Satire: Hu Dat Lin and the multiple diagnoses

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Dear readers and friends,

Please excuse my long absence from your screen. I was offered the opportunity to study saxicoulus lichens in the sacred caves of monks high in the Himalayas. Who would not jump at such a chance? I spent many happy months kneeling on stone in dank and airless recesses, searching for minute crusts of life in order to conduct experiments on the effect of the chanting of monks on their growth rate.

My free time was spent eating ema datshi with my hosts, and limping meditatively among the crags, my face uplifted to the fresh mountain breeze, Buddhist prayer flags flapping all around. It was a joyous and enlightening experience, and I finally had the time for deep contemplation of nagging questions such as “why are three fried eggs a little too much, but three scrambled eggs just right?”

Astute readers will have noticed that the previous two paragraphs are offered as a quote and this is because they are a complete and utter lie (except for the part about the eggs.) They are the lie I intended to share to explain my extended absence, but a lie I can no longer perpetuate. Bear with me as I relate the true events of the past year, a tortuous voyage of self discovery, fraught with nadirs of despair and zeniths of triumph. Have patience as I tell my story for it is long, perhaps too long for your email provider.

My journey began with an admission to myself. I found myself on a couch — my own couch, not that of a psychiatrist — with muscles atrophied, jaw slack, and eyes vacant and staring. It was then that I realized I had a compulsion that was beyond my ability to control, and I resolved to seek help from qualified professionals.

My addiction was not to a tangible substance, but rather, like a gambler hooked on the highs and lows of a night at the casino, to a feeling. My highly intelligent readers have no doubt already guessed that I had become addicted to the fiendishly enjoyable phenomenon of cross sum puzzles. For those unfamiliar, (which among my enlightened readers there are surely only one or two) these delightful yet devilish puzzles were the brainchild of Canadian building constructor Jacob E. Funk, which were appropriated by the Japanese, improved, polished, rebranded, and unleashed upon a vulnerable world under the innocuous moniker kakuro.

The working of the puzzles induces a particularly addictive combination of mental states — a feeling of complete calm, enhanced ability to focus, a deepened belief in the inherent beauty and balance of the structure of the universe, and an unparalleled elation upon successful completion. Whether the puzzles are revenge on the West for the humiliating defeat in 1945, or merely Japan's way of saying, “we may be small, but we're so much better than anyone else” is unknown, and it is beyond the scope of this piece to attempt to answer such a question.

Curious readers will be asking themselves, “What is the matter with these puzzles if they lead to such a state of zen?” The problem arises that once a puzzle is completed the euphoric feelings fade, the real world seems flat and gray and incomprehensibly random, and one is left with the irrepressible need to begin the next puzzle. It's a textbook case of addiction. Who cares about eating, sleeping, or emptying the litter box when bliss awaits between the nearby pages of Absolutely Nasty Kakuro: Level Four?

I will spare readers more details of my descent — stories of addiction are all much the same whether one is hooked on methamphetamine, puzzles of logic, or gripping police procedurals on streaming services, and include many months or years of practicing one's addiction before the point of seeking help is reached. I will fast forward to the day I found myself in a treatment facility deep in the mountains of West Virginia, where I was fed a steady diet of clean mountain air, pepperoni rolls, and group therapy. It is a hallmark of modern medicine that it now recognizes the addictive nature of many things besides mundane alcohol, pills, and various smokable and injectable substances. I rubbed shoulders with all types: those with addictions to popping bubble wrap, removing the sticky labels from food jars, and Japanese escape-the-room games (see how devilish they are!)

In my third month of treatment, all was going well. I was eating right, exercising, and avoiding all logic puzzles, even river crossing ones that might be casually discussed in the rec room after a delicious supper of ramp salad and pepperoni rolls. I was attending my meetings regularly and set to be released on a date two weeks hence when disaster struck. I was languidly perusing the stacks in the small but well-stocked library of the treatment facility when I chanced to notice between The Kabbalah and a biography of Kanye West, a slim, half-completed volume of kakuro puzzles. I won't describe the debauchery and self-debasement that ensued. Suffice it to say that my lawyers have been in contact with the facility in question and I expect to soon receive a tidy sum from the settlement.

Despite their woeful negligence in policing the library shelves for materials treacherous to vulnerable addicts, the institution in which I was ensconced was quite competent, and some positive outcomes were achieved. When admitted, I was examined by a passel of highly qualified physicians who poked and prodded my body and mind to unearth any latent pathologies. I was subsequently diagnosed with plantar fasciitis, tardive dyskinesia, and gender dysphoria. I was thrilled to receive this first one! Finally an explanation for why my plantar region is inflamed: I have a condition characterized by an inflammation in the plantar region.

I was very impressed with my doctors until they returned the other diagnoses. I explained that I had no quibble with my gender, I had merely arrived without a change of underwear and was forced to pilfer a few pairs from the laundry room that happened to be designed for the opposite sex.

I also protested the dyskinesia label, stating that what the doctors interpreted as uncontrollable repetitive motions were just me repeatedly flipping the bird at the cooks when the pepperoni roll basket was empty. I assured them I was completely in control of my actions, but they wouldn't have it and slapped me with the diagnosis of oppositional defiant disorder. I argued a bit longer, but of course it was pointless.

Now I must return to the topic I hinted at in the the first paragraphs above. As intelligent readers have guessed, I was also found to suffer from acute mythomania, usually known as pathological lying, a diagnosis I adamantly protested. As evidence against, I cited my extreme gullibility to the tall tales of others and also my stable and loving upbringing in an upper-middle class non-denominational Protestant family in Iowa. Despite the well-known fact that midwesterners never lie, and my detailed stories of bike rides, summer picnics, and occasional incest, the panel of prestigious practitioners overseeing my case stood firm on their assessments. My initial dismay gave way to acceptance as I realized I would soon be released with a variety of medications, the gradual sale of which could support me until my settlement came through. I spent my final weeks in the institution docile and agreeable.

Presently I found myself on the front steps of the facility, peacefully awaiting the bus that the administration had assured me passed by once a week unfailingly. Feeling lightheaded from freedom, and on the verge of a new life, I decided to walk down the mountain rather than wait passively, and set off jauntily. I will not bore readers with an account this phase of my journey. Suffice it to say I was beset by ne’er-do-wells, relieved of my pill collection and my dignity, and arrived in a river town disoriented and destitute.

Grasping desperately for a course of action, I was suddenly struck with the realization that I was a few miles from Turtle Paradise, and I resolved to make my way there. I will relate details of my continuing adventure in Part 2.