One of my cousins is a psychiatrist. He is a handsome young man.


One day I asked him if he had ever had any special patients. He said, “Of course, it’s all in a day’s work.” He showed me a notebook; I realised that it was a dairy.


Page 1: Today it is my first work day at the hospital. The man in front of me is my first patient. When I walked in earlier today I thought I would have an amazing experience. It proves I am right. The patient seated across the desk from me thinks that he himself is a psychiatrist and that I am his patient. He keeps telling me to be calm and reminding me to learn who I really am. After the first treatment, he does not change at all. Being a psychiatrist will not be an easy job.


Page 2: Today I come to see the patient again. After a week’s deliberation, I now have a completely new plan to treat him. Today he is even wearing a doc’s uniform; obviously his condition is deteriorating. Although I try to calm him down, he is still as anxious as ever. In the end, he says to me, “I wish you would get better soon.” I feel sad. How can I help him realise that it is he, rather than I, who is ill?


Page 3: Today I come to see my patient again. I see two nurses standing on either side of him. Probably the nurses think that the patient might get into a fit and get out of control. This time I talk with him for three hours. When I finish, I feel tired. Looking into his eyes, I see a shade of sadness in them. My treatment might have worked this time, I bet. However, the patient stands up slowly and says to me, “I hope you can recover soon.” Oh my God. I think at the moment I am going mad. I rise too and pull off my uniform. It is time to knock off. Just at this moment, the two nurses rush over to me and press me down to the floor. Then some men in uniform come over and join the nurses. I am pushed against the floor, unable to move a bit. Then a syringe is jabbed into my arm and a shot of bluish liquid is forced in.


When I finished the three pages of the diary, I could not help asking my cousin, “What on earth happened to you?”


My cousin smiled. He went on to explain that he was not the keeper of the diary. As a matter of fact, it was kept by one of his patients.  My cousin sighed, “Psychiatry is not a comfortable job. After all, I am often thought to be a patient by my real patients.”


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