted it.
Always.
I never thought it would disappoint me one day.”

“The wind disappointed you, then?”

“Yes. That’s what brought me here.
My ally betrayed me. The universe abandoned me.
And nothing made sense anymore.
Xenon, it became chaos.
He used to say: ‘Who seeks peace sows the wind.’
It wasn’t like him… or maybe it was, back then.
When I sought peace, I found the wind.
But this time, I found chaos.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Isis, that you felt betrayed by the wind.
But you know what? I think its purpose was only to bring you back to yourself.
And for that, it had to lead you here.
Instinctively, you knew it. And I believe the wind whispered you the truth one last time, to give you the chance to find the peace you’ve always sought.”

For the first time, Isis cried in the presence of another.
The psychiatrist handed her tissues and a glass of water. Isis said nothing for the rest of the session.

It had been three weeks since Isis was admitted to Mirabeau, a strange place, both ancient and alive.
Eighteenth-century buildings stood beside lush gardens, benches, terraces.
There was always a corner to be alone, or a soul to talk to.

The psychiatrist had not yet prescribed any treatment. Not because there was no need, Isis clearly needed one, at the right time, but abrupt change could be harmful.
She was in the process of self-regulation, beginning to open up, and the doctor felt she would soon be able to give her the right tools.
At least, she hoped so. Isis was endearing, and she cared deeply for her patients.
That was why research mattered so much to her: she wanted psychiatry to evolve, to meet the needs of those who suffered.

Today, many methods had been developed for disorders within the schizophrenic spectrum.
She suspected Isis might be schizophrenic, or schizoaffective.

She leafed through her notes.

Nothing was decided yet, but certain elements recurred, like clues scattered through Isis’s story.

She remembered a phrase spoken almost in passing, at the start of the session:
“I’m too busy: I think, I write, I dream, I live.”

There it was, the key.

Isis had told her, during their first meeting, about sleepless nights spent painting without rest, days walking miles through the city without ever feeling tired, that ceaseless flow of thoughts, exalted, luminous, until the point of collapse.

She had said:
“I couldn’t sleep anymore. Even when I tried. My body refused to close its eyes, I had too much to paint. Everything had meaning, everything was connected. I’d wake in the middle of the night and write on the walls.”

The psychiatrist had noted: Probable manic phase, with increased creative activity, reduced need for sleep, and expansive thoughts.

Then, after the peak, came the fall.

The withdrawal, the hospitalisation, the silent tears, the retreat into a teeming yet disordered inner world.

Isis’s speech remained coherent, yet some fragments, Xenon, the wind turned traitor, bore the mark of an imagination transformed into refuge… and perhaps labyrinth.

Yes, Isis had hallucinations, and a way of speaking that might seem disorganised to those who didn’t understand her world.
But there was profound coherence within it.
She showed no cognitive decline, only a mind too vast, too vivid.
There were manic tendencies, but above all, depth.
Thus, the psychiatrist considered: schizoaffective disorder, perhaps.