A handsome young man, my cousin is a novice psychiatrist.

One day I asked him if he had ever had any extraordinary patient. He said, “Of course, I do. It’s all in a day’s work.” With that, he produced from his file cabinet a leather-bound notebook; it was a diary.

Page 1

Today it is my first work day at the hospital. The guy in front of me is my very first patient. When I clocked in earlier today, I expected I would have an amazing career at the mental institution. It proves I am right. The patient seated across the desk from me insists that he himself is a psychiatrist and I his patient. He keeps instructing me to be calm and reminding me to learn who I really am. Since his first treatment by another doc, there has been no improvement at all. Being a psychiatrist will not be a breeze.

Page 2

I have come to see the patient again. Through a week’s deliberation, I have come up with a completely new treatment regimen for him. Today he is even wearing a doc’s gown; obviously his condition is deteriorating. Hard as I try to soothe him, he is still as anxious as ever. In the end, he says matter-of-factly, “I wish you would recover soon.” I feel sad. How can I convince him that it is he, rather than I, who is insane?

Page 3

Today the same patient has come over again. I see two nurses planted on either side of him. Probably the nurses worry that the patient might get into a fit and burst out of control. This time, I converse with him for three consecutive hours. When I am done, I feel exhausted. Looking into his eyes, I detect a shade of sadness in them. My well-thought-out therapy might have worked this time, I pray. However, the patient, rising slowly, says, “I hope you will get better soon.” OMG! I feel at the moment I am losing my mind. I rise too and pull off my uniform. It is time to knock off. Just at this moment, the two nurses rush over and hold me down onto the floor. Then some uniformed guards rush over and join the nurses. Pressed hard against the floor, I am unable to stir a bit after the scramble. Then a syringe is jabbed into my left arm, and a shot of bluish liquid is squeezed in.

It is a rather fat notebook. Having covered the three journal pages, I could not help asking my cousin, “What on earth was becoming of you?”

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