12.25.2023

A psychologist friend told me money was tight this year, so all I could expect for Christmas was a DSM diagnosis. I saved him the trouble by digging this piece out of the vault. Merry Christmas to all who celebrate.

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THE THREE-MINUTE ONLINE SCHIZOTYPAL TEST

Good day, I said to the Test. I’ve been eager
to learn how you see me. To be honest, though,
“eager” doesn’t really capture the feeling.
Can we settle on something else, like “concerned”?

As you wish, said the Test, stroking its goatee
in the manner of late Habsburg Vienna.

Yet the Test never asked me to spill my dreams
or excavate my earliest memories

of the mother who swung like a wrecking ball
and the father who thought nobody should know.

The Test appeared to have no interest at all
in my birth order, let alone my siblings.

Not a single question about the sister
who paid cash for the spare house where she stashes
her unopened Home Shopping Network treasures.

No taking the measure of the next sister
—borderline personality disorder—

or the brother with major anxiety

or the sister who was chronically depressed
before cancer gave her a reason to fight
like a cornered badger for the life she lost.

We could have discussed the remaining sisters
—both good mothers, best of friends in adult life—
if the Test had troubled to ask about them.

But the Test had smaller fish to fry that day,
and anyway, as the Test reminded me
(clearing its throat, consulting its pocket watch), 
we had three minutes. Our time was almost up.

In the end, the Test saw fit to diagnose
a few subclinical schizotypal traits

—not enough to warrant pharmaceuticals
or anything more than self-observation
along with follow-up visits, as required—

and left me not knowing if I’d passed or failed.