Not long ago I entered one of those bleak periods that many of us encounter from time to time, a sudden drastic dip in the graph of living when everything goes stale and flat, energy wanes, enthusiasm dies. The effect on my work was frightening. Every morning I would clench my teeth and mutter: "Today life will take on some of its old meaning. You've got to break through this thing. You've got to!"
But the barren days went by, and the paralysis grew worse. The time came when I knew I had to have help.
The man I turned to was a doctor. Not a psychiatrist, just a regular doctor. He was older than I, and under his gruffness lay great wisdom and compassion. "I don't know what's wrong," I told him miserably. "I just seem to have come to a dead end. Can you help me?"
"I don't know," he said slowly. He made a tent of his fingers and gazed at me thoughtfully for a long while. Then, abruptly, he asked, "Where were you happiest as a child?"
"As a child?" I echoed. "At the beach, I suppose. We had a summer cottage there. We all loved it."
He looked out the window and watched the October leaves sifting down. "Are you capable of following instructions for a single day?"
"I think so," I said, ready to try anything.
"Okay. Here's what I want you to do."
He told me to drive to the beach alone the following morning, arriving no later than nine o'clock. I could take some lunch, but I was not to read, write, listen to the radio or talk to anyone. "In addition," he said, "I'll give you a prescription to be taken every three hours."
He tore off four prescription blanks, wrote a few words on each, folded them, numbered them and handed them to me. "Take these at nine, noon, three and six."
"Are you serious?" I asked.
Yes, he said, he was.
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