M. Charcot (to the patient)—Tell us what you said the other day about razors.
The Patient—Whenever I see a razor or a knife, I begin to thrill and feel afraid. I imagine I am going to kill some one, or that some one is going to kill me. I have the same sensation when I see a gun, or even if the notion of a gun comes to my mind. The mere thought of it agonises me. The fancy of murdering some one strikes me, and up to a certain point I am envious of fulfilling the desire. Often I am conscious of an irresistible longing to fight somebody, and I am frequently impelled to it by the sight of a cabman. Why a cabman more than any one else, I have not the remotest idea.
We have already touched on the close affinity between an act and the idea of the act, and we have emphasised the absence of any appreciable interval between the idea and its execution, unless the brake of volitional interference be put on at the proper moment. It is in these circumstances that the feeble of will betray their debility; the inadequateness or inopportuneness of their will's activity allows the performance of the act they would fain repress.
A no less characteristic feature of the subject of tic is his impatience.
J. bolts his food without waiting to masticate it, and the instant his plate is empty jumps up from the table to walk about the house. He returns for the next course, which he swallows as precipitately; delay makes him impatient, and all are forced to rush as he does. Meal time for the whole family has become a perfect punishment. Alarmed enough already at his tics, the parents are terror-stricken by the tyrannical caprices of this big baby, who outvies the worst of spoilt children in his behaviour.
Mental instability is not uncommonly associated with a general restlessness and fidgetiness during intervals of respite from the actual tics. The patient experiences a singular difficulty in maintaining repose. Every minute he is moving his finger, his foot, his arm, his head. He passes his hand over his forehead, runs his fingers through his hair, rubs his eyes or his lips, ruffles his clothes, plays with his handkerchief or with anything within reach, crosses and uncrosses his legs, etc. None of these gestures can properly be considered a tic, for, however frequent be its repetition, it is neither inevitable nor invariable. If they are superfluous and out of place, the absence of exaggeration or absurdity negatives their classification as choreic. They are a sign not so much of motor hyperactivity as of volitional inactivity. They are tics in embryo.
The patient's emotions are similarly ill balanced. Any rearrangement in his habits he finds disconcerting; he is upset by an unexpected word, a deed, a look; his timidity and sensitiveness are extreme—fertile soil for the development of tics.
So, too, with his affections, his likes and dislikes, his friendships and enmities—there is commonly a disproportion about them that betokens mental deficiency. At one time it is fear or repulsion that actuates him; at another it is an unnatural tenderness, a sort of philia, if the term may be allowed.
Anomalies such as these, however, are met with in all the mentally unstable, and do not present any special feature when they occur in those who tic.
An acquaintance with the mental state of our patients enables us to understand the mode their tic adopts. As one thinks, so does one tic. To the transiency and mutability of the child's ideas correspond what are known as variable tics, which rarely have a definite localisation, and become fixed only when certain ideas become preponderant. The existence of a solitary tic, however, is not at variance with that disposition we have qualified as infantile, for mental infantilism is the original stock; on it, as a matter of fact, may be grafted further mental disorders in the shape of fixed ideas, phobias, or obsessions.