What the hell am I doing? I can't do this. This is crazy...View Full Monologue Text
What the hell am I doing? I can't do this. This is crazy. No. I have to call Scott back. Tell him that I've made a horrible mistake. This is wrong on so many levels and yet...God, I feel good. I feel strong. But I shouldn't, you know. It's wrong. WRONG! These are people's feelings. People's minds. Their lives. I can't do this. On the other hand... here are two people. Both desperately lonely. Both in need of comfort. In need of love. Companionship. Why can't I help them out a little bit? I mean...that's why I'm here isn't it. I sit in this chair everyday and what am I really doing? Most of these people don't actually do anything but talk. I have a chance here to make real change. To affect their lives. They want love. They both have love to give. I can help facilitate that. If I could make that happen. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
After his breach of patient-doctor confidentiality, Jonathan (a psychiatrist) works out why his actions are justifiable.
Age Range: 40s - Early, 40s - Late
Dialects: Standard American
Why are you here? Clearly you don't want to get better. Look at you...View Full Monologue Text
Why are you here? Clearly you don't want to get better. Look at you. You're in this abusive relationship. I've done everything I can to help you get out of it. I've helped build up your self-esteem. I've given you information about how to start a new life for yourself. Do you listen? No! Do you take my advice? No! So you must like it exactly where you are. You know what? I?m tired of hearing about it. "Renee did this." "Renee did that." Boo FUCKING Hoo. Every minute you're in here I can see why she yells at you. You're like a fucking abola monkey, but instead of carrying disease you carry pain and misery. If I had to listen to you more than 50 minutes a day I would probably yell at you too. And the crying! Will you stop fucking crying! You're an adult. Not eight fucking years old.(SCREAMING IN HER FACE) BUTCH THE FUCK UP! Go ahead, go run to fucking Renee. What the hell do I know, right? You know what? I hope she fucking kills you, you FUCKING cunt! I hope she kills you, cuts off your crying head and sticks it in a FUCKING BOX.
Jonathan (a psychiatrist) tells his patient exactly what he thinks of her and her situation.
AuthorName: Thorin Alexander
PlayName: Painful Death of Sue Ellen Fitch, The
Rating: Contains adult content
Copyright Status: Copyrighted
We used to be inseparable. The two of us. I remember this one...View Full Monologue Text
We used to be inseparable. The two of us. I remember this one time, Sue Ellen and I walked down from our house down to where they were building the new sewer system. There were row after row of these huge cement pipes that went straight into the ground. We just walked into the pipes. She wanted to be an "explorer." She had this little flashlight that I had given her for when we used to go camping. It wasn't very bright. It gave us just enough light to see about five, six feet in front of us. I was terrified. I never liked the dark. But she...she just kept moving forward. No fear. No hesitation. She just had to see where the tunnel went. Where we would end up. I know this sounds weird, me being the father, but I felt comfortable with her. I felt safe.
(JONATHAN LOOKS AT THE CHART IN FRONT OF HIM.)
Cynthia Mason. 25 years old. Mother was a drinking alcoholic. Father was M.I.A. This gave Cynthia a general distrust of both men and women. Married her High School sweetheart, who then preceded to abuse her for 6 years, producing all kinds of scars, both physical and mental. She wants love, but she doesn't think she deserves it. (CLOSING UP THE CHART) I see it all in my head. She comes to me. She's wounded, but treatable. But she doesn't seem to want to get better. Wait. That's wrong. She wants to get better, but doesn't know how. Do I know how? Do I want to know? What if I didn't treat her? No, wait. What if I treated her, but didn't help her. No. What if I helped her, but not the way she wanted to be helped. She thinks that there's an end to this road. Or at least she like to think that there is. What if there isn't? What if you're fucked up like this forever and there's no end in sight. Is there any difference between that and, say, being hit by a car and ending up in a wheelchair, never being able to move your arms or legs. What if, instead of not being able to move your arms, you weren't able to love...anyone. What if, instead of not being able to move your legs, you weren't able to love yourself. Is that anyway to live? To exist? Is that a life?
Jonathan reminisces about his daughter who has passed away. His attention then turns to his patient's chart as he ponders whether or not a person in therapy can get better.