The ups and downs of Seamus McGinty.

The ups and downs of Seamus McGinty

Seamus McGinty needed a three-month rest. That was the conclusion of the disciplinary hearing several weeks after the event. A diagnosis of severe anxiety neurosis, confirmed by his GP, also in attendance at the hearing, clinched the deal.
Although McGinty was quite happy with this outcome, he did spend several days wondering if his unconscious mind had planned the whole thing. This line of thinking soon made him confused, and he concluded, three months paid holiday was pretty good, whatever the cause.
As a result of the, unfortunate event, as he called it, the yellow pills he’d been taking were deemed too strong, and he was given a prescription for some milder blue one’s. McGinty felt no different; in his mind they were equally numbing.
In what little spare time he’d had, McGinty liked to read and write. He’d kept a journal for many years, and now, with the extra time available, he was able to trawl through some of the long forgotten pieces he'd written. One such, written three years earlier, was a childhood event that he described as one of his earliest memories – watching his father kill and skin a dog.

Whilst reading the graphic description, he felt the all to familiar gnawing pain in his lower abdomen, and decided to take a pill. He knew the pills weren't good for him, and really wanted do something about it – but he didn’t know what?
He sat down to ponder the situation, and had a brilliant idea. He grabbed his laptop, and typed local psychotherapists into Google. He got several thousand hits. There can't be that many therapists in Humsby? He thought.
After looking carefully through the various options, he found what he considered to be a safe looking website, and wrote the names of the twenty therapists on it into his notepad. Considering the ramifications of a male or female one confused him too, so he decided to write the twenty names onto separate pieces of paper, and drop them into a pot.
The one he picked was Claire Ramsey. She was located at the Newbold Therapy Centre, Cranworth, a twenty-minute bus ride from his home.
McGinty decided there and then, that she would be the person to sort him out. He dialed the Newbold Therapy Centre and was told he could have an appointment for the following morning.
Not expecting things to flow quite so easily made him a little anxious, so he put the phone down, and took another pill.
He spent the rest of the day tidying his ramshackle one bedroom flat, and even managed to dig around the small patch of barren land he called a garden. Pulling up the weeds felt good. He saw it, as a metaphor - removing unwanted things from his disordered mind – especially unwanted bad memories.
As a result of his hard labour in the garden he slept very well that night, and realised on waking, that since he'd been taking the blue pills he hadn't had one single dream. He got up, made some ‘High Plains Coffee’ and took a pill. He was feeling vaguely excited about his forthcoming visit to the therapist, until a sharp pain in his abdomen brought him swiftly back to the present misery he suffered.
Several minutes later, sitting on the toilet, he realised he couldn't recall the last time he'd had a decent bowel movement, and after a few more minutes of anticipated relief, he finally surrendered to a surge of inevitable disappointment; another false alarm. Not wanting to get too upset he re-read the label on the pill bottle. Constipation was just one of thirty-seven side effects listed. “So is lethargy,” he mumbled, as he wearily stood up to brush his teeth.