David

Hi! I’m a clinical psychologist working in psychiatry and especially with psychological traumas. I find your approach fascinating—it seems to offer a kind of healing. It would be really nice to get a chance to meet you!
Best regards,
David

“Do you like your name?” I asked him when we met for the interview.
“Oh, I like it,” he began. “It was either David or Frederick, so I guess I won.” His voice was gentle and clean, reminiscent of Brian Molko’s, with an undertone of melancholy. His huge eyes framed by black eyeliner added to the association.

“How would you describe your relationship with your parents?”
“Complicated, but today it’s okay. It was hard with my father and my mother, though at different times. When I was young, it was mostly my mother; later, in high school, it became particularly difficult with my father. He’s very strict. But, honestly, every family has its fly in the ointment. Mine just happened to come with a mix of depression, isolation, and conflict. My father worked a lot, so I didn’t see him often. On weekends, he’d sit with me to do math, but it wasn’t really fun. My mother struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts. And it was really complicated because my brother and my mother didn’t get along at all, so he would isolate himself. While my sister was close to my mother but clashed with my father. And I was caught in the middle. I was actually close to both my sister and brother, but my sister… she cut her wrists, even tried to jump out of a fifth-floor window. It was chaos, but at the time, I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal.’

“What caused your sister so much pain?”
“Her relationship with our father. He didn’t understand her—her mind, her struggles at school. She’s brilliant, with an IQ of 148, but she was bored and disengaged, which my father interpreted as rebellion, as if she was deliberately trying to anger him. He couldn’t see it was a mismatch between her unique way of thinking and the system. So it was difficult. My memories are filled with my mother crying, my sister crying. My brother wasn’t crying outwardly, but he was the same as my father—unable to express emotions. They just couldn’t talk about what they felt.’

“Does it still hurt you?“
“Yes! My father has an obsessional personality. He’s a Cartesian, a scientist—someone who doesn’t deal with things he can’t control. And control has always been central to our family. For us, losing control feels like dying. It’s something we need all the time.
My father was born in Egypt in 1954. He and his family had to leave because of the Nazis and relocate to France. They had nothing. My grandparents couldn’t even afford food, so they drilled one rule into him: work. Work hard so you never end up in the same situation. That rule turned him into a robot—he doesn’t feel things, and if he does, they don’t matter. Only work is important. If you adopt the same mindset, you can get along with him. That’s what my brother did. Being the first child, he had no model to follow. He had to figure out how to deal with my father on his own, and he made the easiest choice—to conform. My sister, though, couldn’t do that. She and my father couldn’t speak to or understand each other. She fought with my father constantly.
My mother was different. She had no issue with control. She wasn’t academically brilliant, but she always said, ‘If you’re doing your best, that’s okay with me.’ My father, on the other hand, when I came home with an 18 on my math test, the first thing he’d say was, ‘Those two mistakes were very stupid.’
So, growing up, I saw two models: one that kind of worked and one that didn’t. And I made my choice—I followed my brother’s path. I became the good student, worked hard, stayed in line. I built my life around control. But it was never enough. And by the time I got to university, I couldn’t keep it up anymore. That’s when it started getting really difficult between us.”

“How often do you think of your family?”
“A lot. I’m a psychotherapist, after all—it’s almost my nature. I don’t work with psychoanalysis; I work with cognitive behavioral authority. There are many theories in CBT about how we learn through experiences, forming associations based on positive or negative feedback. Our behaviors adjust accordingly, either increasing or decreasing in frequency. So, I guess that’s how it is with me. I don’t consciously think about my family—it’s not something I choose to focus on. It’s more like they’re always there, following me in the background.”

“Is there something else that comes to your mind on its own?”
“OCD. It’s a mental illness defined by two key components: obsessions and compulsions. I’ve been living with it since I was 15.”

“Do you mind giving me an example of an obsession?”
“Venereal diseases. I have an irrational fear of them, even though I studied sexology for three years. It’s not about knowing the actual risks; it’s intrusive thoughts that pop up—‘Be careful, we’re in danger, don’t do this, don’t do that.’
I also used to have a lot of anxious thoughts about pedophilia. I was terrified that one day I’d wake up and realize I was one of them. It’s completely irrational, but that’s how OCD works—it takes an idea, plants it in your consciousness, and you have no choice but to deal with it. You end up performing compulsions to try to reduce the anxiety.
I think a lot of it ties back to my homosexuality. CBT helped me with some of the physical compulsions of OCD, like the need to clean or rearrange things to be perfect, but the thoughts about pedophilia or HIV are harder—they’re tangled up in my past.
My family is Jewish, and my homosexuality wasn’t accepted. I couldn’t talk about it, and I didn’t even know what I was myself. I was harassed as a kid—people would say, ‘You’re gay!’—and I was only five or six years old. I felt so ashamed and afraid. I didn’t even have time to figure it out for myself; everyone else decided for me before I knew who I was.”

“What made others think you were gay?”
“Stereotypes. I mostly hung out with girls, and people made assumptions—stupid, baseless connections. That made it impossible for me to talk about it or figure things out for myself.
When I was 14 or 15, I turned to the Internet to try to understand myself. It was the biggest mistake of my life. I was desperate to make sense of who I was, separate from what everyone else was saying. But I was vulnerable, and I made bad decisions. I ended up interacting with people who were pedophiles.
They showed me videos of twelve or thirteen kids having sex together and asked me to masturbate on camera. I was completely lost, desperately needing someone to notice me without judgment. I didn’t care who it was. They turned out to be very bad people, threatening to find me and rape me. After completing CBT for my OCD, my psychologist and I realized that while some issues improved, others didn’t respond to treatment. That’s when it became clear I wasn’t just dealing with OCD but also with complex post-traumatic stress disorder. Trauma at a young age has a way of embedding itself into your personality. The symptoms don’t feel separate from you—they feel like they’ve always been there, like they’re part of who you are.’

“Do you think it’s possible to heal from it?”
“I believe so. That’s why I’m going through therapy. In theory, healing is possible. When you heal from trauma, you don’t erase the memories—they stay with you. Healing means putting those emotions in the right place so they no longer overwhelm you.
In my case, I’ve tried psychoanalysis, CBT, hypnosis… but nothing has fully worked yet. Still, I keep trying, searching for new therapies. I haven’t given up.”

“What is the most important lesson life has taught you?”
“My grandma used to say it all the time: ‘Be happy! That’s the only thing that matters. Do what makes you happy.’”
“And what does happiness mean to you?”
He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a heavy, resigned sigh. “I’m not sure I know. Maybe it’s a life without OCD, without trauma—a life where I’m not constantly living with fear, shame, guilt, or anxiety. Those emotions have ruined so much for me. I try to see them differently, to view them as experiences that helped me grow. But honestly, it’s hard to think like that. When you’ve watched someone you care about hurt themselves, knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it… how do you find anything good in that?”

“What helps you the most to feel better?”
“Music. But… it’s not enough to feel safe, or good, or happy.”

“When was the last time you felt happy?”
“Six or seven years ago, when I was with my boyfriend. We’re not together anymore—I ended the relationship last May. But that first month with him, I was really happy. I had just started recovering from burnout in medical school and was in my first year of studying psychology. It was like an epiphany—‘Oh my God, this is what I was meant to do all along!’ At the same time, I met him, and everything seemed to fall into place.
I think that’s probably the only time in my life I felt truly happy. But as we approached our first anniversary, it’s like my brain decided, ‘Okay, now it’s been a year, you’re safe, so it’s time to deal with other things.’ That’s when the intrusive pedophilia thoughts and OCD began.”

“Do you have the desire for kids, or are you afraid of the possibility that you might?”
“Maybe I have the desire, but I don’t want to admit it. Or maybe I don’t have it now, but I’m scared I’ll develop it later. It’s completely irrational, but my brain fights so hard to convince me that it’s true. So I deal with this by… I don’t even know how I deal with it. I remember talking to my psychologist about this. I told her, ‘When I see a man on the street with his kid, I’m looking at the father, not the child. I know I don’t want anything sexual with children, but my brain doesn’t stop arguing. It says, no-no, you’re wrong, you’re lying to yourself—I know better than you—you want this but don’t want to admit it.’” He spoke quickly, his words tumbling out with raw intensity, as if he feared he wouldn’t have enough time to say everything he needed to within the span of our meeting.

“How do you differentiate yourself from your brain? It sounds like you’re describing two different people.”
“Kind of,” his speech slowed down as he reflected. “Many of the people I treat with trauma feel that way too, like their brain is a separate entity—something outside of their control. And for now, I’d say my brain is stronger than me.”
“And who are you? A soul?”
“Yes, a soul that is renting space in my brain. So it’s either deal with my brain or end up out on the street.” He paused, then added with a calm, musing tone, “It’s the first time someone’s talked to me about my brain as a separate entity.”

“How come you see your brain as a stranger?”
“Because it all comes back to control. I can’t control my brain, so it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.”
“Can you control your soul?”
“I’d say it’s easier to control the soul than the brain.”

“So now we have three of you. The soul you, the brain you, and—”
“Yeah,” he cut in. “And I feel like my brain hates me.”
“And who’s the one trying to control both soul and brain?”
“I don’t know. That’s a good question. I really don’t know.”

“What is it that you hate about yourself?”
“A lot,” he said without hesitation. “The way I look, the way I always feel the need to talk, my constant anxiety, my obsessive tendencies… and the fact that I’m such a pessimist.”

“And what do you appreciate the most about yourself?”
He smiled faintly. “My psychologist asks me this question all the time, and I always find it so hard to answer. I guess I don’t really know. Maybe that I can be funny—at least, that’s what people tell me. And that I’m generous. I don’t care about money as long as I have enough to live properly.
A friend of mine once described me as someone who can seem cynical or poking like a needle. But she also said that behind all of that, there’s a big heart, full of generosity and love.”

“What is your soul?”
“I think my soul is desire, for better and for worse. But my brain—phhh, it doesn’t want to listen to my soul. It keeps saying, ‘No, you can’t live by desire. That won’t work. You need control. You need to focus on working, studying.“

“What are your desires?”
“I think every behavior we have comes from some desire. It’s desire that drives us to act—it’s like a motor. The day I stop desiring is the day I’m dead. I’m going through therapy because I have the desire to heal, to feel better. That desire keeps me moving forward.”

“Why can’t you be desireless and alive at the same time? You’ve probably heard that desire is a cause of suffering.”
“Yeah, sometimes, but what a sad life it would be without desire. Sometimes I come home from work so tired that I have no desire except to eat, smoke, and sleep. But no desire? That’s the void. And the void is death.
When I’m at work, I don’t eat, I don’t drink—I just take appointments, one after another, from nine in the morning until eight at night. I smoke my cigarettes to get through it. And if a patient doesn’t show up, that’s when the void creeps in. And with the void comes anxiety, and I can’t stand it. It brings thoughts—suicidal thoughts.”

“Could you explain what the void feels like?”
“When I was young, there was no space for the void. There was always something—tension, illness, arguments, sadness, tears. But never the void. I grew up in an environment that was constantly full of… things.”

“When did the void first appear in your life?”
“I’m not sure. It started growing gradually… but I remember it becoming really significant when I was with my ex-boyfriend. We were together for over three years, and at one point, he asked me if we should move in together. It was the best proposition at the time, but I said no. I was 19, studying, and still living at my parents’ house. I told him, ‘I can’t live with you because I need to live on my own first. When he asked why, I said, ‘Because I need to learn how to deal with the void. I don’t want to move in with you now and then, ten years down the line, if we’re no longer together, have to confront it for the first time in my 30s. Living alone means facing the void now, giving it space.”

“But you can’t control the feeling of the void, can you?”
“I know. But like I said, in my family, if you don’t have control, it feels like you’re going to die. That belief is ingrained in me. My first psychologist once told me, ‘You have to learn that not having control isn’t the same as being dead or in danger.’”

“Isn’t the idea of controlling everything disappointing?”
“Yeah,” he whispered vulnerably. “I agree with you. That’s why I’m trying to learn how NOT to be in control. My work actually helps with that because I interact with people I can’t control, and I like that. But on the other hand, when a patient starts to get better—when we’ve found the way forward—I feel bored. There’s no chaos anymore. And all I’ve ever known in my family is chaos. No chaos means the void. And the void means anxiety.”

“How does your anxiety feel?”
“It’s when I see no sense in anything and start asking myself, ‘Why do I keep trying?’”
“And how do you answer that?”
“With something my grandma used to say, ‘When you’re at the ball, you dance.’”

“What is death to you?”
“It’s the last option. It’s like driving a car through a tunnel on the highway and seeing those green exit signs. For me, suicide is like those green doors—an escape, the opposite of anxiety. Knowing that I can stop everything at any moment is… strangely comforting. It’s how I know I’m not condemned, not stuck in my life. I keep going because I know that option is there. If life becomes unbearable, if the suffering becomes too much, it’s reassuring to think that I can turn it all off—like switching off a lamp.”

“How would you like to be remembered?“
“I don’t want to.”

“You said earlier that your soul is desire. What does your soul desire?”
“I want to help people and have a man. Work is something I can control, and I think I’m good at it—at least, that’s the feedback I get from my patients and colleagues. But when it comes to love, I keep failing. I want to find someone I can truly love, someone I can protect and who can protect me in return—a partner to share my life with. But when I go on dates, the men don’t seem interesting to me. And if I do feel something for someone, it’s always so complicated. Either they’re complicated themselves, or they’re more involved with women than men.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it seems like you’re deep in thought.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s take a smoke break.”
“With great pleasure!”
“We can smoke here,” I added, gesturing toward the room. “Let’s just move to the window.”