Facta #2

text and illustrations by Evandro Castro
Desperate, a colleague psychiatrist vented with me one day - Only crazy people
show up to me! It was not true, he was tired and sometimes we were surprised
by the human soul. For years we were working in the same clinic, each in his
room, attending in psychotherapy clients who came to us with a wide variety
of problems, from the most mundane to the most complex. However, everyone
knows that “psi” professions have always been surrounded with prejudices
and fantasies. The owner of the coffee shop located on the ground floor of our
building and who was also a poet, sarcastically teased, "... they were crazy, they
looked normal but they were clients of the doctor, so I knew they were crazy."
On a slow morning, a few days later, during an interval of several hours between
clients, someone knocked on my office door. He was a short man, bald, and with
a beard that framed his chin and mouth. Very friendly, he told me he had come to
the building and by chance had seen my psychologist nameplate and decided on
impulse to look for me. I usually only accept indicated clients, which facilitated
an initial screening. Perhaps out of curiosity and because I was available at that
time I decided to attend the guy who told me his name and insisted that I call
him by his nickname - Master.
His story was like a film, from a poor childhood to adulthood, supported by
severe alcoholism, it had its moving scenes. He was an artist, a freelance jewelry
designer, intelligent, well-informed, but a little weird. He had just separated from
a crazy woman, he said, and had two children who made him worry and fear the
future. Surprisingly, none of this was the reason for his visit; what had brought
him there was a gnawing compulsion that haunted him since adolescence and
that lately he became specialized. How? I asked blankly.
At eighteen, unwittingly, his first theft happened. He just felt an irresistible urge
to put in his pocket the tin ashtray that was on the table of the Portuguese Bar,
on the corner of his home. He experienced amazing sensations from the moment
he thought of getting it for himself to the moment he pilfered the little ashtray.
Initially he felt an attraction mixed with fear and tension and then relief and
euphoria. He went walking home laughing with his mischief and there was no
room for regret or doubt, that had to be done and he managed to do it well.
To his misfortune, the thing has not stopped and a few days later he "had" to
unlawfully appropriate a teaspoon at a diner and likewise he was forced by an
internal drive to collect knives, ties, combs, empty bottles, caps, the tops of
bikinis, the left feet of sandals and other absolutely useless things. Despite being
a generally depressed person, one way or another he managed to lead a normal
life as an artist, and was active in the practice of what for him was an exciting
vice. His wife has always been extremely supportive and has often helped him
make his exciting actions, protecting him from being caught.
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