May you grow up to be righteous 

I’ve always had lady therapists, who I told what they wanted to hear.

Also a few red herrings we could go roundy-round about, stuff from the past. Family dynamics. Mother. Father. Sibllings.

Anything to fill up that fifty minutes…

I wanted to get these nice young ladies to smile and regard me as compliant with whatever damn “plan” we , the two of us, had concocted at the beginning of our therapy. I always showed progress.

~

So much that I went on to college. To became a therapist myself, as a matter of fact.

A damn successful one. Ah, til lately anyway…

In partnership with the renowned Dr. Guest, whose theory of dopamine/serotonin transference made some big bucks back in the late 90’s for him and me, his understudy, his heir, his acolyte.

The theory was absolute bullshit, but I went along with it because it actually contained a hint of the truth of human relations.  

I know this mars my professional image, to admit this, but…see, where I went to college, Guest was the Guy.He sucked me in with his ridiculously dry lectures and seminars, and I of course  sucked up  to him as his mentor.

~

Flash forward 15 years later, and my Master suddenly has a fit of..do not laugh…severe dyhadration…while conducting a session. He was 911-ed out of here just in time, according to that kid at the hospital who was the first ER doc to see him and fill him with fluids. “Never seen such a dry motherfucker,” the boy said to me in the waiting room.

“Yeah, try working with him, “ I said and left, satisfied Guest would live .

~

What I didn’t know is that Guest was gonna use his medical emergency to take a hiatus from our practice, “to get well hydrated once and for all,” his wife says, leaving me with his patient load. I gotta do double duty now. It is starting to strain me, I must say. Most of his patients are long-term sufferers of D/S/T disorder, the one he made up out of (not exactly, but close) thin air back in the halcyon days.

The best thing about DST as you know, if you got kids with it, and I hope you don’t…is it can not be cured by conventional methods. It takes a unique “Guestian” approach of med monitoring, talk therapy, group therapy, and  rewards. I had to re read Guest’s books, both bestsellers at the time, to know what kind of approach to take.

~

Like Kent.

30 years old , a DST veteran, been in therapy for 15 years…now living “at home” but “commuting” to the same damn university where I got into this mess, as an eager beaver greedy little genius desperate for money and respectability, back in ‘’the day’’.

~

I toked a joint before the session. It’s called Joint Session Therapy, motherfuckers.

Sorry. Some people have accused me of slipshod methodology. My issue.. my bad…

~

I was gorgeously high, swooping far above poor Kent’s life gestalt, like an eagle, or maybe an owl, or a hybrid eagle/crow/ bat-owl, I dunno, listening to the poor fucker tell me all kinds of things I myself had  been through in my formative years. That is all  this ‘healing’ is about… empathy, for heaven’s sake!

I was getting bored with Kent telling me of his deflowering, at a beach party held by none other than Dr. Guest and his gracious wife, a year ago.  Things got wild at Guest’s parties, I should know. I think maybe, once upon a time, I made love to our receptionist Rena Oblong, at one of his soirees. I have no way of confirming this.

Thank God there are no more Guest Parties.

“Listen, Kent, “ I said, sighing in that huge way we shrinks have when a hell of a lot of shit has been unburdened , but we still got your back, got the practical answer to it all..

Making it up as I  went along, I said, “ Looks like you like sex.” Smiling.

“Uh.”

“Yes or no, Kent?” I said, my head swimming. I had hit a sore nerve.

“Shit, yes. But..doctor..i gotta tell you about my mother…”

Etc.

I got him talking about his mother.