Fix Yourself
The secret to fixing yourself is simple:
Step One: Stop existing.
That’s it. Right there. That’s what the books don’t tell you, what the seminars gloss over, what the glossy, smiling photos of gurus with perfectly white teeth keep hidden behind veneers and million-dollar contracts.
But here’s Dr. Jared L. Tyrell, leaning on the podium in his $10,000 custom-tailored suit, staring at you like he can see all your dirty secrets. And he’s smiling that smile. The one that makes you want to both trust him and punch him in the face at the same time.
“Be better,” he says, voice low and soft. His words aren’t loud; they don’t have to be. They snake into the room, coil around every ear, sink their teeth in.
“Be better,” he repeats, enunciating every syllable. As if that’s an order. As if you could snap your fingers, sit up straight, and just be better, right there, right now. Like he’s asking you to raise your hand or blink.
And the auditorium is packed. Hundreds of faces, all staring at him with this mix of awe and desperation. This need. Because that’s why you come to guys like Dr. Jared. You come because you want to be told what to do. You want someone to tell you how to save yourself from yourself.
“Your life is your fault,” he says, pacing across the stage, all smooth motion and tailored elegance. He’s a shark in a sea of krill. A god among insects. And he knows it. Knows how much you hate yourself for wanting to be him.
“Your marriage sucks? Your job’s killing you?” He’s grinning now, teeth white and sharp like piano keys. “Your own damn fault.”
The audience laughs, but it’s that weird, uncomfortable laugh. The kind that sticks in your throat like a pill you can’t quite swallow. And Dr. Jared, he just keeps going, keeps twisting the knife.
“Here’s the ugly truth,” he says, leaning forward. His voice drops. Everyone leans in, like fish swimming toward the bait. “You want to change your life? First, you have to hate yourself enough to actually do something about it.”
The crowd murmurs. A woman in the front row wipes her eyes, blinking fast. A man shifts in his seat, nodding, nodding, nodding.
“And the real kicker?” Dr. Jared’s smile widens. “The real punchline? No one can do it but you.”
More murmurs. Someone sniffs. A sigh. But no one leaves. No one moves. They’re all rooted to the spot, hypnotized. The sheep and their shepherd.
He waits a beat, then two, then snaps his fingers.
“Okay, break into pairs,” he commands, like a drill sergeant. The crowd rustles. People turn to each other—strangers with equally blank, lost faces. “Stare into your partner’s eyes.”
More shuffling. A few coughs. Then silence.
“Now,” Dr. Jared says, voice smooth as a silk noose, “tell them why you’re a failure.”
Eyes widen. Jaws drop. But people do it. Because when you’re paying two grand for a self-help seminar, you do whatever the guy on stage tells you. You spill your guts. You bleed.
“My wife left me,” a man croaks.
“I hate my job,” a woman mutters.
“I—my daughter won’t talk to me.”
And on and on and on. One confession after another, each more desperate than the last. Ugly little truths, leaking out into the air. Shame, guilt, regret. All that raw, ugly stuff they keep buried deep. Vomiting it up in front of strangers, just because this guy on stage told them to.
Dr. Jared grins, shark teeth glistening.
“Good,” he purrs. “That’s good.”
And here’s the thing no one knows. The secret no one ever thinks to ask.
Dr. Jared L. Tyrell? He’s never fixed anyone. Ever.
All those testimonials on his website? Actors. Every “Before and After” photo? Photoshop. He doesn’t write his own books. Doesn’t answer his own emails. He’s a brand. A product. A fantasy. The most expensive snake oil salesman in the world.
Because here’s the punchline:
You can’t fix yourself.
But you can pay someone to tell you that you could.
Here’s where the story breaks. The feed stutters. The camera angle switches. See, you’re watching this on your phone, alone in the dark. Maybe you’re in bed. Maybe you’re on the subway, the crowded, humming chaos around you drowned out by your headphones. Maybe you’re drunk, scrolling through another YouTube rabbit hole of self-help hacks and miracle cures because sleep is a ghost that won’t visit you.
The video stutters. The screen blurs. And then, suddenly, it’s you in the audience.
Yeah, you.
Your face, staring blankly up at Dr. Jared L. Tyrell. Eyes wide. Mouth slack. Just like everyone else.
The video’s still running, but now it’s not the room on the screen, not the smiling faces. It’s your face. Your eyes. Blinking.
He’s looking right at you.
And he’s grinning.
“Hello there,” he says softly, voice dropping into that low, intimate purr. “You watching? You paying attention?”
The video’s still running, the other people still murmuring their confessions, but his eyes are on you. Just you. Like he knows you’re there. Like he’s reaching through the screen, squeezing your heart.
“I know you,” he whispers, stepping closer, filling the screen, filling your whole vision. “You’re like all the others. Wanting to be fixed. Wanting me to tell you that you’re special, that you’re different.”
A laugh. Low. Dangerous.
“But you’re not. You’re not even here.”
You blink. Heart pounding. Because suddenly, you are. You’re there. Not on your bed. Not on the subway. You’re in that damn room, staring up at him. That room you’ve never been in, the air too cold, too thin. You can feel it. Feel him.
And Dr. Jared, he’s smiling wider now, eyes shining.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Starting to get it?”
The world blurs again. Twists. Folds in on itself.
You’re alone in your bed. On the subway. Wherever. And he’s still talking, his voice a soft, insidious whisper in your ear.
“The secret’s simple, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice coiling around your mind. “The only way to fix yourself is to—”
The video cuts out.
Your screen goes dark.
And you’re left there, heart racing, staring at your own reflection in the black glass, trying to remember what he was going to say.
But you can’t.
All you have is his voice in your head.
And that stupid, nagging question:
How does he know you?