A Tale of Two Dicks who Make some Life Changes with Differing Results

Dick hadn’t killed a Great White for 18 days, 11 hours, and 39 minutes. He’d counted. His whole body ached with the need to kill. He could feel his teeth going dull, his heart and lungs shriveling without those juicy fats. Oh god, he’d been so close to that Great White the other day. Just a couple of flaps of his flukes and he’d had him. He could sense the fear swimming inside of the Great White. God, he loved when they were scar–

Ok, stop, stop, stop. Dick, just stop! Get a hold of yourself! 

Dick shook his head. What had the therapist said? Acknowledge the thought and then let it pass. But Dick wasn’t letting it pass, he was gobbling it up. The thought of killing just one more Great White was so palpable, Dick couldn’t think of much else. No number of seals, sea birds or whatever mangy squid he could find could satiate his hunger the way a Great White could. Part of him wanted to give in to the feeling that this is how he was supposed to be, but he didn’t want to listen to that part any longer.

He was a killer but was he a Great White killer?

When he was in the middle of a kill he would lose himself, beautifully and irrevocably. He would succumb to the pleasure, wrap himself up in the pool of red, bathe himself in that ambrosial death. He would often “wake up” several hours later unsure of where he had been and what he’d done. That is, until he found the remnants of his acts and he felt the blood of that terrifying creature coursing through him. In those moments, he felt the weight of being the ocean’s fiercest predator. 

It was after the last kill that he decided to see a therapist. He’d been thinking of it for years, but something about the violence of that last kill had gotten to him. He hadn't just lost himself again, somehow he was changed into the ocean itself. He became life and death. He became every fish, every Great White, every squid, every whale, every tiny crab walking on the ocean floor. They were all him, and he was them. 

This scared the shit out of Dick. 

The therapist listened to him very carefully, but Dick could see that she was struggling to understand when he explained this feeling to her. 

“You feel like you’re the ocean?”

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. I mean,” he paused trying to collect his thoughts. “When I’m in the midst of it…” He found he often had trouble saying the words out loud. “When I’m in the midst of those moments with the Great White, I feel different. I feel both bigger and smaller than myself. As though I’m everything and nothing.”

“I see. Like the water. Vast and dense but in the end only a collection of microscopic atoms that slips through your fingers.”

“Fingers?”

“You know what I mean,” she replied slowly, seemingly confused herself. 

“But yeah, something like that. I didn’t do well in Chemistry, so I’m not sure.”

“Dick, you’ve come to me because you want to stop this behavior that you’ve deemed–for one reason or another–bad, right?”

“Right.”

“Ok, I’d like to explore this more as to why you find this behavior ‘bad’--I usually try to avoid judging my clients’ behavior as good or bad. But I understand your concerns here, which seem existential as opposed to just moral.”

“That’s a good way of putting it,” Dick said. 

“Good. So, then over the next several days, as you try to curb this behavior, I want you to firstly not judge any thoughts you have in this regard, but simply note them and let them move on by. They’re there, no use fighting them.”

“Okay, but I’m afraid I’ll give into the thoughts if I let them sit too long.”

“Well, we’re not letting them sit. You see them, point them out, say a quick ‘hello there, thoughts’ and then watch them walk out the door. If they continue to plague you, overstay their welcome if you will, then we can try distraction.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can try to focus your attention on something else that you deem more positive. This can be as small as trying some breathing techniques, going for a long swim, meditation, imagining yourself in a different place, et cetera.” 

“Breathing techniques?”

“Again, you know what I mean,” she said shortly. 

“Does that work?”

“It can, but it depends on you. Some distractions may prove…more distracting than others.”

“Okay…” he said, clearly considering this. 

“Do you have something in mind that you could use to help distract you from these thoughts?”

Dick had said yes but it was mostly a lie. He wasn’t sure about anything she had said and didn’t think that going for a long swim in this case was going to stop him from killing that Great White.  

But here he was half a moon later and he hadn’t yet killed another Great White, so something was working. Maybe. Most of the time his whole body pulsed with want and longing. Not killing Great Whites and distracting himself from doing so had become a full time job, and he had no mental wherewithal left to do anything else. 

It was then that Dick heard something in the distance that he doesn’t usually hear this far out–the sound of something moving slowly above the surface of the water. As he followed the sound, he realized that in his haze of intrusive Great White thoughts, he’d swum closer to the shoreline than he typically did. 

After a few minutes, Dick found what he had heard–two appendages dangling ever so innocently over a small board that floated gently on the water. Every now and then a paddle would enter the water, propelling the appendages further away. The paddling seemed rhythmic and unhurried. This thing was not concerned about where it was in the water, and Dick wasn’t sure if it should be. 

Intrusive thought, Dick said to himself. 

Or is it? 

Dick said hello to the thought, but didn’t let it leave quite yet. Was this the distraction he’d been looking for? This certainly wasn’t a Great White–it was something entirely different. These things were not exactly touchable, but they were also not untouchable. He had heard great, heroic stories of brothers and sisters avenging their captivity with the things. The more he thought about using this thing as a distraction, the fewer qualms he had about it. This would be more than a distraction, it would be a kind of vengeance.

That’s a stretch, Dick. 

We all know what they’re capable of.

You’re just going to kill things from now on?

No, no, no. It’s just this one thing. This one time. To hold me over. 

Dick nodded to himself and moved a little closer. This had already taken his mind off whatever Great White he was passively stalking–in fact, he’d nearly forgotten Great Whites in the last ten minutes. And that felt…good. Really good. 

He started to make slow circles around the thing, continuing to tell himself that he was just going to get a little closer to just have a quick look.

It’s a distraction. That’s all. Having a look never hurt anyone, right? 

You need help. 

—

Dick hadn’t killed a Great White in 18 days, 11 hours, and 39 minutes. He’d counted. His whole body ached with the need to kill. His hands, empty of a neck to hold onto, spasmed. He could feel his lungs shriveling without the air of a lifeforce entering him as it left another. He dreamed of that one Great White he saw walking in the park the other day. The wrinkled skin of its neck, the slowness of its gait. One would think that they would be less afraid of death the closer they were to it, but it was just the opposite–the thought of it ending in a way they never expected made Dick’s acts of violence that much more fearsome. God, he loved when they were scar–

Ok, stop, stop, stop. Dick, just stop! Get a hold of yourself! 

Dick shook his head. He really did need to stop. What had that weird therapist said? Acknowledge the thought and then let it pass. But Dick wasn’t letting it pass, he was gobbling it up. The thought of killing just one more Great White was so palpable, Dick couldn’t think of much else. It didn’t matter the number of hunts he went on with that group from MeetUp, no number of deer, elk, turkey could satiate his need to kill. 

Part of him wanted to give in to the feeling that this is how he was supposed to be, but he didn’t want to listen to that part any longer. He didn’t ask to be like this. A Great White killer. But somehow he just was. He was growing tired of the hiding, the addictive nature of it. He was always looking for some kind of fix that he couldn’t get without giving into the worst of himself. 

Or the best of myself? 

When he was in the middle of a kill he would lose himself, terrifyingly and irrevocably. He succumbed to the pleasure of the blood, wrapped up in that resplendent red, his eyes rolling back in his head at the smell of that ambrosial death. Rolling around in it like a dog in a juicy pile of shit. He would “wake up” several hours later unsure of where he had been and what he’d done until he smelled the remnants on his hands and felt the high of having taken another life, which was now his. In those moments, he felt the weight of being society’s most wretched. 

It was after the last kill that he decided to see a therapist. He’d actually never really thought of it before, had actively avoided it even. But something about the utter brutality of that last kill had gotten to him. He was changed into death itself. He saw himself from the outside and what he saw scared the shit out of him. Dick wasn’t sure he’d ever been scared like that before.

Of course he had to be very careful with how he talked to the therapist about his desires. 

“You feel like you’re addicted to mature porn?”

Dick could see that he wasn’t doing a good job of coming up with another way to talk about it. 

“Yes, like old people having sex.”

“How old?” the therapist asked. 

“Does that matter?”

“No, I’m just trying to get a better picture of what we’re dealing with here,” the therapist paused, waiting for him to say something else. When he didn’t, the therapist continued. “So why do you feel like you’re addicted?”

“I’m just constantly thinking about it if I’m not, like, doing–uh, watching it,” Dick said. 

“How often would you say you’re watching it?”

“Well, at its worst, like, once to twice a week.”

“That doesn’t seem like very much,” the therapist said, clearly bored. 

“Well, for me it is. It feels out of control when it’s like that.”

“But as long as you’re not hurting anyone in the process and the subjects of your fascination are willing participants in the creation of this content, what’s the harm?”

Dick was not sure how to answer that.

“It’s just the constant thinking about it that gets me, I guess. And then when I do…do it, I feel different, not myself. Or more myself. It’s confusing.” 

“Odd.”

“What’s odd?” 

“Sorry?” 

“You said ‘odd’. What’s odd?”

“Oh dear, did I? I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Wh—“

“Look, Dick, you’ve come to me because you want to stop this…behavior that you’ve deemed–for one reason or another–bad, right?”

“Right.”

“I’d like to explore this ‘bad’ behavior more,” he said, putting air quotes around bad, “but I think I understand your concerns here, which seem to be due to a fixation on old-fashioned morals.”

“I’m not sure that’s how I’d put it,” Dick said. 

“Good. So, then over the next several days, simply note any of these thoughts and let them move on by. They’re there, no use fighting them.”

“Wait, but I’m afraid I’ll give into the thoughts if I let them sit too long.”

“We’re not letting them sit. You see them, point them out, say a quick ‘hello there, thoughts’ and then watch them walk out the door,” he said, shutting an imaginary door in the air. “Or, if you really need some extra help, and it seems you might, we can try distraction.”

“What do you mean?”

“We focus your attention on something else that you deem positive. This can be as small as trying some breathing techniques, meditation…” He stopped talking to look out the window. “Or, like paddle boarding, or something.” 

“Paddle boarding?”

“It’s a great way of getting out of your head,” he said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Does that work?”

“Well, that depends on you. Some distractions may prove…more distracting than others.”

Although nothing the therapist had said made much sense to him, here Dick was half a month later, sitting on a paddle board in (what felt like) the middle of the ocean and he hadn’t yet killed anyone. Maybe something was working? Not killing any more Great Whites and distracting himself from doing so had become a full time job, and he had no mental wherewithal left to do anything else. Most of the time he felt sick to his stomach, his body trembling with withdrawal. 

Dick returned to himself and looked around. How had he even managed to get out this far? He’d sat down on the board for just a few minutes, lying back and closing his eyes and trying out some of the breathing techniques from that dumb brochure. He must have fallen asleep for longer than he realized. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

It was then that Dick heard something pop in and out of the water. He lightly kicked his legs and paddled towards the ripple of water some hundred feet away. As he got closer, it looked like something was making a circle in the water–maybe a swordfish or something? 

What if this thing killed you. 

It’s not going to kill me. I’ll kill it. 

You’re going to kill this sea monster with a paddle board?

No, with my bare hands. 

That was the thing about Dick. He was always one thought away from that dark oblivion–giving into that best-worst side of himself that told him he was invincible, that he was some kind of anti-hero. He could kill a Great White with his bare hands–why not whatever this was? Maybe this was his destiny, meeting this big fish out here in the open ocean. Maybe he would catch and kill this thing and be cured of himself. Or made more powerful. Or, he thought, in a flash of misplaced warmth, Maybe I’ve found a kindred spirit. 

But whatever this thing in the water was, it did not seem very eager and continued to circle him for several minutes. Dick had the sense that the thing was thinking, much in the same way he was. 

What do you want?

Dick realized at this moment what a distraction this had been–he hadn’t felt that need to kill a Great White since he spotted the thing. A rare moment of effortless silence. But the more Dick watched the waves coming from the thing as it circled him, the more Dick realized that his desire to kill hadn’t been replaced by silence. Dick thought he would have felt grateful to this thing, but he didn’t. It should have felt good, but instead it felt very bad. 

You’re scared. 

Dick shook his head, deciding he’d had enough and started to paddle away from the thing in the water. But he quickly realized that he wasn’t going anywhere. The thing had created a current that was impossible for him to pull away from. He was paddling more furiously now, his legs still dangling openly, dumbly, below him. It wasn’t until that moment right before, when Dick saw the black and white coloring of the “big fish” that had been stalking him, that he finally thought: 

I need help.