Constance Pistis

The doctor tells me that I should try writing down these thoughts- journal them into submission, she says, but I'm not sure she knows what she’s talking about.  But I'll do it, anyway.  If nothing else, it will help pass the time until dinner.  After dinner is two hours of television, followed by visitors (if any) and then meds.  But until dinner it’s either playing cards or talking to Jeremy as he paces up and down the hall, back and forth, back and forth, drooling a long string of saliva and whispering about the cat he had when he was a boy. I'll journal for a while, thank you.

My name is Constance Pistis.  At least that I believe my name is.   The doctor tells me that my name is actually something much more pedestrian.  She says my name is Jeff Carter.  Jeffrey. Allen. Carter.  But I don’t believe her. 

Statistically speaking, I suppose, it’s more likely that my name would be Jeff Carter than Constance Pistis. You've probably even met a Jeff or Jeffrey or even Geoff Carter.  That wouldn't surprise me.  Statistically they're more common than people named Constance Pistis – but no one actually believes statistics. No one but actuaries. 

The Doctor asked me why I believe my name to be Constance.  I asked her why she insists on calling me Jeff.  She showed me a photocopy of what she claimed is my driver’s license, issued by the state of Iowa.  But those things can be faked.  I told her that I refuse to believe any of the pabulum that comes from the government.