Driving to the Mountain

“Drive to the mountain.”

“Rest and relax.”

That’s Dr. Monroe’s idea of therapy. Drive to the mountain and get healed. I got so tired of hearing him say it, I decided to call his bluff and actually drive to the blasted mountain.

This really was a terrible idea, one of his worst. I had been driving for three days and the mountain never seemed to get any closer. I checked the map, my odometer, my GPS. (I always like a second and third opinion.) I tuned into the local radio station and heard the weather forecast for Mt. R&R (my nickname of course. The real name will remain anonymous, for obvious reasons). All the clues said I was getting closer. But every day, the mountain was just out of reach, covered with fog, laughing at me.

On the fourth day, I finally caught on to the doctor’s plan. The mountain of course was a fantasy. It never existed. He wanted to push me over the edge. He had hypnotized me to see and hear what wasn’t really there. But now I was onto his game. I’d prove how brilliant I was, how sane, how together.

I had stashed a small recorder on board, so now I had an alternative plan. I’d stop and interview the natives, pointing to the so-called mountain. They’d all say no such mountain existed, and we’d laugh together at the cosmic joke. And every word would be recorded!

I stopped at the next rest stop. There were people milling around, taking pictures, stretching their legs. I switched on the recorder. “Look at ole Mount R&R,” I giggled and pointed. No one even turned around. “What a joke, huh?” I roared. “Dr. M’s non-existent mountain!!” No one seemed to see me. I walked up to a guy in a blue sweater, stared directly into his eyes. He looked right through me, then turned to his companion and exclaimed, “Lovely view of the mountain from here!”

I see it all now. The mountain isn’t the illusion – I am. 

Help me, Dr. Monroe, please help me!