Zap!

I change into scrubs and walk into the operating theater. Around the operating table stand the anesthetist, the psychiatrist, and a couple of nurses, one of whom is holding a stopwatch in her hand. On the table the patient lies anxiously, straining her neck now and again to look around the room at all the difference faces. The nurse and I approach her to prep her for the procedure while the anesthetist starts the anesthesia. After half a dozen electrodes are placed on her head, the anesthesia starts to kick in; the patient goes limp, her head sinks into the pillow as if she has just lost interest in all the activities around her. The anesthetist asks, "Ready?" The pyschiatrist nods, then checks the settings on the machine. He makes sure everyone is clear of the table, then pushes a button. The patient's face contorts slightly; the nurse with the stopwatch starts the timing. The patient's body goes into a seizure. Because of the anesthetics, the only sign of the seizure are the rhythmic contractions of her feet. After about ten seconds, her seizure stops and the nurses turn her over to her side while the anesthetic starts to wear off and she starts to wake up.

And that is a session of electroconvolsive therapy, or ECT for short, a procedure used commonly to treat psychiatric illnesses ranging from depression to schizophrenia. If the ECT scene at the end of Requiem for a Dream leaves you reeling in horror, that's because the producers left out the flashing "DRAMATIZATION" sign at the bottom of the screen. The real thing, as I find out, is really boring.