PARAPHILIC DISORDER

The old father clock in the corner of the living room chimed. Night had finally befallen me, wrapping the day in it’s dark blanket, filling the inky night sky with its specks of light - the sun gradually set against the horizon allowing the full moon to rise to its glorious beauty. I shook my head violently. I pounded it down again and again but my thoughts could not dislodge themselves, but only drove me to the point of insanity, painting me into a monster. Despite all, I kept my thoughts deep inside, close to my heart. I wanted to scrap off these terrible thoughts but I also wanted to keep them tucked deep inside – they confused and angered me, but yet they were my abditory. They were my worst enemies, yet my closest friends. Paraphilic disorder had got better of me, leaving my entangled mind flowing with recurrent sexually arousing fantasies – engulfing me into the joyous masturbatory bubble.

My psychiatric medications were over and things were getting worse – romantic thoughts hit me hard like a wave of Tsunami, leaving me feeling hypersexual. I swiftly fumbled for my sleek phone, deep into my American khaki short pocket and requested for an uber cab. In a spur of moment, I was in a posh cab being driven by an old driver; probably an octogenarian. In a blink of an eye, I was at the reception of the renowned Mathari National Teaching and Referral Hospital. I paid for the charges and headed to the waiting bay and sat there eagerly waiting for the mental specialist call. “John Kimani Mungai !!!” the doctor called out my name and I immediately sprung up from the seat into the doctors’ office. The doctor had worn a slightly oversize pearl white lab coat, which had a pinned shiny sunset yellow name tag artistically written Dr. Tohlen. In a cordial soft tone, the bespectacled psychiatrist asked me what was my issue that day and I painfully explained everything to him. All he did was to jolt down some notes, listen to me keenly – like an interrogative detective and steal quick sympathetic glances on me.

I was prescribed Fluoxetine (20mg) and Olanzapine (10mg) and advised to pertake psychotherapy clinic the following morning at 10:00 A.M. After buying the medicines from the hospital’s pharmacy and booking for psychotherapeutic clinic, I took my phone and called my colleague Dennis Manyara, a Forensic scientist, to come and pick me up. Within thirty minutes, Dennis arrived and drove me off to my place. I got out of the petrol guzzling car and thanked him. I glanced at my fancy watch and it was 9:00 P.M. The disturbing thoughts had not yet seized and therefore I took the medicines with warm water from my automated water dispenser. In no time, I fell into the hands of Morpheus and the dreams of me having a mind blowing passionate coitus experience with Queen Elizabeth seemed so vivid and real. The egg yolk sun poured through the cracks in the blind and awaited entrance into my retina. Sight still in the clutches of the night’s glue, I hesitantly rubbed the dreams away. Thoughts of the visions in sleep came and went in waves, I clung onto the very last memory of the night but with little success.

I glanced at the magnificent clock carefully hanged in my living room and alas! It was at 9:00 A.M. I quickly prepared myself, grabbed a bottle of mango squash from my chilly fridge and headed to the hospital where I was last night. I ritually paid for the charges and entered the psychotherapist’ office and there she was, smiling exposing her white egg shell teeth upon seeing me. I slowly sat down waiting for her to pour nuggets of wisdom on me in a Kenyan lexicon. I sat there drinking in all she was telling me and what stuck into the threads of my brain was that life is not all sweets and pancakes.

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