Alastair Hall, my father, passed away in late March. I had no idea how much his cancer was going to impact my wellbeing and studies. As a result, I made the regretful decision to drop my A–levels, despite using up all the time and energy to prioritise my final exam preparations. "Tom, I'm so sorry." That was the last thing I said whilst apologising and shaking my head. I didn't feel ready to tell him why because I thought I'd let him down.
I lost my confidence in everything and immediately withdrew from social life. Two full weeks of depressive episodes at home: crying non stop on the sofa, oversleeping in bed for hours, losing my appetite, and having repetitive suicidal thoughts every single day.
It wasn't until my mother, Glenda, found a psychologist named Dr Martin Gibbs who ran a private clinic, through the NHS. She was extremely concerned about my stress levels deteriorating, whilst having to take care of my father at the same time. I just couldn't cope with the depression anymore. The therapy sessions were my first collective stage of coming out of the blue.
The clinic was a modernised two–storey house, probably built within the past couple of years or so, situated along the stretched avenue of two rows of houses. Right on the doorstep, I pressed the buzzer. The door immediately unlocked and opened, revealing a tall man, late 50s, with round spectacles.
"Are you Dr Gibbs, psychologist?"
"I am indeed. And presumably you are Andrew?"
"Hall, Andrew Hall. Pleasure to meet you."
"You too, young man. Please, do come in."
I gave Dr Gibbs a rather sad smile, as a way of being polite instead of expressing too much sadness. From the look on his face, he appeared to show a lot of understanding with deep concern at the same time. Much to my surprise, as I entered the building, it didn't look very much like a conventional home; similar layout and arrangements to my local GP but more clean and comfortable.
We walked straight down the hallway, past the stairs, and through a door. His office was quite roomy and spacious: a computer desk at one end of the room with a few sofa–like armchairs some metres away.
"Have a seat. And, please, help yourself to some water."
I sat down on an armchair which I found to be extremely comfortable but more solid than the sofa in my living room, and poured myself a glass of water from the jug on a small coffee table. Dr Gibbs took his seat and placed his notepad and pen in front, making it easier for him to lean forwards without straining his back.
"So, tell me," he began. "Your father, Alastair, was recently diagnosed with cancer, and that has been increasing your anxiety levels since then. Have no fear, there is no need to provide every single detail, in the style of a prolonged oral report. It's up to whatever best suits you. I don't mind if you 'waffle', or require short breaks in between."
I knew where he was coming from, so I responded by saying everything I had in mind on this issue. "I'm worried about Dad, my poor Dad. The lymphoma has made him feverish every single night, along with various symptoms such as his nasty persistent cough and hair loss – leaving myself to struggle with daily life. Sadly enough, I am unable to remember any specific events of the two–week period, due to the heavy amount of anticipatory anxieties which has been affecting my thinking."
He did not react in surprise or annoyance, he appeared to understand my point. "I think I might've also experienced depression during my early childhood, probably when I was about eight years old, but I can't seem to recall any of it either."
"Well," Dr Gibbs wrote on his pad while listening. "I think what you might have is Asperger's syndrome."
"I'm sorry?" I paused for a moment. I did not know what was the best way to respond to what I had just heard. "You don't mean... I am being diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, making me autistic?"
"Same with clinical depression," he replied. "It's going to take quite a while to kick in."
I was lost for words, but I tried my very best to contain my feelings without breaking down in tears or losing my temper. "It's okay, Andrew. Nobody, absolutely, nobody is trying to make you feel patronised or discouraged."
"Thank you," I felt more reassured. "This has really helped me a lot. And by the way, did my Mum mention anything about 'medication' on the phone?"
"Yes, even your GP has specified this in their letter."
"So what would you be recommending?"
"Risperidone – most effective for treating anxiety and depression. Take one each morning, then you'll be fine for the rest of the day."
"Any side effects?"
"Of course. I'll be monitoring you at these sessions. You're safe here, Andrew. Everything we discuss remains confidential."
"I fully accept your reassurance, Dr Gibbs."
And that was it. A prescription for risperidone, done and dusted.
Over the following four weeks, Dr Gibbs not only explained more about autism and Asperger's, in the context of my own diagnoses and how it affects the brain; he also came up with numerous strategies to distract myself from worrying too much about my father, as well as showing me some deep breathing techniques for whenever I started feeling anxious or depressed. But then came the worst which I did not anticipate at all.
"Dr Gibbs?" I pressed the buzzer twice before knocking multiple times. "Dr Gibbs, it's Andrew Hall, are you in there? Hello?" I wasn't sure whether to call the police or go straight home, so I tried again. "Martin, we were supposed to start five minutes ago."
I sighed in annoyance, rolled my eyes and grumbled, "Oh my God."
Then I heard the door being unlocked. It opened, revealing a woman in her mid 40s with ginger hair. I couldn't tell whether she knew Dr Gibbs. Was she his colleague, girlfriend, fiancée, or wife? She spoke with a heavy Russian accent, "Yes?"
"Excuse me, but I'm here for a session with Dr Martin Gibbs. Is he in?"
"Err, no. Sorry. He's currently on leave, so I'm covering for him. Don't know when he'll be back for sure." She offered me a handshake, to which I accepted. Her hand, for some reason, felt rather cold as stone – quite bizarre at this time of year when it was already starting to get warmer.
"I am Dr Mary–Annette Stupin."
"Erm, nice to meet you, Dr Stupin."
"Good boy, lovely manners. Do come in."
I could not believe what I had just heard, right from her mouth. How dare she use the role of a psychologist to utter such patronising phrases in front of an 18–year–old patient – not appropriate. As part of my Asperger's, I had no choice but to go ahead and cope with this sudden dramatic change...
It was exactly a week later. I was wandering outside the Hanwell Community Centre, and my heart was already beating really fast with slight wind pains in my stomach. I didn't even want to turn up for my session that day, I wanted to go home. Whenever I had glimpses of some of the nearby houses with my own eyes, I quickly turned away, just like avoiding eye contact with a stranger who suspiciously stares for no reason. None of this was helping, but that was the only thing I could do to temporarily remove Stupin from my head. Then suddenly, quick as a flash, I spotted a man, from a good distance, who was leaning on what appeared to be some rectangular antique painted in dark blue. It wasn't there last week, so how did it get there? Did he have it transported from a junkyard? I decided to go up to him and ask.
The man was very tall and slim. He had thick modern spiky brown hair with long sideburns, and wore a dark brown suit with blue pinstripes. From the look of this blue antique, it clearly resembled a police public telephone call box from numerous decades ago.
"Hey," I called out. "You alright?"
"Yeah," he sighed.
I could tell he was stressed, quite likely to have been recovering from a traumatic experience and needing some fresh air. He sounded like he had an Estuary English accent, as he resumed speaking. "Been better. Been better than ever. No, that's not it, actually been worse. Just finished watching Schindler's List about five minutes ago. Brings back old memories." It was at the point where I felt more motivated and ready to engage in a full conversation, when he mentioned the title of the very film.
"Same here. I watched it all in one go, last night. One of my absolute favourite heartbreaking epics ever done in the history of filmmaking. Kinda reminds me of when my father, then a news cameraman, got caught in the Siege of Sarajevo, 1992—"
"Which broadcaster?" he interjected.
"BBC."
"Oh, right. Just asking."
"Thankfully, he was saved by some random stranger. Never told me his name. They met again in 1997 during the Clinton visit, and also when Paddy Ashdown became High Representative for Bosnia in 2002. My father lent him his camera to take photos of himself with the Clintons and Lord Ashdown. But it was all over. Every single raw footage he captured were burnt down in a warehouse fire, several years later. No remains were discovered in the aftermath, which meant that my father felt he had no choice but to resign."
"You can pass him my regards."
"I will. But only when he's conscious."
"Conscious? What do you mean?"
"He has lymphoma. Diagnosed not too long ago. Gonna miss his homemade broccoli and cauliflower cheese casserole, even though my Mum's now fully comprehended his typed–up recipe. Now that I've been diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome and clinical depression, I honestly don't know how I can cope with everything."
"I'm not surprised. I know what it's like for someone on the autistic spectrum to cope with losing someone very close, whether it's a parent or both, or even a dear friend. I've got no one left myself. I've lost everyone, all my friends whom I consider family. One of them lost her father when she was only a baby."
"How?"
"Got hit by a car."
"Dear Lord, I am so sorry," I closed my eyes and shook my head.
"She's managed to overcome it," he added. "But her mother later chose to remarry. Rewarding, but heartbreaking at the same time for the entire family. Nevertheless, she's now got a boyfriend of her own; met him through me."
"Heartbreaking indeed. I do hope you'll pay her a visit, when the time is right."
He took a deep breath and unveiled a small wrinkled paper bag of jelly babies from his pocket, while I observed the police box side–to–side. "These always cheer me up. Like one?"
"Sure," I dug my hand into the bag and picked a purple one. "Ah, blackcurrant, my favourite," I took a bite and sucked on its sweet wobbly flesh. "Haven't had jelly babies since Christmas, nearly ten years ago."
"Oh, really?" he asked innocently.
"Yeah," I sighed. "I was very upset during the start of the holiday season. Probably depressed over the destruction of Dad's footages. It wasn't until Christmas Eve that I finally recovered, thanks to some eccentric social worker who went by the name of 'Mr Maverick'. Don't remember him well though, except for his really long scarf. And also his curly hair, thicker and longer than my best friend Tom's, but still brown. Tom is more than a friend to me... He's my brother, metaphorically speaking, and I trust him with all my life."
"That social worker you speak of, might have seen him once. Not sure. I meet so many faces in my travels. Please, have another one."
I picked a blue jelly baby from the bag. "This is rare. Never seen a blue one before in my life. What is it? Blue raspberry? Blueberry? Bubblegum?"
"Taste it."
I popped it in my mouth and chewed. "Mmm... Blueberry. Really nice. Fresh and fruity. But hang on a moment," I became a little suspicious. "They don't produce or sell these flavours."
"That's because they're homemade."
"Your own recipe, sir?"
"Fresh from the catalyser." He rubbed his nose. "People usually don't call me 'sir'. I'm the Doctor."
"Andrew, Andrew Hall."
"Andrew. It's a pleasure."
"Likewise."
We shook hands.
"Mind I ask, Doctor, do you own this police box?"
He patted on its surface, "It's no ordinary police box. It's a time machine. Known as: the TARDIS."
"TARDIS?"
"Time And Relative Dimension In Space."
"Nice ring to it," I placed my right hand on the front door to feel its wooden texture. Then suddenly, a glowing orange handprint appeared on its surface.
"This isn't good," the Doctor fished out some sort of bluey torch–like device which he waved all over my face and body.
"Uh, Doctor," I stammered. "Is that some kind of toy?"
"Sonic screwdriver. Like a prototype medical scanner." He resumed, as I kept myself still on the spot. He grabbed my hand and moved the buzzing screwdriver towards my palm, then over my forehead. Was he trying to extract information? He put the screwdriver back in his pocket and placed both hands against my temples. "What the hell are you doing?" I flinched.
"Just double checking..."
He closed his eyes and opened his mind. A brief instant. Then, he retreated.
"I should've realised sooner..."
"I'm sorry?" I asked.
"Andrew, I've been tracking an... outbreak. Trying to locate patient zero."
"Wait, wait, you're not saying... a virus?"
"Not bacteriological, but psychic, in this case. You've been inflicted with troubled thoughts. A psychospore targeted directly at your mind. It leaves a telepathic residue."
I was completely stunned, didn't know whether to take his word for it. Suddenly, my head began to heat up. "Oh God, it's happening again," it was the stress coming back to haunt me. "I have visions of last week's session with a psycho psychologist. Don't even know how I can cope today whilst bottling it all up."
"They're usually there to help that. Who is this psychologist?"
"Her name is Mary–Annette Stupin. She replaced Dr Martin Gibbs."
"Do you know what happened to Dr Gibbs?"
I tried to take a deep breath. "Don't know. His private clinic is just a few houses away from here. He was always understanding and extremely helpful. Stupin's more intrusive, callous and patronising. She has planted anger and anticipatory anxieties into my mind. Can't recall anything in particular she brought up last week – very hazy. As for that, I have been taking risperidone ever since before Dr Gibbs vanished."
"Medication is one way of reducing stress, a combination of whimsy and humour also," he paused, half–frowning. "Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey."
I felt fine again, my head immediately cooled down.
"How would you feel if I came along to your session, Andrew?"
"But... don't I need a doctor?"
"Not to worry, I am a Doctor."
