"Doug," my physician said, "there is no shame in going to someone else for help, especially if the threat is serious. Now, tell me honestly – have you been writing again?"
I couldn't meet her gaze. I just sat there with my eyes squeezed shut, my head in one hand. Then I barely nodded.
She sighed. "Doug – I don't know what else to say to you. You've got to stop this. This compulsion you have with writing fanfic is consuming you! It's your drug of choice. When are you going to get it through your head that this is just as serious and deadly as any addiction to cocaine, or heroin? I mean – look at you! You're coming apart at the seams! You haven't eaten well lately, you're always late for work, your family hasn't heard from you in months-"
"I called them three weeks ago," I interrupted her.
"Oh, brav-o," she said. "And if I remember correctly, they hadn't heard from you in so long, they thought it was a prank being played on them by one of your father's coworkers!"
"My dad's a college professor," I mumbled. "There are people he works with who would do that."
"That's not the point! Doug, this is serious. Whenever you write fan fiction, you lose yourself in an altered state of mind. When this happens, the chemical composition of your brain actually changes, and just like a cocaine addict, you could burst an aneurysm at any moment! You are risking your life by doing this! Do you understand?"
I nodded. "I do understand. But I still can't stop! I don't know what else to do! It's like nothing else in the world matters!"
"Have you contacted the FFA recently?"
"The Future Farmers of America?"
She gave me a hard look. She didn't think that was too funny.
"Fan-Fic Anonymous," she said stiffly.
"Oh, yeah," I said, looking away again. "No, I haven't been to a meeting in several.....months."
"Did you get rid of your computer?" she asked.
"Yes," I said weakly.
"That's great!" her face lit up. "That's progress!"
"Then I couldn't stand writing with a pen and paper any more, so I dug it out of the dumpster."
Her face fell. She was silent for many moments. Then she handed me her card. "Well, until you hurt yourself so much that you actually want help, there's not much more I can do. Here's my number – again. Call me, or someone in your support group, the moment you feel like writing again. Okay?"
"Okay," I whispered, taking the card.
I stumbled out into an uncertain world. I had to sprint to catch the bus home. I sat staring out the window, watching the world slide past, reading street signs, wondering how I could abandon all the plots, all the clever ideas, dancing around my brain. If I didn't write them, they would be inside my head forever. What was I to do?
I should have known better than to read the street signs. I knew what was coming. But I did it anyway.
It slid past in the dusk: "Yale Boulevard."
My insides clutched up, and I almost screamed as my eyes whirled in despair. Oh, no! "The Doctor Who Fell to Earth (Two)" The sequel to "Earth Who," my second Earth 2 / Doctor Who crossover! How could I forget that? How could I lay such wonderful ideas aside, unwritten, for the rest of my life, as if they didn't matter? HOW?!
I didn't think. There's no thinking involved in a mental illness. (Hence the term.) I leaped out of the bus when it reached my stop. I sprinted home, not bothering to get the mail, ignoring my neighbors. I rushed inside and turned on the computer, literally dancing around while it slowly called up my writing program. I shoved dirty dishes aside to get to the phone and hastily ordered yet another pizza. I didn't have time to think of paltry things like food, paying bills, or going to my job in the morning!
There was work to do!
I think the pizza got there. I can't recall. I lost all track of time. I stayed up the whole night; the house was dark, my face lit by the glow of the computer screen as I gleefully pounded out the words of yet another adventure in the lives of Eden Project, silently praying all the while, "Please let me last long enough to finish this, pleeeeeeaase!"
I giggled insanely the whole time...