← LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE - Science Fiction and Fantasy Story Podcast (Sci-Fi | Audiobook | Short Stories)
LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE - Science Fiction and Fantasy Story Podcast (Sci-Fi | Audiobook | Short Stories)
"Time Management" by P.A. Cornell + "Empathetic Psychosis" by Justin C. Key
01:09:56
Loading summary
Transcript54 lines
- [00:05]
Stefan Rodnicki
Lightspeed Greetings and welcome to the Lightspeed Magazine podcast. Stefan Rodnicki Here today especially for you, we have two fun stories. First up is the short shot time management by Pa Cornell. Narrated by Nan McNamara, right after this message. And now, Nan McNamara
- [00:38]
Nan McNamara
time management by Pa Cornell. On the morning Gwen woke with the ability to manipulate time, it was already too late. She didn't immediately realize she could stretch or compress time. That would come later. At first all she knew was Diane was gone and she wasn't coming back. She was dreading having to tell her younger brother, Kyle, who'd been crashing at her place. At least she could be sure he hadn't heard last night's fight. When she reached the kitchen, she found Kyle had made breakfast. Her favorite eggs, Benny with a side of fruit. Great, she thought. He knows. He must have seen Diane leave. Kyle put the food down in front of her, then signed, I'm sorry about Diane. What happened? I don't want to talk about it. Gwen signed back. Long story. It was at this moment she first noticed something was different, perhaps because the ASL for story was so similar to the pulling motion necessary to stretch time. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes stretched into hours, and while this was fascinating on the one hand, it made Gwen feel nauseated and panicky as well. She pinched her fingertips together as the disorienting wave passed, accidentally using the precise gesture needed to compress time, and everything went back to normal. What the hell was that? Kyle asked, looking a little green in the gills. I don't know. I think I just she couldn't finish. In lieu of words, she tried again, first making a motion like pulling taffy, and the moment stretched out again. It wasn't so much that things were in slow motion. It was more like they had extra time. Time in which to figure things out. Gwen pinched her fingertips together and time compressed back on itself. Cool, kyle signed. Gwen considered the situation. It seemed all the worst moments in life stuck with you interminably while the best ones zoomed by so fast it could miss them if you didn't pay close attention. Now she had the power to do something about it. This wasn't time travel. She couldn't go back and fix things with Diane, but she could affect the moments going forward. If you could relive a special moment from your life and stretch it out to really have a chance to soak it in, what would you choose? She asked Kyle. Loss of virginity, hands down, he said. That definitely went faster than I would have liked. She laughed. I'm serious. Kyle shrugged. I Don't know. Maybe those summers we spent at Aunt Amy's beach house. That was a great idea. Pack your bags. I'll call Aunt Amy, see if the beach house is free. On the drive up, they listened to drum music like when they were kids, the volume loud enough so Kyle could feel it, hand pressed against the side speaker in the passenger side door. With his other hand, he kept rhythm on his thigh. Quinn couldn't remember the last time they'd done this. Almost without thinking, she made the pulling motion and time stretched out before them. The drive was normally a couple of hours, but this one would stretch to days, the rhythm of the drums rising and falling carrying them through this moment. Kyle turned and smiled at her. Adult life had a way of rushing by. There weren't many opportunities to slow things down. Now she could. This went on until they got hungry. Then Gwen pinched her fingertips together and suddenly they were arriving at the beach house, unpacking, calling Amy to tell her they'd arrived safely. Then they were at the beach. Gwen stretched time again as they went for a walk, searching for sea glass and fossils. You think that place with the good chowders still around? Kyle signed. Let's find out. Gwen compressed time, and they were suddenly there, sitting in a booth as the server placed their order in front of them. Thanks, kyle said and signed. The server returned his smile. I think she likes you, gwen signed to him. Who can blame her? He signed back. They both laughed. Thanks, she said, fingertips to chin, then away. Today could have been a pretty bad day for me, but you made it bearable. It's been too long since we got to hang out like this, just you and me. Let's not let so much time pass without doing it again, he said. Gwen nodded. Then she stretched time while they shared a meal and watched the waves outside roll in.
- [06:02]
Stefan Rodnicki
You have just heard Time Management by P.A. cornell Narrated by Nan McNamara P.A. cornell is a Chilean Canadian speculative fiction writer. A graduate of the Odyssey Workshop, her stories have been published in over 60 magazines and anthologies, including Lightspeed, Apex, and 4 Best of Anthologies. In addition to becoming the first Chilean Nebula finalist in 2024, Cornell has been a finalist for the Aurora and World Fantasy Awards, long listed for the BSFA awards, and in 2022 won Canada's Short Works Prize. When not writing, she can be found assembling intricate Lego builds or drinking ridiculous quantities of tea. Sometimes both. For more on the author and her work, visit her pacornell.com Nan McNamara is the recipient of multiple earphones awards and and Audiophile Magazine's Best Audiobook of the Year distinction. She has narrated more than 300 audiobooks. NAN is the recipient of the Los Angeles Drama Critics Circle Award, Louisiana Weekly Award and Stage RAW Award for her stage work in Wit and 33 variations. She has performed on television and film, most recently in Hulu's Good Trouble and Fox's 911 Lone Star. Nan co hosts a podcast called From Beneath the Hollywood Sign about the Golden Age of Hollywood. Up next, we have Empathetic Psychosis by Justin C. Key. Narrated by me, Stefan Rodnicki right after this message
- [08:04]
Shopify Advertiser
Starting or growing your own business can be intimidating and lonely. At times. Your to do list may feel endless with new tasks and lists can easily begin to overrun your life. So finding the right tool that not only helps you out but simplifies everything as a built in business partner can be a game changer for millions of businesses. That tool is Shopify. Shopify is the commerce platform behind millions of businesses around the world and 10% of all e commerce in the US from household names like Gymshark, Rare Beauty and Heinz to brands just getting started, Shopify has hundreds of ready to use templates that can help you build a beautiful online store that matches your brand's style and you can tackle all the important tasks in one place, from inventory to payments to analytics and more. No need to save multiple websites or try to figure out what platform is hosting the tool that you need. And if people haven't heard about your brand, they you can get the word out like you have a marketing team behind you with easy to run email and social media campaigns to reach customers wherever they're scrolling or strolling. Start your business today with the industry's best business partner, Shopify, and start hearing. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at shopify.com realm. Go to shopify.com realm that's Shopify.
- [09:29]
Realms of Peril and Glory Announcer
Welcome to the realms of peril and glory. Explore the mechanically magical vistas of Vale, the paranormal mysteries of liminal London, and the cyberpunk chaos of Cyborg. Be awed by our incredible guests from familiar shows like Oxventure and no Rolls Barred. Search Realms of Peril and Glory to find out more.
- [10:03]
Stefan Rodnicki
Buckle up, we're going to Lightspeed Empathetic Psychosis by Justin C. Key Personality Disorder not otherwise Specified My patients called me Dr. Holloway. My friends called me Jason. I won't tell you what my three ex wives called me, but I'm sure you can guess. I was a psychiatrist and a damn good one. 70% of the time my adult life had been Full of restarts, reinventions and rehabilitations. This new beginning, though, this was supposed to be different. I'd taken a job at Margins Treatment center in sunny Los Angeles as the clinical director. As a top quality partial hospitalization program in Beverly Hills that took insurance. Margins was like an Ivy League school. The richest of the rich bought their way in and covered the cost. For those needing a sliding scale, it was a mixing part of Los Angeles mental health struggles from those who just needed a break from life to those who tried to permanently break from life. The center helped people deal with life's margins, the parts that few others saw until the ink bled across the page and demanded attention. I'd been a board certified psychiatrist for 18 years and had worked in hospitals, nursing homes, vas, pill mills, private practices, intensive outpatient programs, rehab facilities, and even did a little bit of under the table guided psychedelic trips at the tail end of my last marriage. Any setting that needs a psychiatrist to sign a script, I probably worked it. Some were tolerable, some were good, most were unbearable. Margins promised to be a great gig, my best in years as the clinical director, I was there to direct, not see patients directly. But how could I run a clinic without contributing to what made it tick? Complicated grief therapy groups held a special place in my heart. Nothing replaced a good one on one, but magic happened when you put a bunch of untrained struggling individuals together and made them talk out their issues. Patients often responded to other patients in ways my license and experience would never have allowed. Those raw moments bore unforeseen therapeutic healing. Margins offered all types of groups, from addiction to psychosis to nail biters. Anonymous I was a month into my role as clinical director when I decided to scratch my itch. I'd quickly mapped out the idiosyncrasies of my new colleagues and Dr. Julius Turner, the longtime Margins psychiatrist who should have gotten my job, to hear him tell it was always four to five minutes late. It was therapeutic to let the patients sit with any discomfort or resentment, he'd muse, but I just saw it as untreated adhd. Either way, I came to his suicidal ideation group on time, sat in the moderator chair and introduced myself. Only three patients today, a small, intimate group. I knew each case from the shared one liners during Morning Report where the various clinical staff gave daily updates and impressions on Margins senses. Marcus Walters, 35, was recovering from a serious suicide attempt by unsuccessful hanging after losing his wife in a car crash. While this was his first attempt, Kelly Rosenthal had danced with death many times by the age of 25. Her bright smile and welcoming demeanor did nothing to advertise that she'd just tried to overdose on her mood stabilizing medication a week before. Lyle Blevins, 46, had never attempted and likely never would, but his bad OCD kept him fantasizing about ending his life every waking moment. That suffering almost excused his sour attitude. Almost. I started on time. Five minutes later, Dr. Turner waltzed into the therapy room, head down, and paused when he saw me in his seat. Tall and lanky and with thick rimmed glasses that gave him an AI generated feel, his expression was always some variant of I just sniffed something slightly sour. Clean shaven, soft jawed and clear skinned, he could have been 10 years my junior. I was pretty sure we were the same age. I gave him the I got this Nodded. I'd guessed he was the type who didn't like to engage in conflict in front of patients, and I was right. After he'd reluctantly backed out, I gestured for the interrupted patient to go on. I don't drink coffee, but I still put the water to boil every morning. She always needed that cup to start the day. Kelly, how long were you married? Too long. That's what she would say as a joke. That was her humor. 11 years. Not long enough, doctor. Such sudden loss is never easy, Marcus. You get paid to pretend you understand. You don't, Dr. Holloway. I don't. Not like this. But I've lost my first wife, left me, took the kids, the whole nine. It felt like a death. Shit, Dr. H. That sounds hard, Dr. Holloway. Our marriage was designed to withstand hard. It couldn't endure me being an alcoholic. Lyle Share much? Damn. I'm sorry, Dr. Holloway. Don't be. I got a free script of the best medicine in my field. Regret, Marcus. My only regret is I wasn't successful. Kelly, I'm glad you're still here. Kelly reached across the aisle and squeezed Marcus's hand. Lyle, I thought touching wasn't allowed. Everyone's head turned as the door to the group therapy room opened. Instead of Dr. Turner come to regain his dignity, the program director and founding CEO leaned in halfway short and commanding. Dr. Kirsten lynch wore a different color suit dress every day. Today was olive green. Even through her always on smile, I could tell she wasn't happy. Dr. Kirsten Lynch. Dr. Holloway. A word adjustment disorder. You rang? I said when we were far enough down the hallway. If I needed another group leader, I would have hired one. Dr. Lynch said. It's good to connect with the patients. I said. We have enough connections what we don't have is leadership. During my brief job interview, Dr. Lynch told me only that she'd applied to medical school once upon a time, but soon found she would have more interest in employing doctors than in being one. I'd done my homework, though. She made most of her money writing self help books, and from the looks of her social media was just a few thousand subscribers shy of influencer status. Margins had grown into something bigger than her original ambitions and needs. But as long as she kept things afloat, including being efficient about insurance costs, the business would keep her comfortable in between book contracts. Of course, she wouldn't take well to my unorthodox ways. I was usually good about hiding them until the end of a new job's honeymoon period. At least I was off my game. She had hired me quickly. I suspected she'd let me go twice as fast if she saw me as a threat to stability. We went to morning meeting, which had started 10 minutes ago. Margins employed two psychiatrists, four therapists, two social workers, and a pharmacologist who came in once a week to consult as they went through the census. I tried and failed to hide my drifting attention. I caught the newly hired therapist staring at me halfway through report. New to Margins, but not new to me. Her hair wrapped in a neat bun above sharp kind eyes, a designer scarf snug around her neck, she looked like she'd stepped right out of 10 years ago. She sipped her coffee as our gaze connected. Evelyn. What the fuck was she doing here? We had history. The type of history that could truncate my stay in California. A therapist follows her former patient all the way across the country to haunt his life? I said out the side of my mouth at the coffee pot she'd gotten up to pour her second cup. That's got to be violating some code of ethics. Trust me, I had no clue. Evelyn said she really did look the same, except the unease that was new. I'd like to keep this job if possible. Don't worry. I'm sure they like you more than they like me. They need you more than they need me, she said. I won't tell if you don't. Evelyn looked me over. She'd helped me through some tough times, and she had to be thinking about the unorthodox methods I used in treating patients. But things were different now. I was on medication. Besides, Dr. Lynch made it clear that my role here wasn't to treat. How's your husband? I said. I couldn't for the life of me remember his name. Same old I don't know what he'd do without me. But don't tell him that. You seem to be doing well. I am, I said. For now. Major depressive disorder. I kowtowed to the boss's request and made sure most of my hours were spent doing clinical director things, reviewing notes, lengths of stay, treatment outcomes, and making myself available for any issues that arose among the clinicians. But something about that patient, Marcus, I just had to help him. I snuck in personal afternoon therapy sessions. His room was south facing and far from Dr. Lynch's office. There wasn't much that could be done when it came to furnishing living spaces for psychiatric patients, but margins somehow transcended the suffocating feel of locked wards. While maintaining safety during intake, each patient could decorate their room from preselected decor. The result was often telling to any mental health provider with a keen enough eye. Marcus had chosen sterile. The walls were bare, the bed unseasoned. Dr. Holloway, what do you remember about her, Marcus? She'd always say, you know, at the end of a sentence, and her voice would go real high. She didn't like the lights on at night. She kissed out the side of her mouth. Dr. Holloway, what are you feeling right now, Marcus? Anger, Dr. Holloway. Towards Marcus. Everyone. Her, you, this place. Whoever decided the person couldn't take their own life. I just want to die. No one will miss me. Shouldn't I be allowed to, Doctor? Some think you should. And you, Dr. Holloway? I think. What would she want? Anxious attachment. I left the office late and caught my date walking full stride to her car in Freebird Restaurant's parking lot. I intercepted. Whoa. We just got here, I said. No, you just got here. I've been here 30 minutes. You wanted someone ambitious. What's more ambitious than a busy doctor? Amber came back in, but we never fully recovered. I had a list of questions and topics I'd prepared. I'd really only asked her on a second date because I'd gotten sidetracked on the first and my 14 year old son Caden liked that she wasn't a doctor and she'd only answered my text after I promised not to be late this time. Halfway through dinner, it was clear we'd never work. Still, a novel question burned through. Let's say we go far, I said. Marriage far. If you died tragically, would you want me to live on or to romantically die? Amber mouthed the last two words. Romantically die. Sorry. Unalive myself. Amber took a bite, looked at her phone, then at me, and sat back. Live on. She said. You're ambitious, right? Be great without me. You didn't give it much thought, I said. Amber shrugged and went back to her phone. When the check came, Amber raised her eyebrow. You're ambitious, right? I paid the bill. Amber muttered her thanks and quickly left, furiously texting, probably about how much of a waste I proved to be on my own way out. A couple minutes later, someone tapped my shoulder. Evelyn, my old therapist turned new colleague. And now it's getting creepy, I said. I thought the same. I was having dinner with my other half and thought I'd say hi. It's good to see you dating again. How'd it go? I laughed. Post traumatic stress disorder. I brought dinner, I announced as I walked through the front door of our second floor apartment. The lease was month to month. I hoped to soon change that. Kaden rushed over and gave me a full hug. I hesitated a bit before returning the embrace. I mouthed to my father in the background as I pointed to my son. See? You did this. I took after mom, who had been about as affectionate to us as a rattlesnake. Dad was always the hugging type, and now he doted over his only grandson. My father touched my shoulder as he exited. He was good, as always. And we already ate two hours ago. Thanks, dad. How was the date? Caden said once his grandfather had left. My son, the youngest of three, had decided at the age of 10 to give his rehabilitated father a second chance, and his mother had decided this was unforgivable. What was supposed to be joint custody in Washington, D.C. turned into a type of emotional abandonment. Caden stopped asking about his mother around his 13th birthday, didn't protest when I announced the move from coast to coast and since landing in Los Angeles, had taken attention to my love life like it was his own school project. It went great. We hit it off. So much better than our first. We have so much in common. Caden's smile melted. You were late again, weren't you? Late is relative. Reframe it. I was early for our third date. Caden picked up my phone, unlocked it against my protests, and opened up my dating app. I finished my homework. Time to do yours. See who's the parent here. Oh, that's right, I am. I snatched the phone playfully. Time for bed, Matchmaker. Disorganized attachment Back in my room, I cursed at my phone. After swiping until I didn't know what I was swiping for, I went to my bedside table, dispensed a Xanax, popped one, and then noticed a broken section on my custom made medication dispenser. I'd consulted with a college friend turned engineer on ways to mitigate my issues with taking my meds consistently. Now the side with my most important medication was jammed. So much for an Ivy League education. Anger. The feeling is anger. How the fuck? I'd missed a month's worth of medication. Not all of it. The antidepressant and the one that helped stave off alcohol cravings had both dispensed fine, but the most important one? The antipsychotic. It had taken me years to find a regimen with the right combination of efficacy and managed side effects. I'd balanced out the weight gain with a ketogenic diet, had an auto renewing biotin delivery for the dry mouth, and took gabapentin for the restless leg. I'd been so successful that I'd achieved a the ultimate patient status. It feels like I'm taking nothing at all. The stabilizing antipsychotic had hit a variety of neuroreceptors. Every patient was different, and sometimes changes were immediate. But mostly the clinical effects came over time, as the saturation levels rose and receptor expression levels adapted and shifted. When the change did come, for some it would be sudden and steep. Hearing voices or gravelly delusional one week and insightful and organized the next. I knew from experience that my course was more insidious. The extra dopamine produced in my mesolimbic tract, the highway that delivered the important reward based neurotransmitter to other parts of my brain, had silently taken residence over the last month and was likely affecting a multitude of my sensorium. In layman's terms, this wasn't good. Schizophrenia Empathetic type. This wasn't my first rodeo. I was well aware of my condition, as I'd coined it myself, Empathetic schizophrenia. Good luck finding it in any textbooks and definitely don't expect insurance to pay. I had a patient with schizophrenia in residency who ran a Fortune 500 company and was able to keep the voices under wraps as long as she took her meds. It had given me hope during a time when I questioned whether my mental health would force me to drop from the profession. As a disease, schizophrenia manifested on a full spectrum, from hearing voices to fixed false beliefs to crippling paranoia to thoughts that just never organize themselves quite right for me. I took on other people's attributes, most notably the symptoms of my patients. If they were depressed, I got depressed. Heard voices. I heard them too. Manic and grandiose. My credit score remembered my own Psychiatrists didn't believe me, and I started simply reporting, hearing the voice of my dead mother whenever I was symptomatic and needed meds. I privately demoed monikers in those early years. Absorptive Schizophrenia. Chameleon Psychosis. Nice, but too reptilian. And then I had a patient with bad social anxiety who described himself as an empath. Someone who could feel other people's emotions as their own. Voila. Empathetic schizophrenia was born. It proved a great tool to secretly treat patients. A horrible thing to lose control of. But I was still in control, right? Poor insight is a hallmark of psychosis, meaning one often doesn't know when they are psychotic. There were ways of finding out, and I'd been psychotic and delusional enough times to know how to navigate it. Now I could navigate it well, you could ask my first two wives, but that would be cheating. My third wife, she understood the dance, and that's why she left. I started with patient Marcus. I'd taken on his distress, clear from the ridiculous question I'd posed to Amber. But was he even real? Million dollar question. I easily found his chart, which included notes from other staff. A good sign, but not enough. I sat in on his groups. I took note of the mental statuses of the other patients as Marcus spoke, checked for the interactions, recognized my own counter transference. It was like trying to figure out if one were living in a simulation. I considered consulting with Evelyn. She could tell me quickly and definitively if Marcus existed, and she already knew what my mind was capable of. But she didn't know I hadn't been on my medication. What if she took this as a decompensation? Was this a decompensation? Cognitive behavioral therapy for psychosis. I found Evelyn in the break room, filling up on coffee. She seemed to be expecting me. I need you to chart check a patient for me, I said. You're worried about them. Not him. Me. I think I may be having a hallucination. This place will do that to you, you know. I'm serious. The patient's name is Marcus. Last name? I don't know, actually. Just tell me I'm not crazy. Evelyn adjusted her scarf and slid behind the nearest computer. I can't tell you that. But I can tell you if he's real. Marcus Walters. Here after a suicide attempt. Looks like shit. Lost his wife. Car crash, I said. Very sad. Devastating. Evelyn turned from the computer screen to me. How are things at home? I'm not here for a session. Thanks for the consult. I left before I could hear more bipolar disorder type 1. As clinical director, I technically ran morning report. I thought of it similar to group therapy, let it run its course, and I intervened when it veered off the rails. The impressive margins team was a large part of what made the job great instead of just good. Evelyn, of course, could do no wrong in my eyes though Deirdre Foote, PhD, didn't have the pleasure of once being my therapist. She'd been at the treatment center since its inception and I quickly learned to trust her judgment. Sean Cohen was a resourceful middle aged social worker who navigated Los Angeles better than Google Maps when finding services for patients. Nearing discharge, I listened to their insights and recommendations with respect and wait. Dr. Turner and me, however, we just didn't see eye to eye. Dr. Turner Johnny Clay, 41, coming down off a bad manic episode. Fresh Face Tattoo traveled to D.C. believing he was hired as consultant to the President. Some underlying narcissism. How's he doing in group? Foot PhD interpersonally reactive. Several redirections. Walked out of two this week. Sean only two foot PhD. Baby steps. Dr. Holloway getting out of his head will be good for him. Dr. Turner heard reports he's been making our VIP patient uncomfortable, talking about all the movies he's seen in group. Actually surprised when someone inevitably points out the VIP sitting beside him was in said movie. Dr. Holloway We're a psych facility. It's supposed to be uncomfortable. Dr. Turner The VIP wants to be moved. Dr. Holloway no special treatment. Dr. Turner do you know what VIP means? Dr. Holloway Important people are still people. What are they going to do, review us on Yelp? No special treatment. Life in the margins Dr. Lynch's latest book, Life in the how to Take Control of youf Mental Health While being Successful, was a hit. She passed around signed copies to the entire staff and often took meetings virtually from the next book tour city. So when insurance started requiring exit interviews for all patient discharges as part of billing, she was both stretched thin and in a particularly receptive mood. She agreed to let me do them. All of them. In return, I laid off the groups and extraneous patient care. I quickly found these exit interviews to be bullshit. They all felt like Red in the Shawshank Redemption, sitting in front of the parole board, putting forward his best. One, however, threw me off with her honesty. Annabelle Brown, a 37 year old lifelong bachelorette, was going home three months after checking in for a bad case of sex addiction. When most people hear such a diagnosis, they think of a man addicted to porn or spending his life's savings on sex workers, so everyone at Margen's scoffed at her one liner until they actually read her case. Hundreds of thousands on premium matchmaking services, multiple STDs, a few ongoing court cases from exhibitionism, and fired from three jobs for watching porn at work. The most recent termination had prompted her coming to Margins. Sex addiction was a wary addition to any group setting, but most of the cases that sought this level of treatment were men. I knew from case studies that it presented differently in women and that she wasn't going to enter any room looking for her next conquest. Still, she surprised me in how insightful she was about relationships, intimacy, and loss, especially towards Marcus. I'd even piggybacked off her comments a few times in group. They'd grown close. Annabelle's addiction and aim to get better took any sexual tension off the table. Whenever someone brought up at Morning Report a concern of how much time they spent together, I shut it down quick. As I sat with Annabelle for her exit interview, I made a mental note to check in on Marcus and see how this discharge was hitting. I asked her the routine questions pertaining to why she'd come, if her symptoms had improved, what she'd learned, how life might be different. She looked me in the eye and told me she didn't plan to change a single behavior. It was the framing. Labeling her actions as an addiction discounted her regaining autonomy for her sexuality. At some point I was sure she'd stopped talking about herself and was referencing my whole approach to dating and intimacy. I hadn't kissed a woman in years, not since becoming a full time parent again. I had to make sure I found just the right one, that she checked all the right boxes for me and Kayden. Before I could even think about physical attraction, I was floored. Annabelle was right. I was going about the dating business all wrong. I should be approaching it by needs of shared pleasure and autonomy, not logistic compatibility. Dr. Heal Thyself sex addiction I arrived at the restaurant five minutes early. I'd matched with Caroline Miller after clearing several filters from my dating app. She was definitely different than the usual women I swiped right on with their crisp professional grade pictures, Ivy League laden bios, and at least two serious hobbies to show, well, roundedness. But something about her unpolished profile made me tingle in ways that furthered the anticipation. During the drive across town. The food was good, the conversation was better. I scrolled through my list of questions and put my phone face down. Fuck it. What's your fantasy? I asked. She nearly choked on her blackened Cajun Salmon. Excuse me? I'm not trying to be freaky or too forward. Okay, maybe a little forward. But I want to know what does it for you in any category. She picked out her food and then looked at her phone. Shit. I'd lost another one. Power off, she said, placing the phone face down on the table. Her eyes sparkled, making sure Siri doesn't hear. Doesn't hear what? I said. I forgot all about that goddamn list. Me telling you my fantasy. And then she told me grandiose ideations. My father leaned in for a whisper when I came in. It's well past midnight. You smell like perfume. Did you use protection? What am I, 16? Well, did you? No. I mean, I didn't need to and I hadn't. I'd gotten the second base and was only hitting for first. Dad patted me on the shoulder and left. Behind him, Kadin was beaming. My dad didn't shy away from innuendos, and he'd requested more than once to give Caden his version of the birds and the bees talk. You know, in case you missed anything. What speculations had my father voiced as my date stretched into the night? I didn't want to know. We watched a movie. I deflected any and all questions about my date as I hadn't quite figured it out myself. I woke up a few hours into the night. Caden had put a blanket over me and gone to bed. I turned over and began to doze when I remembered I hadn't yet taken my medication. I thought about it all that had happened, who I had helped. My dose was one pill a day. One full pill. I cut it in half. Doctor, heal thyself. Sometimes healing came from going through, not around. Delusional disorder, margins. And I fell in a groove. The center became inundated with referrals due to Dr. Lynch's literary success. Got on another lucrative insurance panel and hired two new therapists. As for me, I felt alive. I felt effective. The small bit of medication did enough to keep me stable while allowing me to tap into my gift. I was well aware that feeling like I could control my psychosis was what led to the crumbling of all my previous lives. Virginia Beach, Atlanta, Miami, Ann Arbor, D.C. but this time was different. This time I was in control. If I leaned into the schizophrenia just enough, I could connect with my patients on a cosmic level and maybe help myself a little. The result? We'd both soar. Very important person disorder. Foot. PhD, first new. Just discharged from UCLA. Big name actor back in the 80s. Meth addiction. On it off. But when it's on. It's bad. Tried to cut a hidden camera out of his eye this last go round. Surprisingly Pleased on intake.
- [44:39]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [44:40]
Stefan Rodnicki
How famous?
- [44:41]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Foot.
- [44:42]
Stefan Rodnicki
PhD. Household.
- [44:44]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [44:45]
Stefan Rodnicki
Regular groups for the regularly important patient. Right. Dr. Holloway. Doctor. Right. Next. Foot PhD. Here's one you don't see every day. Delusion. She's dead and her body is rotting from the inside. Dr. Holloway. Cotards. Haven't seen one of those in a while. Foot. PhD. This is a thing. Dr. Holloway. Definitely a thing.
- [45:13]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [45:14]
Stefan Rodnicki
I'll take her. What psychosis groups we have going. Doctor. Not a good idea. Put her with a bunch of paranoid patients hearing voices and she'll feel we're invalidating her beliefs.
- [45:29]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [45:30]
Stefan Rodnicki
But we are invalidating her beliefs. Doctor. Do you know for a fact her insides aren't rotting?
- [45:38]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [45:39]
Stefan Rodnicki
What an absurd question you're not even going to consider. Dr. Holloway. I've considered it. Regular groups. Assign her to my caseload.
- [45:48]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Foot.
- [45:49]
Stefan Rodnicki
PhD. You don't have a caseload. Dr. Holloway. Semantics. Next patient. Cotards. Delusion. Quite the test case. Unlike my empathetic schizophrenia. Cotards was defined in the textbooks in the section of rare psychotic disorders that no one knew what to do with. With it, patients developed the belief that they were either dead or parts of their bodies were dead or rotting. I dove right in. The patient. A 46 year old woman. Recently divorced. Adult children. No psychiatric history. Should have been entering the next phase of her life. And then bam. Beliefs of rotting from the inside out. Her delusions were potent. They immediately wrapped around me. I had four dates lined up in the next week and I didn't touch my plate at a single one. I feared my insides wouldn't be able to process the food. Only Caroline stuck around for more. I took a chance and told her I had a patient with a food aversion and I was trying to put myself in their shoes. Like method acting. But with psychiatry. She thought it was cute. Go figure. I stopped sleeping because I feared I wouldn't wake up. As I suffered and rotted internally, I used the insights to guide the patient through her own psychosis and find meaning. I'd lost 15 pounds by the time she was discharged. That was horrible. That was amazing. I should have learned my lesson. I should have taken my medication. But with great power comes great responsibility. Right? Hypomania. Here are some of the margins patients I treated over the course of the next three. A 36 year old woman, married with twin preteen daughters. With delusions that her family members had been replaced with imposters Capgras delusion. A spiritual cousin to Cotards and found in the same textbook section. I had one night of wondering if Caden was an imposter. He was so much more wholesome than me. After all. Instead of confronting him. Yes, I seriously considered it. I took a whole pill that night alongside a glass of wine. The insight I gained helped me break the woman's delusion. The next day she was in and out. Something the insurance liked to see. A 24 year old man just got into medical school, stuck inside because he was convinced parasites had taken root underneath his skin. I was up all night scratching nothing a little Benadryl and long sleeves couldn't tackle. 55 year old woman with narcolepsy bad enough to get into margins. That was a hard week. Two of my dates left me snoring into my dinner napkin. Caroline drove my car home. I offered my bed and for me to crash on the couch, but she cited my previously stated wishes to have her properly meet Kaden before any sleeping over. She ubered home. Kaden heard the whole thing and the next day asked if I needed the birds and bees talk. How embarrassing these were. The mainsthere were others that caused only comical shifts in my mental state. There was one kid with an intense fear of butterflies. His family had a lot of money and needed a break. Delusions of government spy drones, various manifestations of ocd, and hearing the voice of Pee Wee Herman's ghost. All manageable. I was handling it. Secure attachment. Or so I thought. I got to work early one morning and decided to check on Annabelle Brown. See if she'd shown up at any other psychiatrist's office, if her framing shift had been only temporary. But I couldn't find anything at all. An impossible explanation immediately came to me. I went and waited in the break room until Evelyn showed up. As soon as she entered, I locked the door. I'm going to have to start charging you, you know, Evelyn said. I got right to it. Did you delete a patient's chart? Evelyn saw that I was serious. We both sat. She looked as tired as I felt. You deleted my documentation on Annabelle Brown, I said. I'm not asking you if, I'm asking you why. Evelyn told it to me straight. It's what I loved and hated about her as a therapist. Annabelle wasn't real. She was a hallucination. You're surprised by this? For her, yes. Are you sure? Of course you are. Shit, I thought. I was only on the edge of my disorder, adopting just enough of my patient's issues to facilitate healing. But this a whole patient conjured up. That meant auditory and visual hallucinations with widespread altered beliefs. How deep was my psychosis if I hadn't even suspected? You've been doing well, Evelyn said. The patients love you. The staff respects you. You just need to stay grounded. Thank God for you, I said. I'm your colleague. Hell, damn near employee. I can't be your therapist. I'm not asking for that. Just a little grounding. Have you been taking your medications? I nodded. Evelyn smelled the lie. We'll set up a weekly check in. Let's call it therapy. Supervision. Something Dr. Lynch can bill for. It's just a check in. Nothing more. Paranoid personality disorder. While I was worried about my downfall coming from within, I'd silently gained an outward enemy. Dr. Julius Turner wanted my job, and he was secretly finding ways to get it. He only needed to convince one person. I don't know what the conversations were like. Only the aftermath afterwards. Dr. Lynch wouldn't talk to me about it. No one would. I didn't learn the full extent of my spiral until years later. After I'd lost everything, including my autonomy. But I'm a schizophrenic empath. I'm working on that one. Fully aware that using the disease as an adjective is problematic. This is how I imagined the conversation went.
- [52:51]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [52:52]
Stefan Rodnicki
I've found some irregularities in Dr. Holloway's documentation. Dr. Lynch. You're swinging for the fences. I see.
- [53:01]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [53:02]
Stefan Rodnicki
A courtesy check. I know you were pressured to hire him. He popped out of nowhere. Dr. Lynch. And has considerably decreased our average length of stay. Which puts us in great position to negotiate better rates with insurance.
- [53:18]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [53:19]
Stefan Rodnicki
Reimbursement rates aren't everything. Dr. Lynch. Our patient satisfaction has also shot through the roof.
- [53:28]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [53:29]
Stefan Rodnicki
I've gotten a few Google reviews too. Dr. Lynch. Really? Show me one.
- [53:35]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [53:36]
Stefan Rodnicki
I have a patient soon and want to make this quick. Dr. Lynch. Of course.
- [53:41]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [53:42]
Stefan Rodnicki
Handing over his preloaded tablet. You'll want to take a look at this. That's Jason's. Dr. Lynch. Dr. Holloway's.
- [53:52]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [53:53]
Stefan Rodnicki
His last several notes on a patient named Annabelle Brown. Even got a lengthy discharge summary. It's particularly detailed about the patient's sex addiction. Dr. Lynch. I never took you for a prude.
- [54:07]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [54:08]
Stefan Rodnicki
That's not what I mean. Here's last month's census. Notice anything? Dr. Lynch. No. Annabelle Brown?
- [54:17]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [54:18]
Stefan Rodnicki
Nope. What's more, he deleted the entire chart yesterday. Dr. Lynch. You got an alert on his EMR activity or something? Fuck you're thinking insurance fraud, Dr. Turner? If only. Borderline personality with recurrent suicidal ideations. Patients came and went. Except Marcus. Every time I thought he might be ready for discharge, he proved me wrong. Dr. Holloway. It can be scary when things are going well. It can make us feel like we're losing control. Being in here is safer, Marcus. Dr. Holloway. Is that why you cut yourself? To take back control? Marcus. Dr. Holloway, your insurance will only cover two more days here. Leadership wants to send you back to the hospital. I want to send you home. You have to give me reasons. You have to tell me you didn't try to kill yourself in your room last night. I didn't try to kill myself in my room last night. We done? Marcus? Marcus. There's not a goddamn thing I'm in control of, Dr. Holloway. You have control over what decisions you make, how you honor your wife's memory. When I die, who will you feed this bullshit to? None of it matters. Are we done? Or are you sending me back to that hellhole? Dissociative identity disorder. By now Caroline must have thought I had multiple personalities. She'd seen so many faces of me, but she stuck around and seemed to like who I was. Things were going well and that was scary. I knew my defenses were set to self sabotage, but I did it anyway. I picked a fight right at the start of dinner. A petty one, one of those hypothetical questions that didn't have a right answer. She tried to de escalate, but I dug in. I blew up, and in the end I told her I wasn't ready for a relationship and that she should run. She did. A woman slid into the empty chair opposite me. I was about to tell her I had syphilis when I saw it was my former therapist. Since I'm not officially your therapist anymore, Evelyn said, I can ask this plainly. What the fuck was that about? It wasn't going to work out anyway, I said. Of course not with that attitude. Evelyn frowned and glanced beside her. What? I had been looking off to the side. Another person had joined our table. Annabelle Brown. The fake Annabelle Brown. She was cutting into a rib eye, a judgmental smirk on her face. She's right, you know, annabelle said. She took a bite of the ribeye. Blood dripped down her chin. What a detail. Auditory, visual. And was that gustatory? When's the last time you saw your doctor? Evelyn said. Good question. I'm my own doctor, I said. You know that. Maybe it's time for that to change. Annabelle popped another bloody forkful in her mouth and nodded. Emphatically factitious disorder. I found a provider at Second Changes Psychiatry, a small office in the South Bay, removed from the insular community of Beverly Hills and downtown Los Angeles. The setting was posh, intimate and quiet. Dr. Sabrina Lopez was kind and inquisitive. Fuck it. I told her my diagnosis of empathetic schizophrenia. She thought this was bullshit, of course, but was nice about it. When she started talking about alternatives to medications, I turned up the heat. I'm a third grade teacher, I said, knowing my profession's weak spot. This helps me connect with my students. Hearing this, Dr. Lopez got real serious real quick and wrote a prescription. Something strong to stabilize things. Now to find the therapist. Maybe I'd tell her the whole story. Probably not. Avoidant attachment. As a psychiatrist, and a damn good one 73% of the time, I knew that any change in my medication would take weeks to work. Still, I was horrified to see Annabelle Brown sitting in the next day's group. Kendall Lee, a 20 year old who'd just spent three months in UCLA's inpatient eating disorder unit, didn't seem to notice. Marcus, I'm going home tomorrow. It's time to move on and live like she would want me to. You know, this life, including her, was good to me. Kendall, I know I just met you, but I can tell you have a great spirit. Annabelle, you said it in the past tense, was good to me. I looked at Marcus, searching for some reaction. His head was low, of course he didn't react. Annabelle wasn't real, for fuck's sake. And all those times I'd thought Marcus and Annabelle were in sync. Marcus nodding to Annabelle's insights was just me making things up. Applying psychotic significance to insignificant things. Kendall, I can't imagine going home yet. All my classmates know I'm here, that I can't figure this shit out. It's so embarrassing, Marcus. It'll get better, Annabelle. You're just going to let that slide? Dr. H. Dr. Holloway. Marcus. Annabelle. He spoke about life in the past tense. You heard it, Dr. Holloway. You'll do great. Did you hear me, Dr. Holloway? Ask him what he meant, Marcus. Thank you, Dr. Holloway. You've been amazing. Dr. Holloway. Session over. We discharged Marcus that evening. Event note. Marcus Walters was a 35 year old man with no significant past psychiatric or medical history who presented to Margin's treatment center after a two week hospitalization due to a serious suicide attempt by hanging. Shortly after discharge, Mr. Walters died from jumping in front of a moving train. His note said simply, our life was full and good. I couldn't live without you, Evelyn.
- [61:30]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [61:32]
Stefan Rodnicki
The driest, saddest thing I ever fucking read. Aftermath. Dr. Lynch gave me a week off after Marcus's suicide. I expected to be fired. Wanted to be. I used my vacation to make it a whole month. I took my medications and I saw my new doctor. Annabelle faded away. The pain remained, but work had to be done. Narcissistic personality disorder. This was a snag, you see. Dr. Lynch was doing well. Margins was doing well. Even I was doing well to anyone. Not looking hard enough, I imagine Dr. Turner thought the stage was set to throw me under all the buses. I could just see him walking into our boss's office. Face scrunched like he'd just discovered a new level of source, believing he had me dead to rights.
- [62:33]
Dr. Jason Holloway
Dr. Turner.
- [62:34]
Stefan Rodnicki
You've read the report, Dr. Lynch?
- [62:37]
Dr. Jason Holloway
I have, Dr. Turner.
- [62:39]
Stefan Rodnicki
Patient Marcus Walters showed up on March 14th, and from then on, Jason. Dr. Holloway began referencing a therapist in his notes. Evelyn Walters, LCSW, the patient's dead wife. According to records, Evelyn and Dr. Holloway lived in Atlanta at the same time five years ago. He thinks his former therapist, dead therapist now works here with him. He's unwell, Dr. Turner. That's a relief. I read your book, by the way. Very chic. Family and medical leave. Fmla. The director called me to her office my first day back, a month after Marcus's suicide. She gave me the news and sent me on my way. Psychotic disorder. Not otherwise specified. Evelyn Walters, lcsw, waited for me in the hall. We went to lunch. I drove. Evelyn's car was in the shop. Your husband drove you to work? I said, that's cute. So you're going to tell me what happened or. Evelyn said. I was sure she was going to fire me. I said, well, did she?
- [64:04]
Dr. Jason Holloway
No.
- [64:05]
Stefan Rodnicki
She fired Dr. Turner. Cited lack of professionalism and team coherence. You think they were screwing? Hell to the hell no, Evelyn said. Then she thought about it. God, I hope not. I'll take his caseload, I said. That's a lot, you know, Evelyn said. She upturned her cup of coffee. Can you handle that now? I can. I have a date tonight. New swipe, Evelyn said. Old swipe Caroline. The one I blew up on. I think we can patch things up. Well, look at you, Evelyn said. Being stable and shit. Thanks to you. Alcohol use disorder, early relapse director Kirsten Lynch, MD, and CEO of Margins Treatment Center. New York Times Best selling author of Life on the Margins, budding socialite and dedicated dog. Mom didn't drink much on the job it wasn't professional, but they didn't teach any of this shit in business school, so fuck professionalism, right? She made sure her office door was locked and took another swig. She'd just fired Dr. Turner. He'd made a fuss. His type always did. But the lawyers could figure all that out. She was well aware of the rumors about them fucking. But he'd made a move on her all those years ago at the Christmas party. If he wanted to go down that route, he'd lose more than his job. It was Dr. Jason Holloway that made her nervous. If what Dr. Turner claimed was true, and really, Kirsten had no reason to discount any of it, even if she wanted to. Dr. Holloway had fully hallucinated a margins therapist with the same name as a patient's dead spouse, and had Kirsten heard him talking to someone in the hall as he'd left their meeting, the empty hall. But whatever Dr. Holloway was, whatever he was going through, it was good for business. Kirsten finished the bottle, turned on her computer, and began to clean up. Dr. Holloway's not. Welcome back. You have just heard Empathetic Psychosis By Justin C. Key Narrated by Stefan Rodnicki and directed by Alison Belle Buse Justin C. Key is a practicing psychiatrist and a speculative fiction writer. A graduate of Clarion West 2015, he is the author of the story collection the World Wasn't Ready for your and his stories have appeared in the magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, Escape Pod, Lightspeed, and On Reactor. His debut sci fi novel, the Hospital at the End of the World, is out now from HarperCollins. He received a BA in biology from Stanford University and completed his residency in Psychiatry at ucla. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and three children. Stefan Rodnicki is a double Grammy winning audiobook producer and an award winning narrator who has won 17 audio awards as well as more than 35 earphones awards and been named one of audiophile's golden voices. Stefan has been producing Lightspeed magazine podcasts since 2010, eventually adding nightmare and Fantasy magazine and sharing the Hugo Awards for best semiprozine in 2014 and 2015.
- [68:10]
Realms of Peril and Glory Announcer
Legendary stories, awe inspiring sound and endless adventure. Welcome to the realms of peril and glory. Explore the mechanically magical vistas of Vale, the paranormal mysteries of Liminal London, and the cyberpunk chaos of Cyborg. Fall in love with our core cast or be awed by our incredible guests from familiar shows like Oxventure, three Black Halflings and no Rolls Bard. Ignite your imagination and discover the realms of peril and glory today. Go to realmspod.com or search realms of Peril and Glory wherever you listen to Podcast.
- [69:10]
Glass Cannon Podcast Host
The war is over and both sides lost. Kingdoms were reduced to cinders and armies scattered like bones in the dust. Now the survivors claw to what's left of a broken world, praying the Darkness chooses someone else tonight. But in the shadowdark, the Darkness always wins. This is old school adventuring at its most cruel. Your torch ticks down in real time and when that flame dies, something else rises to finish the job. This is a brutal rules light nightmare with a story that emerges organically based on the decisions that the characters make. This is what it felt like to play RPGs in the 80s and man, it is so good to be back. Join the Glass Cannon Podcast as we plunge into the Shadow Dark every Thursday night at 8pm Eastern on YouTube.com theglasscannon with the podcast version dropping the next day. See what everybody's talking about and join us in the dark.
- [70:11]
Meg Bashwiner and Joseph Fink
Hi, we're Meg Bashwiner and Joseph Fink of welcome to Night Vale and on our new show the Best Worst, we explore the golden age of television.
- [70:19]
Stefan Rodnicki
To do that we're watching the IMDb viewer rated best and worst episodes of classic TV shows.
- [70:25]
Meg Bashwiner and Joseph Fink
The episode of Star Trek where Beverly Crusher has sex with a ghost, the episode of the X Files where Scully gets attacked by a vicious house cat,
- [70:32]
Stefan Rodnicki
and also the really good episodes too.
- [70:34]
Meg Bashwiner and Joseph Fink
What can we learn from the best and worst of great television? Like for example, is it really a bad episode or do people just hate women?
- [70:40]
Stefan Rodnicki
The Best Worst available wherever you get your podcasts. These stories were taken from the pages of Lightspeed Magazine, which is edited by John Joseph Adams. The podcast is co produced by Stefan Rodnicki and Alison Belle Buse at Skyboat Media and the stories and podcast are copyright 2026. Post production was by Alex Barton at Phase Shift and our music was composed and performed by Jack Kincaid. I am Stefan Rudnicki. Thank you for listening.