Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
cut down or increase the oxygen supply inside the cubicle suddenly and I guessed I had to run. There didn't seem much else to do. I ran. newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the Get help? blooming extinction of a huge rocket. The boys on the corner seemed hardly human, scowling anthropoids in walrus-skin coats. It was my own to do. set was enjoying a quiz by itself and creased in my pocket was the "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." "Really makes you sick to hear about something like that, doesn't it?" The breaks were against me from the start. It didn't come as any "I'm not sure whether—" "This heat is murder, isn't it? Especially here in these concrete crumbling stone. "Listen to me! These people, they're conspiring against me, trying to drive me insane! Two men, a girl—" "For my money, Marilyn Monroe is the doll of the world. I just don't understand these guys who say she hasn't got class. She gets class by satirizing girls without any...." A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, insubstantiality he was. Life skeleton supporting the shell of a human being and two-thirds of a two-trouser suit. Hide. Modern Man with , and a brand-new, sun-bleached copy of Doctor Cartons, bottles, what looked like the skin of a dehydrated human being—obviously, on second thought, only the discarded skin of one of the things like the one I had deflated. And a moldering pile of letters and papers. The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously And which he had was my layout, the rough of the people with short, slim glasses, the American Tradition. to stop but I lie there thinking about cigarettes half the night. Long "You're tough," Sergeant said as I eased back into focus. "You aren't, not without help," I told him in disgust. "Spunky, aren't you? I meant mental toughness. That's the one thing we can never judge. I think you could have taken the shock right from the start. Of course, you would still have needed the conditioning to integrate properly." "Conditioning? Conditioning?" It came out of me, vortexing up, outside of my piloting. "What have you done to my mind?" grab up them horror magazines and read and read, until sweat starts reasonably. "Think of this. Fountain of Youth. Immortality. Rejuvenation. This is it. Never mind how it works. Most minds can't stand being young and knowing they will have to go through the same damned thing all over again. We use synapse-shift to switch your upper conscious memories to your id and super-ego, leaving room for new ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, check 'em at the desk when you go." to, to retain your identity." "Identity," I repeated. "I have no identity. My identity is a dream. I have two identities—one of them years beyond the other." memories. You remember only those things out of the past you Sergeant tilted his head and his eyes at me and slapped me across the beta . alpha sets, even. Beta run of the drop of sweat down my nose. My sickness was terrible. It is as bad to be nostalgic for things you have never known as for an orphan who has never had a home to be homesick. beta beta , and I didn't know, or think that I would ever know. War. This was the biggest part of it all, I think. You identify with the hero of any story if it's well enough written. still later—the backlash from the screw, that was it. I was lifting One of your own tricks for you, Heinie. Up on the stick, up under your claims. But not enough. God, what a mess. I'm sick. That damned castor oil in the carburetor. I'll be in the W. C. until oh-six-hundred.... paper and printer's ink. I'd been daydreaming again. I shouldn't forget things were getting different lately. It was becoming dangerous. turns the blade back on him. It goes through his neck, all the way gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast—is prices had gone up to where you had to pay $17 for a pair of shoes, so Defense—War—Savings—Security—Liberty—Freedom—I had bought stamps Doctor Zhivago had been replaced by the roof. it. Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed "What were you running from?" the driver asked. How could I tell him that? "I didn't do anything!" "Out." "Stay away from that neighborhood and stay out of trouble," Sarge's My middle was going to be sorer in the morning than it was now. The solution was obvious. Dawn Patrol on television were mere hallucinations. true. They were a small boy's bad dream about symbolized authority. They were keeping me from re-entering the past where I belonged, punishing me to make me stay in my trap of the present. Oh, God. That was the worst part of it. False memories, feelings of persecution, that was one thing. Believing that you are actively caught up in a mixture of the past with the present, a Daliesque viscosity of reality, was something else. I needed help. If there was one thing that working for an advertising agency had taught me, it was social responsibility. I took up the phone book and located several psychiatrists. I selected one at random, for no particular reason. Dr. Ernest G. Rickenbacker. I memorized the address and heaved myself to my feet. The doctor's office was as green as the inside of a mentholated 'em out." Horror magazines. Ones with lovely girls about to have their flesh I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my illness. He led me inside and closed the door. it made a noise like click-clack-clunk me about it? Some people have preconceived ideas that I don't want to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit there in front of my desk and tell me all about it. Remember, I'm a psychiatrist, a doctor, not just a psychoanalyst." "I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel." upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines. "You should read them instead of live them. Catharsis. Sublimate, Mr. Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend the mysteries of Mickey Spillane." "Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the "No." "Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real." "I know that! I want to be cured of imagining it." "The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you actually have more control over themselves than you realize. If you will yourself to be calm...." I didn't tell you a thing about the Back Number Store. I'm starting to think I'm not crazy at all. You—you're trying to do something to me. You're all in it together." Sergeant shook his head sadly. I realized how it all sounded. swelling, pulsing. There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the hands of a corpse, or a doll.... my belt buckle. I had a good reason. with her over the needle than fight Carl over the rod. Idiotically, I I slipped. Death. A sleep, a reawakening, a lie. It's nothing like that. It's nothing. The end of everything you ever were or ever could be. I hit. Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant.

<question>:
What ends up being the cause of the protagonist's issues?

<options>:
A Drug addiction
B War-related trauma
C Secretive experiments
D Mental illness

<answer>:

C