April, 27th 2017 — The Goat
This article is part of the series “What is like to attempt suicide and fail”. Start there, if you have not read it yet.
Thursday, D Day + 20
This is the first day after I reconsidered staying (for a short term) at the clinic. It did not stop me being awakened by My Little Eve and We Are Only Boys. By force of daily repetition, these Brazilian songs — which, as I have already said, should not exist — are the two things I hate the most at the moment. I hope Little Eve has endless hemorrhoids and the Boys develop terrible venereal diseases in their respective dicks.
I talked to Darth Vader (the clinic coordinator) about my considerations of staying, but I told him that I would like to leave on May 7th. He said he was going to see about it, which, in my guide to things that have been said, is not a “yes”. That makes me apprehensive.
The Emperor (Dr. Juan) gave a very interesting lecture on Sex and the effects of sexual repression. He spoke especially about orgasm and how it can be simple or full. Full orgasm, according to Dr. Juan, involves stages of conquest. I think he’s more a Don Juan than a Dr. Juan. Just a thought.
He told the story of a teenage student who fell madly in love with his teacher, 20 years older. “How strange, you must think,” said Dr. John. I, who fell in love with 78% of my teachers, thought yes, very strange. Dr. Juan said that eventually, they found that what the student liked about that teacher were her hand, which resembled her grandmother’s.
While everyone in the room made a face of marvel at the beauty of modern psychology, I thought little fucker wanted to get nasty with granny. Anyway, the goal of the exercise was to demonstrate the a love story of a grandchild for his grandmother and not a soft porn novel. And so it was.
After the lecture, totally by chance, Dr. Juan and I met in his office. He was eating an apple and began to tell me about trips through Argentina that I could do on my motorcycle. He showed me photos of some really spectacular places. I’d love to do the Emperor’s Tour one day. Who knows?
Later, in the restaurant, Maíra, a beautiful, and popular nutritionist, spoke to me. Out of nowhere. Without my active participation. I was happy. This day is a little different.
I had lunch with two psychologists and one patient. We talk about everything. But the most important thing was what one of the psychologists told me before I even started eating. “There’s a visit for you today, Bressane,” he announced. “A guy named Regis is coming to see you.”
My heart changed beats instantly. Regis? It can only be one. Professor Wilson Regis, whom I mentioned in the 19 April diary. One of my mentors. The Cabra (goat, in portuguese and how some men call each other in specific areas of the country) that made me call everyone a Cabra. The Cabra of the cabras. Apparently, the news of my adventures arrived to him and he went on to find out where I was. And today, my friend, Professor Regis, was about to show up at my door.
Not long after lunch, I received the notice. “Bressane, your visitor is here.” I ran to the balcony of the upper level, where I was, and I saw him in the courtyard, accompanied by a helper.
Professor Wilson Regis is an old man who does not change his appearance. He looks exactly like the memory I have of him almost two decades ago when I last saw him. The man must be over 200 years old. He looks like 75. And he’s a genius, of those who solve the most important problems in the world with a sheet of paper and a tired sharpie pen. Those who eat a banana, put the skin in their pockets, and will only notice when it has already been transmuted to another vegetable.
Professor Regis has always taught me many things. He taught me to value words. He taught me a lot about wisdom, about humility, about simplicity and about the things that really have value on this Earth. He also taught me to call everyone a Cabra, which was what he called me. I just learned that last lesson. Everything else was left in oblivion or fragmented in my brain somehow.
The helper pulled up two chairs and we talked for just over an hour. It was a good conversation. Of friends. I still am surprised by the fact that I have a friend like him. So distant in age, so close in perspectives. At one point he said, “Rodrigo, I’m talking to you and you’re lucid. You are not sick. That (the suicide attempt) was one thing, an accident. You are lucid. “ I agreed without saying I write about this everyday and I’ve been talking about it for almost a month. Nor did I mention a confinement is not a treatment for me. I just said nothing
One subject, however, the teacher avoided talking. “This has to be another time, Cabra,” he dodged. The last time we met, we were lovers of the Good Word of God, of the Holy Bible. Faithful squires of the Christian Faith. Today we are split on this subject. Or rather, I have departed towards the path of Science, without room for God, although he refuses to accept. “You’re not an atheist, Cabra” he said, banging my head. “But one day we’ll talk about it and we’re going to need time,” he concluded as I thought that despite Regis’s incredible longevity, we’re likely to never have this conversation.
He took an old book from a bag (even older) and gave it to me as a gift. The autobiography of Lee Iacocca. “This guy recovered Ford,” he explained. “He will help you”. I thanked.
Almost at the exit, Dr. Juan appeared and introduced the two. When I said that my friend Regis was a professor of classical Greek, Dr. Juan sent a “mataiodoxía ton mataiodoxíes óla einaai mataiodoxía” (of course I google it). Professor Regis, without hesitation, without losing half a second, returned “vanity of vanities, everything is vanity”. It’s a known biblical text, but the scene impressed me anyway. I like smart people. And any demonstration of intelligence in front of me is always well received.
The teacher left and I was called by the psychologist. One that I liked at first, stopped liking and now I’m completely in love with. With her, I was able to tell 40 years of the history of my life in 40 minutes. In the remaining 20, she did understand me a lot that I had never even gotten even close. I was very good.
After her, another psychologist. The good cop. Another incredible talk with a series of discoveries and a homework assignment for the next meeting. Reading a text about losses and the ways we deal with them.
I still had a talk with my sister, Priscila, who lives in the Netherlands and has the greatest ability to interpret reality in my family. Our conversation was great. I really miss her. Hope to see her soon. In Holland, of course.
This was the best day of my life since the worst day of my life.
I will post more tomorrow. I’ve created a list of songs I’m listening to while inside the psychiatric clinic. To listen, subscribe to the “After Death” playlist on Spotify.
If you want to talk to me, write to firstname.lastname@example.org.