Any man who goes to a psychiatrist ought to have his head

Host: The rain was falling in sheets — not the soft kind that whispers, but the kind that hammers against the city like it’s trying to wake it from a dream. Neon reflections rippled through the puddles outside a corner diner, its flickering sign buzzing like an old confession: OPEN 24 HOURS.

Inside, the air was thick with steam, coffee, and silence that clung like cigarette smoke.
At a booth by the window, Jack sat slouched, stirring his drink with the weariness of a man dissecting his own thoughts. Across from him, Jeeny sat upright, her coat damp, her eyes luminous with that mix of patience and defiance that could turn warmth into challenge.

The rainlight slid down the glass between them like the seconds of a slow reckoning.

Jeeny: (quietly, almost amused) “Samuel Goldwyn once said, ‘Any man who goes to a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined.’”

Jack: (grinning) “Ironic, isn’t it? The kind of line that sounds like a joke until you realize it’s the perfect summary of human pride.”

Jeeny: “Or fear. Maybe he wasn’t mocking therapy — maybe he was mocking vulnerability.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. He was mocking the idea that sanity needs supervision. People used to deal with pain by working, fighting, or drinking — not by renting an hour to confess to someone with a clipboard.”

Jeeny: “And how did that work out for humanity? Wars, hangovers, broken families? The world didn’t need fewer listeners, Jack — it needed better ones.”

Host: The waitress passed by, the sound of her shoes squeaking softly on tile. The neon sign outside blinked, painting the walls in red and blue pulses like a heartbeat stuttering in artificial rhythm. Jack’s eyes followed it, thoughtful, cynical — but tired enough to admit she might have a point.

Jack: “You make therapy sound noble. It’s not. It’s business. They sell comfort like it’s a product — ten sessions to rediscover what you already know: that life hurts.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what they sell, Jack. They sell reflection — something most people can’t afford to do alone.”

Jack: (snorts) “Reflection? You don’t need a degree to look in the mirror.”

Jeeny: “No, but you do to face what’s staring back.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked, its rhythm almost accusatory. The rain grew louder, drumming against the windows like a steady reminder that isolation — like therapy — costs time, not money.

Jack: “Look, I get it. The world’s messy. Everyone wants to be told they’re not crazy for feeling broken. But at some point, we’ve turned talking into treatment.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? Words are medicine, Jack. The problem isn’t the talking — it’s that most people don’t know how to listen.”

Jack: “Oh, come on. You really think a stranger with a degree and a neutral face can fix someone’s soul?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Hold. That’s all most people need — a place where their madness doesn’t have to apologize for existing.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So, you’re saying psychiatry is mercy?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Yes. Because it’s one of the few places left where pain isn’t shameful.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his hands curling slightly around the coffee mug. Jeeny’s tone wasn’t accusatory, but it carried the weight of someone who had watched people drown quietly — in grief, in silence, in pride.

Jack: (after a pause) “I once knew a guy who went to therapy. He came out quieter, softer. Said he felt ‘seen.’ Two years later, he jumped off his roof. The shrink said he was improving. You call that mercy?”

Jeeny: “No. I call that humanity — fragile, unpredictable, unfinished. You can’t measure healing in time or tone. Some wounds don’t close — they just learn to breathe.”

Jack: “And you think paying for that kind of breathing makes it real?”

Jeeny: “It makes it possible. Some people need permission to heal.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, sending rainwater cascading down the glass. Jack watched it run, his reflection fracturing into thin silver rivers — fragments of himself he couldn’t quite piece together.

Jack: “You know, I think Goldwyn said that line because he hated what psychiatry represented — the idea that being human became something to diagnose.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he made films about human contradiction — about love, failure, absurdity. Maybe he knew that every genius has a fracture they’re afraid to map.”

Jack: “You mean like confession without religion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The therapist’s chair is just the modern confessional — except instead of forgiving sin, it forgives emotion.”

Jack: “But confession had consequence. Therapy has excuses.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Therapy has understanding. And understanding isn’t an excuse — it’s evolution.”

Host: The rain slowed, the sound softening into rhythm. The diner lights flickered, bathing them both in the kind of silence that asks questions without words.

Jack: “You ever been to therapy, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: (surprised) “You?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Even mirrors need cleaning.”

Jack: “And did it help?”

Jeeny: “It didn’t fix me. But it taught me that being broken wasn’t the same as being worthless.”

Jack: (softly) “You make it sound almost holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe psychiatry isn’t about curing madness — it’s about sanctifying it. Saying, You’re not alone in this noise.”

Host: Jack’s expression shifted — not disbelief, not surrender, but the quiet ache of recognition. Outside, the rainlight caught on his reflection, cutting through the exhaustion that lived in his eyes.

Jack: “You know, I always thought needing help meant weakness.”

Jeeny: “It does. But weakness isn’t failure — it’s just honesty that’s been denied too long.”

Jack: “Then maybe Goldwyn was right in his own way. Anyone who goes to a psychiatrist probably does need their head examined — not because they’re crazy, but because they’re finally brave enough to look inside.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the paradox of healing — it begins the moment you stop pretending you’re fine.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The city outside gleamed, washed clean, the streets shining like veins of glass. Inside, the air felt lighter — as if something unseen had lifted.

Jack looked up from his cup, meeting Jeeny’s eyes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “You always do that.”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Turn mockery into meaning.”

Jeeny: “That’s because meaning is hidden inside every joke. You just have to listen to what it’s laughing at.”

Host: The camera would linger — on the two of them sitting beneath the flickering neon, surrounded by the ghosts of every conversation that had ever mattered.

Outside, the sky began to clear, a thin ribbon of dawn stretching across the skyline — fragile, imperfect, but new.

And as the scene faded, Jeeny’s voice carried softly, half laughter, half wisdom:

“Maybe Goldwyn was right, Jack — any man who goes to a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined. But at least he’d finally be looking in the right direction.”

Host: The diner lights dimmed, the world exhaled, and for a moment — just one fragile, cinematic moment — the silence felt like peace.