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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Other · #1900661
Phoenix finishes some of his studies, but his thoughts will not slow down...
Phoenix finally finished the last summary.  "A damned good summary," he muttered to himself under his breath.  He had been in his office for hours working on the summaries of the six articles that he had to know inside and out for the exam the day after tomorrow.  Advanced Social Psychology.  "Erf," Phoenix mumbled.  He did not have a problem with social psych.  He just thought that it was painfully straightforward and that wasting a semester and the money on a class about it was beyond unfair.  The basics of social psych, as far as Phoenix was concerned, were that, when people get into groups, they do stupid things.  Period.  They do them for a variety of good reasons, but they do stupid things.  That was just the nature of people as far as Phoenix's experiences in life had gone.  The school system, the social system, the government system, the military system, the university system...all of these systems worked the same.  They worked that way regardless of whether the group was made up of three people or three million people.  There was always a core group of three, though.  Phoenix had learned that, too.  "Oh, well," Phoenix thought to himself, "At least I will have the degree and the credentials to point out the obvious in a few months..."  Phoenix was graduating with his Master of Science in Psychology Degree in the spring of the coming year.  He was looking forward to that.

What Phoenix really wanted to do, though, was go to medical school.  He had gotten three rejection letters already this year.  He had yet to submit one to a Mexican medical school that had a rolling admissions process.  That one had potential, though.  That one was a real possibility.  Phoenix wondered if that was why his psychiatrist was trying to get him off of all of his medications.  That could be one very good reason, aside from the even better reason of the medications not working as well as the ECT treatments.  Phoenix was struggling, though.  He was barely off his antipsychotic and on a half dose of his sleep medicine, and already felt that he was unravelling.  He felt like his seams were loosely tied, that his sense of reality hung lightly on a frayed strand of sanity.  Phoenix had begun to feel that he was evil again earlier that evening.  That was a particularly bad sign.  One of three things usually happened when he began to feel that way: 1) he began hearing voices, 2) he ended up buying a gun, and/or 3) he ended up in the psych ward.  Phoenix would see his doctor the next day, so he did not have to hang on by himself for very long, but it was still a concern of Phoenix's.  He did not like feeling like he was evil.  He felt like he was beyond forgiveness, beyond mercy, beyond salvation of any kind.  He felt that he was an exception to all of the Biblical hope that had ever been preached to mankind.  He felt that he was not only evil, but that he had reached a level of evil madness that transcended any that were at a level of being understood by another human being.  And Phoenix would be accountable.  He knew what he was doing, or so he thought.  He was crazy, not stupid, and evil.  When Phoenix felt this way, he also felt weak and sick.  He knew he was ill.  He wanted to be well, though.  He wanted to be healed.  Phoenix wanted to be healed so that he could heal others, but he did not know if he would ever be able to fulfill that dream due to his weakness.  "I am weak.  I am not strong," Phoenix told himself as he dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor and touched his head to the back of the chair.  Phoenix knew that was the Devil speaking.  That was the Devil inside him - the evil - that was keeping him from breaking free and getting well and kicking some real ass when it came to being a good disciple of Christ and a servant of God.  How could he possibly think that he could become a doctor - a psychiatrist of all things - and help people overcome their mental illnesses?  Phoenix wondered that more and more.  His goal was to make it to his appointment with his psychiatrist the next day.  That was all Phoenix had in his head.  He needed God.  He needed the people that God put in his life to take care of him, his doctor being one of them.  Phoenix did not know what to do.  He decided to write.  Writing, just to get it out of his system, often helped.  So Phoenix began to write...
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