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(“I’m worried about Amelia, Brian. She’s still talking about that Doctor of hers. I’m at my wits end”
“Rory says she and Mel make him dress up and they act out adventures.”
“Oh my, haven’t they outgrown that yet?”
“It appears not. You know, maybe if you took Amelia to see someone about it-“
“Yes, you’re quite right. It’s time for this Raggedy Doctor nonsense to come to an end.”)
Amelia Pond was twelve years old when her Aunt Sharon took her to her first psychiatrist.
Mrs. Swanson was tall and severe looking, with steel-gray hair always tied up in a bun, glasses that made her ice-blue eyes appear scarily large, and conservative grey clothing.
Amelia thought Mrs. Swanson looked like the evil nanny from hell. Mrs. Swanson thought Amelia was the most difficult patient she’d ever had.
“Now, Amelia, it says here that you continue to believe in your imaginary friend. Can you explain why?” she asked.
After three weeks of being told that her Raggedy Doctor didn't exist, Amelia bit her.
She never went back to see Mrs. Swanson.
(“Amelia, I heard you were at the police station last night. What happened?”
“I was. Mrs. Swanson annoyed me.”
“Amelia! What did you do?”
“She’ll heal.”
“Heal from what?”
"Nothing that bad, Rory. I only bit her.”
“You WHAT!?)
Aunt Sharon waited for six months before sending Amelia to Dr. Winfield. He was in his mid-forties, slightly balding, with a large waistline, no fashion sense and he seemed to sweat constantly. Compared to Mrs. Swanson, he seemed rather understanding, if sceptical. After four months of insisting her Raggedy Doctor existed, his scepticism had turned into a blatant refusal to be convinced of the Doctor's existence, almost as fervent as Amelia's refusal to be persuaded otherwise. Eventually, she gave up on trying to convince him, and bit him in the middle of one of their regular shouting matches.
She never went back.
(“So is this going to become a thing?”
“Will what become a thing, Rory?”
“The biting your psychiatrists thing, Amelia! I get that you didn’t like him much but there are better ways to end a doctor-patient relationship than BITING THEM!”
“Like promising to come back in five minutes then never returning and subjecting a traumatised child to therapy for the rest of her life?”
“Did you just refer to yourself as the Raggedy Doctor's patie- you know what, I’m not qualified enough to analyse the Freudian slips in that sentence. Seriously though, stop biting your psychologists.”
“That won't be a problem, because I refuse to see anymore psychologists.”
"I'm sure they're all very glad of that.")
Two years passed, and the nearly sixteen year old Amelia became more and more bitter as her 'imaginary' friend never showed up. She changed her name to Amy, but despite the continued teasing of her peers and the complete dismissal of the adults, she continued to hope the Doctor would return.
Finally, Aunt Sharon forced her to see Dr. Cole, a handsome and charismatic young man in his late twenties. Again, she absolutely refused to believe that the Doctor didn't exist.
He didn't believe her either, and after six months of half-hearted flirting on her part (he was hot enough for her to usually overlook his idiocy and the flirting would hopefully make him uncomfortable enough to stop seeing her) and a lot of arguing, she gave in to her temper and bit him as well.
He refused to see her again.
She didn't care.
(“It’s a shame really. He was quite attractive. I suppose the whole ‘my niece bit you’ wouldn’t be a great way to get in his good books.”
“Sharon! He was your niece's psychiatrist! Didn’t you tell me she was half in love with him anyway?”
“It seemed so, right up until she bit him.”
“Maybe that’s her way of flirting?”
“I think that’s enough wine for you, Brian. We are not here to talk about Amelia-sorry, Amy’s- love life.”
“We're here because Amelia bit another psychiatrist and you haven’t had a date in months. This is just combining those things. Quite efficient.”
"I do hope the biting doesn’t become a thing."
“I think it’s a bit late for that.”)
Psychiatrist number four was a young woman, barely even graduated, who only lasted five sessions. The sixteen year old Amy took an instant dislike to Dr. “Call-me-Stacey” Robins.
In the fifth session, Amy got fed up with the young woman's inane chattering and the expected lack of belief and bit her to shut her up. It worked, after a few minutes of horrified screaming.
(“I’m not even surprised at this point, to be honest.”
“Good. Her voice was annoying and she treated me like a child.”
“See, I would usually have a comeback to that, but frankly I’m done with the whole thing. If you want to bite your psychiatrists and keep believing in the Doctor, then that’s fine with me. Just please don’t make me dress up as him again.”)
Once again, Amy Pond was psychiatrist-less.
She couldn't be happier, especially when her aunt cornered her and shouted that she may as well stop wasting good money on her when she obviously didn't want to be helped.
She did wish that Aunt Sharon had come to the conclusion earlier.
When the Doctor reappeared after twelve years of absence, she was actually a little shocked. Despite her constant reassurances over the years, she had stopped believing he really existed.
He had become a story inside her head, an imaginary friend she never forgot but didn't actually believe existed, no matter what she said otherwise.
And maybe the psychiatrists would have had a field day with it, but she didn't care. She had forgotten nearly everything about him; what he looked like, sounded like, walked like. Her only recollections were based on the drawing she’d decorated her rooms with, the stories she’d written about their imagined adventures and the memory of years or insistence that “He is real, why don’t you believe me? You’re all so stupid, why can’t you see?”
So when he turned up at her house in the middle of the day, rushed inside without an invitation and started banging on doors and yelling she did the thing any reasonably sane young woman living alone would do if a stranger turned up at her house and somehow got inside.
She hit him with a cricket bat.
Hard.
