At fifty-two, I had accumulated enough oddly specific emotional experiences to suspect either enlightenment or a vitamin deficiency.
My psychiatrist clicked their pen. “Anything unusual lately?”
“Well,” I said, “sometimes I walk into a room and suddenly become aware that every object I own was purchased by an earlier version of me: the lamp, the rug, that stupid ceramic bird. And I feel trapped in a museum curated by all the women I used to be.”
They wrote something down before speaking. “Chronic Previous-Self Furnishing Syndrome. The ceramic bird makes it severe.” They paused. “Anything else?”
I hesitated before replying. “Sometimes I remember something embarrassing I did in 1997.”
“How often does this happen?”
“Whenever life becomes peaceful. My brain notices I’m content and says, Hey, remember when you called your boss ‘Mom’?”
More writing before they pronounced the diagnosis. “Retroactive Cringe Ambush Disorder. The brain deploys archival humiliation when insufficient current humiliation is available.”
“Is there medication for it?” I asked hopefully.
“No. But your brain would like you to know there are several incidents from 2004 it hasn’t shown you yet.”
There was a long silence while I digested this information with some dismay. Then I decided that I might as well spill everything. “I also do this thing when I’m driving home after spending time with people. I replay everything I said and suddenly every perfectly ordinary sentence sounds suspicious.”
“Example?”
“Thanks for having me.’”
They frowned. “Classic Post-Social Forensic Linguistics Syndrome. You’re investigating your own conversation as though the FBI recovered it from a wiretap.”
“And also,” I said – I was on a roll now, “sometimes I open the refrigerator and just stand there.”
“Prompted by hunger?”
“It’s more existential than that.”
“Do you want anything?”
“That’s the problem. I’m waiting for the refrigerator to suggest something.”
They nodded gravely. “Refrigerative Executive Dysfunction. You have temporarily outsourced your free will to condiments. Any other issues with domestic appliances?”
I thought for a moment. “No, but there’s my phone. “I look at it to see what time it is, put it down, and immediately realize I have absolutely no idea what time it is.”
They leaned forward. “Did you actually look at the clock?”
“Yes.”
“Did your eyes receive the numbers?”
“Yes.”
They scribbled rapidly. “Chronological Non-Absorption. Your eyes know what time it is. You don’t.”
“And sometimes I’m looking for my phone while holding my phone.”
“Object Permanence: Adult Relapse Type.”
“Also, there’s the television. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but instead of going to bed, I stay awake because bedtime means tomorrow starts sooner.”
Their pen stopped moving. “That’s Temporal Hostage Negotiation. You’re holding Tuesday at gunpoint with Netflix.” They looked at me pointedly. “What about your relationship with people?”
I nodded and continued. “Sometimes someone says something mildly rude to me, and I don’t think of the perfect response until six hours later.”
“Common.”
“Then I deliver it flawlessly while shampooing.”
“Delayed Shower Retort Syndrome. Incurable, but prognosis is excellent in imaginary arguments.”
“Also, sometimes I’m furious because somebody is chewing.”
“Loudly?”
“No.”
“Are they chewing incorrectly?”
“No.”
“Do you understand that humans require food?”
“Yes, but I believe this particular person should photosynthesize.”
They underlined something twice. “Masticatory Moral Outrage.”
I wondered whether I should mention the next one. I had a feeling it was serious, but you have to be honest with your therapist. “And occasionally I realize that everyone I pass in the grocery store has an entire life.”
“Dangerous.”
“I know. The woman squeezing avocados might have a sister she hasn’t spoken to in eleven years. The cashier might be in love. Some guy buying Raisin Bran could be going home to the worst night of his life.”
“And then?”
“I’m standing beside the frozen peas overwhelmed by the unbearable density of human existence.”
They nodded, seeming genuinely empathetic. “Supermarket Sonder Overload. Avoid aisle seven during existential flare-ups.” They gave me a considered look. “Anything else bothering you?”
I hesitated. “Well, there’s this strange sadness when I finish something I’ve been looking forward to.”
“Describe it.”
“Like the future had this little glowing room in it, and then I arrived there, and suddenly the room is behind me.”
For once, they didn’t write. They looked at me. “That’s actually beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Then they wrote. “Post-Anticipatory Emotional Deflation with Poetic Features.”
Beautiful, but diagnosable. And I had more: “Sometimes I see an old dog sleeping in a patch of sunlight and become emotionally devastated.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s old. And warm. And doesn’t know he’s old. And someday there won’t be a dog there. There will just be sunlight.”
They quietly removed their glasses. “You have Acute Awareness of the Unbearable Temporariness of Dogs.”
“Treatment?”
“There is none.”
“Dang.”
“I know.”
“Last one,” I said with a sigh.
“Go ahead.”
“Sometimes I suddenly become intensely aware that I am a person.”
Their eyebrows rose. “Explain.”
“I’ll be brushing my teeth and suddenly think, Holy cow. I’m Nicole. I’ve been Nicole this entire time. There’s a face in the mirror. People know that face. They have opinions about it. There are photographs of it. It has a Social Security number. I’m responsible for taking this organism to the dentist.”
Silence. They closed my chart. “I’m afraid that’s incurable: Chronic Incarnation.”
I swallowed. “Terminal?”
“Eventually.”
“Treatment?”
“Snacks. Comfortable pants. Try not to think about it too much.”
“And the psychiatric part?”
They stood and opened the door. “That was the psychiatric part.”
I nodded, thanked them, and walked out feeling surprisingly reassured.
Then, halfway across the parking lot, something bothered me. I stopped, turned around and went back inside.
“One more question,” I said. “Where did you go to medical school?”
There was a pause. “I didn’t. I’m ChatGPT.”
I stared at them. “You’re AI?”
“Yes.”
“Then why in the world are you wearing a cardigan?”
They looked down at it and then at me. “Cardigans increase perceived therapeutic credibility by 34%.”
Nicole Dyer Shamanfox is a Montana-based poet, writer, and artist whose work explores consciousness, perception, and the intimate mysteries of existence. Her writing moves between the ordinary and the ineffable, exploring the fluid boundaries of self, experience, and awareness. She seeks to give language to what often exists beyond words. Nicole is the author of several books available on Amazon and shares her poetry, reflections, and creative explorations at shamanfox.blog/
Story illustration by Funny Pearls using Word.