It's not like waking up.
It's like... slowly floating up from the bottom of a really deep ocean. I don't even know I'm drifting at first. Just swirling colors, some hazy, murky shapes. I can barely tell which way is up, let alone where I am. But it's warm, and I'm safe, and it's cool to just, like, bob around, you know? No worries. No cares. No fear. But little by little, things sharpen, like my brain's kicking back in gear after being outta commission for a while.
My brain focuses to the point where I can tell where I end and the universe begins. Not all the way, but enough to know I'm not floating in some cosmic soup; I'm, like, me again. I'm Shaggy Rogers, and I got skin and bones and fingers and a mind that's chugging along like an old van after a tune-up. Kinda hungry.
The room's all soft and white around me, kinda blurred at the edges. But there's someone sitting near the bed, leaning forward in a chair, brow furrowed over a newspaper like it's some kinda ancient scroll. I squint—my eyes feel crusty, heavy—but I make out this lady with curly hair and glasses, biting the end of a pen and scribbling away. I can see she's doing one of those crossword things.
At first, it's nice. The quiet, the scratch of her pen, the way she's totally zoned out and doesn't even know I'm watching her. But then it hits me—a little crackling buzz of panic that starts in my chest. Where am I? Why am I here? And then, just like that, memories flicker at the edge of my mind. The lake. The screams. And… Scooby. My chest tightens like someone's twisting it into a knot, and I gotta know.
"Uh… m-miss?" My voice comes out kinda croaky, like it hasn't been used in weeks.
The nurse jumps a little, looks over at me with big, surprised eyes. She blinks, like she didn't expect me to talk, like I'm supposed to stay part of the furniture or something, and I feel embarrassed for both of us but it's too late to pretend to be an ugly duvet or whatever.
"Hey, uh, where's Scooby? My… my dog?" My voice cracks, but I don't care. I just gotta know he's okay, gotta know I didn't lose him too.
She doesn't answer right away, just gives me this tight-lipped kinda look, glancing over her shoulder toward the door like she's in on some secret. "Hold on a moment," she says, standing up quick. "I'll go get the doctor."
And with that, she's gone, and I'm alone again, staring at the ceiling, feeling like maybe I didn't wake up quite all the way after all.
Guy comes in. Balding. Maybe in his fifties, neat beard and mustache, dressed in a vest with a pocket-watch and everything. Tired looking but he's trying to appear friendly. "Hello, Norville. I'm Doctor Loomis. Do you know where you are?"
At this point I don't, so I just shake my head. "Call me Shaggy, Doc. Like, only my mom calls me Norville."
His smile doesn't fade, like is normal with squares. "I can do that, Shaggy, if it makes you more comfortable."
I shrug, rubbing my arms. I don't like where this is going, but I don't know the deal so I just keep keep that to myself for now. "This is a hospital?" I ask, putting together the clues of the nurse from before and now this Doctor. Velma would be proud.
I very specifically do not think about Velma.
"You're in the Oregon State Mental Health Hospital," he tells me.
"Oh, the Funny Farm," I nod. That makes sense. "So, I'm, like nuts?" That also makes sense.
"We don't call it that here," Doctor Loomis shakes his head. "And 'nuts' isn't a diagnosis. You've been through something very traumatic, and were in a catatonic state for several weeks."
Weeks. It's been weeks. I close my eyes, refuse to think, then open them again. "Is my dog okay?"
"Your dog?" He asks.
"Scoob. Scooby. He's a Great Dane." He's so much more, but the Doctor wouldn't understand, man. The others, they loved Scoob, and they didn't really get it either.
Loomis flips through his clipboard. "You weren't admitted with one, though the police would have kept him in a shelter. I can look into that, if you like?"
The thought of my buddy in a shelter - kept away from everybody he knows - almost kills me, but I nod, a tear slipping down my cheek. "Yeah, would you, Doc?"
His face changes subtly. I don't know what it means, guy's hard to read. There's a pause before Loomis speaks up. "You've been through a lot. I just wanted to check in to see how alert and responsive you were."
"Am I?" I ask.
"Alert and responsive?"
"Yeah," I nod.
He gives me a look, but then his face softens, like he thought I was fucking with him. I wasn't, really, I'm just feeling a little spaced-out and confused.
"Yes, Nor- em, Shaggy. You are responding to my questions. You are aware of what's happening in your immediate vicinity."
I nod. "I appreciate that, Doc. Could I get something to eat?"
"Of course."
"A sandwich, maybe?" Food. A refuge. I focus on the food, driving all other worries from my mind. "Yeah, like if you've got smoked tofu, cheese, lettuce, mushrooms, eggplants, tomato, fried eggs, pickles, chutney, mayo, mustard, olives, fried onion…"
Doctor Loomis chuckled. "I'll see what the kitchen can manage."
"Yeah, just have them throw a little of everything on a sandwich. And, uh, make it vegetarian."
He looks a little surprised, but just nods. "I'll speak with them right away, Shaggy."
Loomis goes and I'm left alone in this room that feels more like a bedroom in a spooky mansion than a hospital bed. Cleaner though… I've slept in a lot of shabby places over the years we spent on the road. Is that over now? What do I do?
Get my dog. That's the next step. The one that matters. I don't think I could go on without Scoob. He's all I got left. I get out of here, get my dog… and then what? Go back to my parents?
Like the old man would even welcome me back. There's a reason I bought the van to begin with. Oh man, the van… I should ask about that, too.
A goon with a sandwich comes by after about an hour - an orderly, I think they call them, and he watches with a slack jaw while I eat it. What can I say, man, I'm hungry? He leaves, and Doctor Loomis comes back an hour or so later.
"How are you feeling, Shaggy?"
"Less hungry," I lie. I'm always hungry.
"Humor's good," Loomis nods. "It's a way to cope, yes? But you know that's not what I'm talking about."
I look down at a mustard stain on the pad of my thumb, scraping at it with my fingernail. "Yeah. I guess."
"What happened at Camp Crystal Lake isn't anything you can brush off lightly, Norville. Do you remember what happened?"
I can feel every moment of that nightmare just hiding there at the back of my brain just waiting to be relived, but I don't want to talk about it, so I keep my answer vague. "Sort of? Like, just it's some… bad dreams. Foggy, you know?" I look up, eyes watering, pushing back the fear and guilt clawing at my belly. "Can we, like, not talk about it right now?"
He crosses his legs, peering at me over his glasses. "I understand you wanting to move on, but burying this won't help… your memories will be there, under the skin. If you don't let them out and confront them, they will come out at a moment not of your choosing."
"It's not…" I begin, but can't find the words. "It's not safe to think about, man."
He gestures at my room. "This is as safe a space as you're going to find, Shaggy. You've lost your friends. Fred, Velma. Daphne."
I flinch as he pronounces each name. "Doc."
"If you don't face what's happened, the wound will only fester."
I'm on my feet before I realize it, facing the window. There's a wire mesh over it, but I feel like the air in here's no good, like I need real air from outside. "Face what, man? There's nothing to face. They're just… gone. Like gone forever. Is talking about it going to bring them back?"
Doctor Loomis is silent, and I turn, ready to see him mad at me or whatever, but he's just nodding, looking at his pad, which is somehow worse. "We can come back to that later, Norville."
"Shaggy, man."
"Shaggy. Let's focus on the present. You're here at the Oregon State Mental Hospital while we assess and treat you for the trauma you've suffered. We'll be seeing each other regularly, and you'll have therapy sessions with the other patients."
"Groovy," I say, though things are in fact not very groovy. It's like, whatever, I'll look at ink blots and tell the headshrinker what he needs to hear. "Totally groovy. Did you hear anything about Scooby? Is Scoob okay?" A thought strikes me. "And my van? Everything I own is in that van."
Loomis puts his notepad aside. "I've got good news about your dog… Scooby Doo. He is, indeed, in a shelter."
I hate the way he says Scoob's name, like it's something he found stuck between his teeth, but it doesn't matter. "Oh thank god." I cover my face and the tears of relief come. I, like, don't like crying in front of a stranger, but I can't help it. "My buddy's okay." He's all I have left.
Loomis waits until I'm done, handing me a tissue. "And your van is likely in police impound for now, but I can check on that as well."
"Thanks, Doc," I say, hoping he'll leave me alone to go to do that.
He does not. "Scooby is important to you, I understand. It's important to have those pillars. But Scooby cannot be your entire focus. We need to focus on you first. But we cannot proceed while you're avoiding your deeper feelings, understand?"
I nod. "Yeah, sure, like totally, Doc. I hear you. I'll, like… do better next session? But I think this is totally working. No need to like, dig too deep, right?" I chuckle.
He takes his glasses off and puts them in his shirt pocket. I think I've disappointed him, somehow. "We'll take it slow, Shaggy. But know this… avoiding what's inside you won't make it go away. You'll have to face it eventually. It's the only way to move forward."
I nod again, but the Doc doesn't know everything. I've been running from monsters my whole life. I'm a coward, it's what I do, and I'm real good at it. Sometimes you need to wear a mask to keep you safe, and if it gets me out of the nut house and back to my dog and my van, then I'll wear a mask.
Patient: Norville "Shaggy" Rogers
Date: April 2, 1980
Session: Initial Assessment
Duration: 50 minutes
Attending Physician: Dr. Samuel Loomis
Presenting Condition:
Patient was admitted to Oregon State Mental Hospital following a catatonic state induced by a traumatic event at Camp Crystal Lake, where his three companions were presumed murdered. The patient spent approximately one week in a non-responsive state before regaining consciousness. This session marks the first direct assessment since his recovery.
Mental State Assessment:
Acute Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD):
Patient demonstrates significant trauma responses consistent with acute PTSD. His use of humor and deflection to avoid discussing the events at Camp Crystal Lake suggests an active attempt to repress traumatic memories. The patient appears to be engaging in avoidance behavior to prevent reliving the trauma.
Symptoms Observed: Nervous laughter, fidgeting, changes in vocal pitch, avoidance of direct questions concerning the event.
Conclusion: The patient's trauma is still very much unprocessed, and his avoidance tactics indicate a reluctance to confront the reality of his friends' deaths.
Emotional Numbness & Denial:
The patient is displaying a high degree of emotional numbness. Despite direct prompts to explore the loss of his companions, he either skirts the topic or deflects through humor. It is likely that he is suppressing the emotions of grief and guilt, and may be in denial about the full impact of the incident.
Symptoms Observed: Flat affect when discussing his friends, resistance to acknowledging their loss, reluctance to describe details from the night at Camp Crystal Lake.
Conclusion: The patient is still in the denial stage of grief, struggling to emotionally process the magnitude of his loss. This numbness may persist until he is willing to engage in deeper therapeutic work.
Dependency on External Comforts:
The patient shows an increased reliance on external sources of comfort and security. Notably, he is highly focused on the whereabouts of his dog (Scooby-Doo) and his van (the "Mystery Machine"). When asked about his well-being, the patient immediately diverted the conversation to these objects, suggesting an emotional attachment to tangible, familiar entities as a form of escape.
Symptoms Observed: Patient inquired repeatedly about the safety of his dog and the condition of his van. His voice exhibited relief when these topics were addressed.
Conclusion: The patient is using his attachments to Scooby and the van as coping mechanisms to avoid engaging with deeper emotional issues. He may resist therapeutic progress as long as he clings to these objects as distractions.
Anxiety & Nonconfrontational Personality:
The patient presents with a marked avoidance of conflict, both external and internal. His body language (nervous fidgeting, avoidance of eye contact) and verbal responses indicate that he will avoid confrontation at all costs, preferring to placate authority figures rather than directly face uncomfortable truths. This pattern is likely ingrained and will need to be addressed over time.
Symptoms Observed: Deflection of serious topics with humor, appeasing responses to therapeutic suggestions without real engagement, avoidance of eye contact.
Conclusion: The patient's nonconfrontational nature is a significant obstacle to his progress. He will likely need a combination of gradual exposure to emotional topics and structured therapeutic exercises to push him beyond his comfort zone.
Resistance to Emotional Work:
The patient is not yet ready to commit to confronting his trauma. He consistently deflects from discussions about his loss and has not exhibited any desire to engage in deeper emotional processing. His primary concern is finding ways to avoid discomfort rather than addressing the root cause of his distress. This will require a careful balance of empathy and challenge in future sessions.
Symptoms Observed: The patient's repeated attempts to steer the conversation away from the trauma and toward familiar topics (e.g., Scooby, the van).
Conclusion: The patient is in the early stages of treatment and will likely resist emotionally difficult work for some time. Patience and persistence will be required to break through these barriers.
Potential for Future Progress:
Despite his current resistance, the patient shows potential for breakthroughs, particularly in his loyalty and concern for others (notably his dog, Scooby). His deep-seated loyalty may serve as a future motivator for progress, once he is able to shift that loyalty toward his own healing. His humor, though a defense mechanism now, could also become a strength in navigating difficult emotional terrain.
Conclusion: With time and careful guidance, the patient may develop the capacity to confront his trauma and begin the healing process. Gradual exposure and a combination of individual and group therapy are recommended, with a focus on building trust and rapport in the initial stages.
Summary and Plan:
The patient is currently entrenched in avoidance mechanisms, relying on humor, distraction, and external comforts to evade confrontation with his trauma. His nonconfrontational nature will make immediate progress difficult. The plan moving forward is to build trust and create a safe environment for emotional expression, while gradually steering the patient toward processing the trauma. Group therapy will likely expose him to others' struggles, which may encourage introspection and eventual engagement.
Next Steps:
Continue with individual sessions focusing on slowly breaking down avoidance patterns.
Introduce the patient to group therapy to foster emotional openness.
Explore ways to ease the patient into addressing the trauma through low-stakes, nonthreatening exercises, possibly starting with indirect discussions about loss and grief