Dr. Devnet
"Do you think about the simulation theory?"
This is a chapter from I Hear You Watching, my novel based on my experience with hearing voices and paranoia.
But you can jump in here! The “previously on” will get you up to speed.
Previously on I Hear You Watching…
Alex hears strangers mocking him wherever he goes. The observers can measure his heart rate and influence his bodily functions. He made many failed attempts to obtain concrete proof, and on a camping trip almost attacked his best friend, who he believed might be conspiring with the observers. Then he discovered he could use telekinesis to manipulate the observers. In light of this “special power,” he’s starting to suspect they might actually be hallucinations, so he made an appointment to see a psychiatrist.
Dr. James Devnet is bald like someone pulled a large hank of white hair from the top of his head. He’s wearing a sweater of horizontal zig-zags in terra-cotta tones and deep greens. To me it represents my heart rate on the observers’ monitor, and the electrical signals surging all around me. But the earthy colors signify that I’m grounding myself.
When I get to the part of my story about the observers hacking my computer, he says he hopes his name “Devnet” doesn’t make me nervous, since it sounds like the name of a dystopian computer corporation.
His sense of humor puts me at ease.
After listening carefully to my story—including the ill-fated video call with the scammer, my dates with Lili, my long walks and drives, and finally the ways I’ve discovered to temporarily destroy the observers—he diagrams a flow chart on his white board showing how each situation can inspire changes in my beliefs, emotions, physical feelings, and behaviors, and how those all interact to enhance and augment each other.
He says, “You have a thought: ‘that person is frowning at me.’ And they may not be, in fact they’re probably thinking about something else. But with no proof that you are the cause, you conduct yourself as if you were the cause. And once you’ve gone down the road of ‘no proof, but just in case,’ anything is possible. You could live the rest of your life at the mercy of that person’s frown, while they don’t even remember you were there.” He waves his hands at this, dissipating an imaginary cloud of dust.
Specks of that imaginary dust settle and sting in my eyes.
“Do you think about the simulation theory?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Me too.” He squints at the ground.
I expect him to tear open the zig-zag pattern of his sweater to reveal that the background state of the universe is solid noise, a sea of zig-zag lines combining infinitely into bigger and bigger waves.
But instead he looks at me. “If that is the reality of the world—that we’re plugged into some pod, or in a basement being fed drugs to imagine all of this, or we’re just microprocessors in some vast, dreaming computer…”
“Or vestigial growths on some massive interdimensional being…”
He marvels. “Yes, what a beautiful idea.” Then he points the dry-erase marker at me. “If that is reality, what do we do?”
“Well, we can’t prove that it is, because we’re trapped.”
“Exactly! It is fascinating to ponder, and we should feel free to ponder, of course. I can see that’s what you’re good at, this pondering. And do it! Ponder! Imagine fantastic tales!”
Did I mention the observers had told me to write? How does he know? I can’t remember. My recap is already a blur.
“But even if we surrender ourselves completely to this scenario, with no concrete proof, we still exist in this reality with food and laundry and sex and taxes…” He counts these on thick fingers. “And so we begin to juggle ourselves between these multiple realities. Which, admittedly, is fun for a while.” He shrugs and smiles.
The phrase “fun for a while” gives me the same shiver I got holding the hammer on my neighbor’s front doorstep. My neighbor with the cardboard-hole eyes who, while thickheaded, was most likely 100% innocent.
“But this juggling can only last for so long before it gets fucking exhausting.” He drops his arms and sags his shoulders. The zig-zags on his sweater curl into layered frowns.
My eyes sting. “Yes. Exhausting.”
I float in the ring of a life preserver, the only circle on a sea of jagged lines, tied to a cleat on Dr. Devnet’s boat. He drags a massive shape from the deep onto the deck of his boat in a net labeled “stuffs.”
“Whenever a situation triggers ‘stuffs,’ conduct a reality check. Don’t get lost in the hypothetical, examine only what you can prove.”
He cuts open the net, and the dark shape breaks apart into piles of glinting, gasping minnows.
Lastly, he prescribes a low dose of risperidone, an antipsychotic that he says should help “get my head above water.” I hadn’t expressed my oceanic metaphor aloud; he somehow felt it. This is the first time the idea of someone seeing into my head brings comfort.
“As long as it’s okay with your friend, stay with him. But also fix that fuse and turn the lights on in your apartment. Light is good. Change the lock if that will help you feel better. That place is going to be ‘haunted’ for a bit, while you get your footing.”
Haunted. He really can see into my thoughts. But he handles them like porcelain.
At the pharmacy someone in the next aisle says the pharmacist is swapping my risperidone prescription with sleeping pills.
Another says, “Then while he’s asleep, we’ll take him out.”
But I walk the dim rooms of my apartment with fresh courage. The observers scramble to synchronize their commentary with my actions. They threaten to jump out of the coat closet—no, shoot me in the kitchen—no, strangle me in the bathroo—set me on fire in the bedr—and it sounds silly all mashed together like that, debunked and revised every few seconds.
While I change the locks on my open front door, daring the world to rush in, they tell me, “Dr. Devnet’s full of shit, and he’s working for us.”
If he’s working for you, why would you say he’s full of shit?
“To see your reaction! You still haven’t figured it out, have you?”
“You changed your mind so fucking fast. ‘Oh, I guess I’m crazy!’ What a gullible shithead you are.”
The stepladder I bought creaks open and lifts me high enough to touch my head to the ceiling. My fingers bat the hanging wires, fearing a bite from them, but when the wires prove dead I pull more slack, strip their tips, and secure them to the replacement smoke detector with shiny new screws.
I change the fuse and flip the switch on the panel. The lights blink on. My fridge hums to life. It’s almost like time travel.
The walls still radiate hostility, and I stare out the window as I open the blinds to let sunlight mix with the electric light, smiling but feeling closed-in and now only 50% sure that the neighbors are innocent. Because all of this could’ve been part of the plan.
I unplug my old router, wrap it in its cords, and shove it onto the top shelf of the closet.
I seek out every stray shard of the smoke detector on the counter and floor. I move the furniture to sweep up the last of the sugar and rice.
It feels like cleaning up a child’s tantrum years after the child has gone.
Next on I Hear You Watching…
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This is probably my favorite chapter man. Beautifully done.
"... Don’t get lost in the hypothetical, examine only what you can prove.”
Solid advice for living in the present and preparing for the short term, not so good for the long term! But I guess we need to get Alex back to reality and away from the hypotheticals.