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

<passage>:
I remembered riding up in the elevator, the moments inside, the faint feeling of vertigo. Of course, who was to say the elevator really moved? Maybe they had only switched scenery on me while I was caught Let the dead past bury its dead? Not while I am alive, it won't! It surely was all right for me to let myself do it now. I couldn't have a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus stop. "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." "Listen to me! These people, they're conspiring against me, trying to drive me insane! Two men, a girl—" He was like anybody you might talk to on the street. I knew what he would say if I cued him with "baseball" or "Russia" instead of the key words I had used. 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 old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the hunched shoulders of his sweater which was azuring toward white. He grinned, toothless. American Tradition. All of it lying here to rot. "I know what a craving can be. I shouldn't smoke, but I do. I've tried to stop but I lie there thinking about cigarettes half the night. Long ones, short ones, smoked ones, ones unlit. I feel like I could smoke Something happened. I had been wrong. The shining instrument had not been a hypodermic needle. "Yes," I laughed, not very true. "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?" "We've been trying to get it to grow back up," Sergeant said 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 memories. You remember only those things out of the past you have 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." Sergeant tilted his head and his eyes at me and slapped me across the face. "Don't go back on me now. We gave you the best we could. The to keep wandering onto alpha 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 , and I didn't know, or think that I would ever know. was a lie about them using incendiaries. One of your own tricks for you, Heinie. Up on the stick, up under your tail, into the blind spot. Where am I? Where am I? turns the blade back on him. It goes through his neck, all the way through. I had seen movies like that before. When I was a kid, I had seen Flicker Flashbacks between chapters of I had seen these pictures before the war. The war had made a lot of difference in my life. it. Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?" "This isn't a taxicab?" I asked blankly. The two policemen exchanged glances. "What were you running from?" the driver asked. How could I tell him that? Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?" "I didn't do anything!" "You know about the laws governing pornography, Turner." "Those aren't pornography and they are my property!" it, Turner? You a narcotics user?" me clean white flashes of pain, instead of angry, red-streaked ones. I didn't fight back, not against the two of them. I knew that much. I on television were mere hallucinations. Neither could I remember drinking bootleg hooch in speak-easies, hearing Floyd Gibbons announce the Dempsey-Tunney fight, or paying I struck up a new cigarette. The thing I must remember, I told myself, was that my recollections were false and unreliable. It would do me no good to keep following these false memories in a closed curve. I touched my navel area and flinched. The beating, I was confident, had been real. But it had been a nightmare. Those cops couldn't have been 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. I rolled over on my face and pushed it into the upholstery. 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. I took up the phone book and located several psychiatrists. I selected "Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you "I won't hear of it." I could have pulled loose from him, but somehow I felt that if I did try to pull away, the grip would tighten and I would never get away. I looked up into that long, hard, blank face that seemed so recently I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my psychiatrist, a doctor, not just a psychoanalyst." "I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel." "I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" 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." I seemed to be losing control of the conversation. "But this time travel...." "Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" "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 the past. Think of the future." "How did you know I keep slipping back into the past?" I asked. Sergeant's hands were more expressive than his face. "You mentioned time travel...." "But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you actually have more control over themselves than you realize. If you will There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the hands of a corpse, or a doll.... , Mr. Turner! violence will—" There was a rapping on the door. "Doctor? Doctor?" have any money or identification or a gun. He had a handkerchief and a ballpoint pen. Good-by, Turner. 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. Reality was all over me in patches. I showed through as a line drawing, crudely done, a cartoon. Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant.

<question>:
Why does Mr. Turner decide he needs a psychiatrist?

<options>:
A He wants to stop smoking, but can’t.
B He has post traumatic stress disorder from the war.
C He is addicted to pornography.
D He does not know what is real because he has false memories.

<answer>:

D