202: using the longest word
The patient arrives early. I'm still setting up in the office so I ask my secretary to tell them to hang on for a bit, and I consult the dictionary for a little bit longer. I also take the opportunity to cough dramatically into a handkerchief, hoping with that faint illogic of the sick that I can get it out and have done with it before he arrives.
A knock on the door, and the patient enters. He's slight, thinning hair, ragged, bitten nails. His face twitches when he sees me in what could technically be referred to as a smile.
"Hi!" I smile. "Sit down. Get comfy."
He gratefully plumps for one of the armchairs. There's an artfully turned down box of tissues on the table beside him, but he ignores it. "So, uh. Doc…how are you?"
I smile serenely. "We're not here to talk about me, are we? We're here to converse" he winces, and I correct myself. "I mean, talk about, this fear of yours."
"I just don't think they're…I don't think people need to use them. Not often."
I purse my lips a little. "Now John, you know that isn't true. It's a tricky world, and it needs tricky words."
He shakes his head, fists scrunching into little balls. 'No. I just- I don't agree. All these tricky words- all these difficult meanings- they're liars, that's all. Trying to hide the plain and simple truth!"
"I accept your feelings," I coax, "but, John, you can't seriously expect to police everyone else in the world-" I cough heartily as a punctuation mark.
"I can, and I do. The second you tell someone to make it easier, they always manage. Because nothing in the world needs to be complicated, does it?"
I nod, and make a note on my pad. "So, you tell others in your life to rephrase?"
"Yes, make it easier. Clearer," he repeats.
"Hmm. But that's- that's not all, is it? You've told me before in previous sessions that you've become violent towards people who over-use complex langauge."
He sits up with a start, as though the chair has pinched his behind. "That was once. One time! And it was only because he insisted on using…that word."
"Which?" I enquire sweetly. It will be such an encouraging sign if he is able to tell me.
But he flushes, and stammers, and says, "He liked state churches, state religion, you know. He thought they should stick together. And he kept on saying so."
"But look, he was a…" I check my notes, "A politics lecturer. He's entitled to express his opinions, surely!"
"Perhaps, but not with such stupidly long words. It takes almost as long to say that one horrible…vile…disgusting word as it does to explain what it means!" He shivers in his seat.
"Look, the thing about anti-"
"Don't!" He barks, and it's hardly a word now. The terror is streaming from his pores like bodily odour.
"John, if you don't face these things-"
"If you say that word I'm never coming here again, I mean it."
"Alright. Alright. You need to ground yourself, John. Why not try that breathing excercise from last time?"
He nods, and I hear him take a deep, shuddering breath inward, and then a slower, rushing exhale out. I stare at him for a moment.
"John, the fact of the matter is, there are a huge number of words in the english langauge. Some sources have it as over a million since the internet took off."
"More waste," he sniffs. "Dr Suess told a timeless story with only 50 of the basic phonics words. If it was good enough for him, why not the rest of the world?"
"Look, be that as it may, you must admit that more variety of words means better ability to express yourself. I'm assuming you struggle to express yourself, John? Is that why-?"
"I don't struggle! It's the rest of the world that are struggling. Hiding behind their cowardly, five-dollar words, hiding all sorts of sneaky meanings…they're the cowards, not me!"
"I didn't say you were. All I mean, John, is that you have to accept the reason behind complex vocabulary. It's vital to help the world…" But here another fit of coughing cuts me off.
"I don't have to accept anything, you hear me?"
"Then why are you here, John?" I plead. "If you're unwilling to engage with therapy, so much so that you don't even accept that you are the one with the problem, then we'll never get to the root of your hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia!"
He only manages to last two syllables before he flies the room in terror. I sigh, unsure where I went wrong. How can it be possible to diagnose, discuss and confront a pathological fear of long words if one can't even name the condition? It is really unhelpful, and makes pathology really difficult.
One thing's for sure, though- I'm glad he didn't ask about my nasty case of pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. The coughing fits are really starting to worry me- I need to book an x-ray appointment soon.