Being Stranded

The white ones revealing themselves from her long, dark hair, and the lines on her face didn’t let her conceal her age. Her main complaint was that she woke up very badly every morning. She couldn’t give a specific date for the start of this complaint. But she could guess the triggering event.

The patient was a sex worker at a brothel. She was around her fifties. “I was very beautiful once a upon a time. I didn’t have any problems in finding clients. But now that I am old, it has become very difficult to find clients.” she said. “I could only afford to purchase a small flat with the money I saved. I’m still paying the mortgage.” she continued.

Considering the fact that she was sitting up straight, had a brave and sharp eye contact, and spoke in a determined manner, she gave the impression of an honorable woman.

Without any delay, she started to speak of the rules of that world. In short, everything was programmed to be so easy to start, and yet so hard to quit.

In a recent event, a woman tried to escape with a person she became friends with. Soon after, she was caught. They forcefully put her into the kennel in the garden of the brothel. And they made her eat the excrement of the animal.

That’s when the physician learned that this was trigger that impaired the sleeping of the patient.

Her life story had a content that anyone can guess. She was sold out by her spouse and she had to have sexual intercourse with thousands of men.

The patient’s character is completely dissimilar to the job she was working. The physician started to search to confirm this thought he had. He questioned whether making easy money or some other things made the job a pretty one. “It seems that way for a while. But as you get older, the quality of the people on top of you gets low. You start to feel sick, or even throw up after every intercourse. Humankind is already disgusted by you. Now tell me, what does prettiness has to do with this type of job, doctor?” she answered. The words she chose, the rational deductions she made showed that the levels of intelligence and intellectuality of the patient were above normal.

She visited many doctors. Each one of them was highly valuable psychiatrists. They somehow couldn’t find a solution to her sleeping problem.

When near the end of the session, he wanted to ask the time her friend was forced into the kennel at. The woman said “Morning hours”. With his last question, the physician would at least help the patient to base the case on a rational framework. “Where were you and what were you doing at that time?” I was sleeping in my bed. I woke up to my friend’s screams. I rushed outside and saw them make her eat excrement. Mercilessly…” The smooth mimics she had during the session would turn into a deep, depressive appearance.

Speaking of the contradiction between her character and the job she was working, the physician would understand that she had nearly all the attributes of post-traumatic stress disorder when went deeper with his inquiries, and then he would continue the treatment accordingly.

She visited other doctors as well, they were all precious colleagues. But she couldn’t somehow pour out her heart. Maybe what she kept inside was the only thing she could conceal and she really had in hand. It was our physician who was destined to go down there.

The doctor would think how cruel of a journey that life can be from time to time and would give that woman a place in his memory, which is not abhorrent at all. After all, she was stranded, and there was a chance to help.