backforthmenu Sane. I spent a few minutes Friday morning on Richard S. Tibor, Ph.D.’s, couch. The Ph.D is in psychiatry. I arrived at his small, modest office on the dot at 8am. He arrived at 8:10 and seemed nice enough; a small, well padded man in a brown suit. But I felt self-conscious despite. It was the first time I’d ever done anything like this and my preconceptions were, of course, crowding me like they do. The place was dressed with minimal wares; a beige couch not long enough to lay on, a desk, a comfortable chair which he sat in and behind him, a shelf loaded with psychology paperbacks and a few knick knacks—one in particular kept luring my attention. It was a vertically folded, white piece of baked clay, with two black spots at the top... a ghost. I began talking to the doctor, recounting my father’s illness in a detail that I’d never used with anyone before, careful not to exaggerate—or leave anything out—and blankly staring back at me from the shelf was a clay ghost. The doctor seemed to listen to me—to my answers—though the words weren’t coming like I imagined them to. He scribbled a lot. Over his shoulder, up high in the corner, was a clock which made me constantly aware my time there was limited. And by 8:35 he basically stopped me and declared I was sane. 25 minutes, not bad. I was a quick study. “You don’t have the classic symptoms of severe mania—lose of appetite, not sleeping for days, severe anti-social lows. (pauses, looks over notes again) You seem to like your job, your wife... I don’t believe you need any medication.” He started to scribble something on the back of his business card. I looked up at the ghost. “Here’s the name of a book I want you to get. Start reading it before you come back next week.” The book had a typical goofy, positive psychology cliche for a title, like “Feeling Good About Yourself” or something. I didn’t get it. I didn’t go back. The doctor will not worry about why I didn’t show up again. Why would he? I was sane. 12/1/95