A Damn Good Therapist
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The grandfather clock in the corner of my office plays the world’s most relaxing soundtrack as I stare the angry father in the face, my ears still ringing from his accusatory rant.
I knew this oaf would be a problem for the moment he stepped foot in my office. Many of the more simple-minded creatures living in the modern world have an inherent distrust of therapists. They scoff at the notion of paying a fee for what their tiny little isolated brains think of as listening to someone talk about their mother. Which, of course, is basically like saying “Why should surgeons charge so much? All they do is cut and sew, and my wife does that for free.”
Many of my colleagues blame society. In a movie, if it is revealed that a character is in therapy, that character instantly becomes either a neurotic wreck or a frothing lunatic for the heroes to fear or laugh at. While the depictions aren’t particularly flattering, the true answer is that the fault lies not with society, but with the simple minds who can’t parse fiction from reality.
I can take a joke as well as anyone. When you simplify what we do, it does seem comical. And yes, Freud did think that smoking meant you want to put a penis in your mouth, while chain-smoking cigars, with a straight face and not a hint of irony. No, the fault is not with society—it’s with the dangerously simple minds that inhabit it. The kind that can look at absurdist humour and say, “Yes, this is how the world is. Therapists are charlatans whose clients are all psychotics, and also if you accidentally step off a cliff, you won’t start to fall until you look down.”
A dull exhibit of such a mind is flinging spittle at me now. He was distrustful when he walked in, so I would honestly be amazed if he decided to actually be pleasant the next time I met him.
His complaints are nothing new. Oh, what did you do to my daughter/sister/mother/wife? She was such a sweet girl when I brought her to you, and now she’s become a whore. In my line, it happens more often than you’d think.
Oh, how rude—I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Malcolm, or Dr. Malcolm A. Propos if you like, and I’m a professional psychotherapist specializing in CBT (that’s cognitive behavioural therapy, contrary to what certain perverts would attempt to tell you), specializing in hypnotherapy. And I dare say, I’m quite good at what I do.
The clock ticks away as I stare at the angry man with calm eyes, still seated in my chair, fingers interlaced and arms tented in a well-rehearsed power pose.
His claims are completely baseless, of course. He—like most simple-minded fathers—simply can’t adapt to change. His daughter was sheltered, self-conscious, and repressed. In fact, her low self-esteem is the precise problem that landed her in my office. But while simple minds usually act with the best intentions, it’s a sad truth that they can seldom accept change.
His daughter is a young woman. A young woman with confidence will invariably pursue a romantic relationship or two. It’s honestly surprising how often simple creatures forget that. After all, it’s kind of how the entire damnable human species works.
The clock sits in the corner patiently doing its job as the man’s words wash over me. With each tick, his anger recedes. I bought that ol’ girl to help calm patients, but I tell you, it works a treat on anyone who barges into your office looking to relocate your facial features vis-à-vis blunt force trauma.
“Mr. Lizewski,” I say once he’s sufficiently calmed. “You sent your daughter to me because she’d developed an eating disorder.”
The man slams his fist on the desk. “And you turned her into the town bicycle!” he shouts. He’s trying to rile himself up again, but it only makes him deflate twice as quickly.
“Of course, I can’t divulge exact information about our sessions, but do you know why girls develop eating disorders?”
The man leans back and narrows his eyes, clenching his meaty right hand in a fist, daring me to blame him.
“Confidence,” I say.
He once again deflates. “My little Pippy’s a wonderful girl. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, and she got accepted into her dream university, scholarship-and-all. What’s she got to be un-confident about?” he asks.
Her father’s loose grasp on language for one, I think to myself, chuckling a bit. “I’m not saying that this is the case, but what hasn’t a girl in such a position got to be stressed about?” I ask, smiling matter-of-factly. “Very often when a young woman is a big fish in a small-pond town, pursuing their dreams means leaving that pond and swimming into an ocean full of big fish.“
The burly man slumps down in a chair. “But... why...” he starts.
I sigh. “Because I’m good at my job, Mr. Lizewski. People are sexual beings. Especially as they cross into adulthood. Confidence in one’s self also means the confidence to act on one’s desires. It’s a perfectly natural fact of life. And please, you can’t tell me that you didn’t want to canoodle around a little when you were a strapping young lad.”
The man opens his mouth, but it takes a few ticks of the grandfather clock for the words to reach his lips. “Not like that,” he finally says.
I nod. “Of course not. But remember back. Back to when you were your daughter’s age.”
The man’s lids droop a little, and he nods.
Ah, son of a hamster, I’m supposed to be diffusing, not giving free sessions. Yet, we’re already here. Might as well continue.
“How many girls were there that you liked?”
“Lindy McCrea, my girlfriend,” he says. “She’s the woman who gave me sweet little Pippy.”
I know parents can be expected to infantilize their adult children a little, but I’d bet all the tea in China that this fixation with keeping Philippa his ‘sweet little Pippy’ is the true purpose for this visit, and not any actual behaviour on his daughter’s part.
I clarify, “I don’t mean romantically, I mean physically. How many girls did you think about knowing in the biblical sense.”
“Mrs. Menamenah always unbuttoned her shirt just enough to let us peek when she leaned over our desks to check our work,” he mutters.
He probably didn’t actually have a teacher named Mrs. Menamenah, but entranced patients often give rough approximations of names that they forget, and the man’s brain doesn’t exactly seem to be his strong suit.
As Mr. Lizewski sinks deeper into trance, his speech becomes more unfiltered. “Missy Paige was cute too, and she had biggol’ titties. Peggy Dillon never wore a bra. Yolanda was a frumpy nerd with no body, but something about her puffy lips made me wanna... oh, and the cheer squad... Vera... Olive... Natalie... Penelope... Jane Bee... Jane Schhschndll... Juneeta Elpshhlrsh...”
Rather than listen to this man plumb the deteriorating memories of his pervy youth for zero compensation, I interject with: “And why didn’t you approach any of these attractive women?”
He rolls his head from side to side, slurring out the “Idon’twannrfffrshhh” of a shy boy whose friend told him to ask his crush to prom.
“Because you lacked confidence,” I say. I would normally let a patient reach this conclusion on their own, but... well, as I mentioned, I’m not running a charity, and even if I were, there are those I’d rather help for free than this ill-spoken man.
My not-patient nods and repeats, “Yes. I lacked confidence.”
“Well, your daughter now does not lack confidence because, like I said, I’m good at my job.”
The man slumps his head forward as he processes this.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Being sexually active is perfectly healthy for a young woman of her age.”
“But—” he begins
“Silence.”
He shuts his mouth quick enough that I can hear his teeth click together.
“Your daughter is blossoming into a woman, and that often means finding herself. It’s completely natural. In fact, if nothing else, it’s a sign that she finally believes in herself as much as you believe in her.”
The man stares at his knees like a moping child.
“Do you want her to be confident?”
“I want her to be confident.”
“Do you want her to be happy?”
“I want her to be happy.”
I sigh. I didn’t realize he’d fallen this deep. Oh well, I guess I am a charity after all.
I clap my hands together, snapping him out of his daze. With no instruction otherwise, he remembers the entirety of our conversation (it’s usually unnecessary to suggest a patient forget a conversation unless they either recall something damaging or traumatic that they’re not ready to face, or require some procedural suggestions that work better in the subconscious).
As a result, the angry oaf recalls his own conclusions that he wants his daughter to be confident and happy.
“Are we understood?” I ask.
The man nods. “Yeah, I... I guess. I’m sorry about this, doc, I just... didn’t expect her to change so much.”
I shrug. “It’s a shame how much a lack of confidence can hold us back. Especially when we’re young. But it sounds like your daughter’s treatment is finished—you don’t need to send her next week if you don’t want to.”
The man’s right eyebrow pops up. “You serious?”
I nod. “If she’s ready, she’s ready. Just let me know if she shows any signs of relapse.”
Mr. Lizewski grabs my hand and gives it a shake that practically rips my arm out of its socket. “Thanks, Doc,” he gushes. “Who says head-shrinkers are all money-grubbing crooks?”
I furrow my forehead. “Nobody,” I answer.
His handshake slows to a halt as he makes an “Ehhhhh” sound, presumably the sound of rusty gears turning in his brain, before withdrawing his hand and saying, “yeah, it’s not like you’re one of them sado-masochist dentists!”
Mr. Lizewski gives me a final wave and then practically jogs at my office.
“I know several dentists,” I say to the space Mr. Lizewski once occupied. “They’re wonderful people.”
I sigh, shrug, and flop back into my chair, shaking my head as I get back to my paperwork.
Three weeks earlier...
Philippa Lizewski’s eyes flutter shut as she listens to the warm ticking of the grandfather clock, and I take a quick pass of her state to get a sense of exactly what we’re dealing with. She seems to be an attractive young woman, for certain, with curly brown hair, sky-blue eyes, a round face, and a decent complexion with just a few specks of freckle accenting her cheeks. She doesn’t entirely dress to hide her figure—her sweater isn’t tight, but it’s not baggy, either. Her nails are well-manicured, and her jeans are in pristine freshly-washed condition, so she’s been keeping on top of self-maintenance and personal hygiene.
“Philippa, my first question: Do you really prefer it when people call you Pip?”
The young woman shrugs. “I guess. My friends call me Pip.”
“And why do they call you Pip?”
“Because I asked them to.”
Interesting. “And why did you ask them to?”
“Because... I don’t want people to make fun of me.”
Hm. I would have figured Pip would be easier to make fun of. “Why would people make fun of the name Philippa?”
“Harvey Durstonfeld said it makes me sound like a Spanish maid.”
I nod. “When was this?”
“Second grade.”
Ah. “This Harvey Durstonfeld sounds like kind of a... how would you say it...”
“A dick,” Philippa suggests.
“Yes. A dick.”
“A big dick,” she follows.
“Of course. So you know Harvey Dusrtonfeld is a big dick, correct?”
Phlippa nods. “The biggest.”
“Would you be offended if I used an appropriate yet somewhat vulgar parlance of youth?”
Philippa shakes her head. “Bad words are only bad if they’re saying bad things.”
“Fuck him. He doesn’t matter.”
The young woman’s lips curl into a smile. “Yeah,” she says. “Fuck him.”
“He’s nothing but a big dick. You don’t care what a big dick says or does.”
The smile widens. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a dick.”
So that’s one source identified. And on the first day, no less! My word, I love hypnotherapy. Talk-therapy would take a month to mine that nugget.
“Can you think of any other time you’ve felt ashamed of your name?” I ask.
Philppa shifts a little. “Eric Strummer. Every time a new teacher calls my name on attendance, he shouts Pip! Pip! Pip! like some kind of machine beeping at me.”
“He sounds like a big dick, too, doesn’t he?” I ask.
Philippa nods. “A huge dick. But it always makes his friends laugh.”
I tent my fingers and lean back in my chair, looking away from my patient and gazing at the ceiling in thought. “It sounds as though you’re surrounded by big dicks on a daily basis,” I say.
Philippa makes an “Mmm” sound as her hands begin to travel up her thighs, towards her lap. “Surrounded by big dicks,” she says as her hands inch higher.
This is not good. Any body language specialist will tell you that crossing your hands in your lap is a sign of vulnerability. “Hands at your sides, my dear,” I softly tell her.
Philippa blushes a little, and her hands slowly sink back to her sides.
“Listen to the ticking clock again, Philippa. Each warm tick you hear relaxes you even more. Feel that relaxation, warm and comforting, spread all throughout your body.”
Philippa makes the “mmm” sound again—poor thing must be so uncomfortable confronting her insecurities—but her hands stay by her sides.
“Excellent. Now, where were we?”
Philippa’s voice is low and raspy. “Big dicks.”
I chuckle to myself. “Of course. The aggressors. Tell me, Philippa, do you know why these boys have always picked on you?”
“Because I have a dumb name.”
“Not at all, my dear. You have a beautiful name. And you know it. Right?”
“I have a beautiful name.”
“And you know it.”
She repeats, “and I know it.”
“The reason they provoke you is because they’re dicks who want attention.”
I would like to tell you that such language is rare in my sessions, but I find it’s best to use the patient’s own language to define their traumas. In my experience, doing so can greatly improve the effectiveness of hypnotherapy, no matter how cruel or untoward that language may be.
“Big dicks that want attention,” she mumbles, her eyes darting around under her eyelids as she visualizes her problems.
Alright, time to steer back on-course. “Your father tells me that your academic achievements are impressive.”
Philippa shrugs as much as one can while under a deep hypnotic trance. “I guess.”
“A full scholarship to an ivy league school is worth far more than ‘I guess’, my dear.”
The young woman shakes her head. “They call it a pussy grant. I only got it because I’m a girl in STEM.”
Wow. Three pain points in rapid succession. This is rare, even for me. “Who told you that?” I ask.
“Everyone on the Internet. They say that it’s nothing to be proud of, and that if anyone on the student body learns that I’m here on a pussy grant then they’ll never let me meaningfully contribute.”
I scoff in spite of myself. The Internet. Nothing but a bunch of jealous deviants, trying to corrupt the achievements of this young woman. “Listen to me carefully,” I say in my quasi-urgent you must understand that this is false voice.
If you ever find yourself dabbling in hypnotherapy, I cannot stress enough how helpful mastering this voice can be. Even when the patient is fully conscious, that voice can banish self-doubt and give a boost of confidence. And when the patient is in a particularly deep trance?
“You are going to do meaningful work on that body,” I tell her.
“Work on the body,” she repeats, her voice dreamy.
“And you’re going to be proud of the work you do.” I lose the thread, my head swimming a little as the edible gummies I’d taken this afternoon begin to dissolve the phrasing she’d used. “Proud of your, er body, thing,” I mumble, her exact phrasing momentarily escaping me.
Now, I feel I should probably digress a little. I’m not an irresponsible doctor. In fact, I’m quite progressive. I don’t get high and practice therapeutic care. I micro-dose, with a responsible quantity, which reduces anxiety and limbers the mind—both essential elements of responsible hypnotherapy. Trust me, if you’d ever seen the aftermath a hypnotherapist suffering a panic attack while the patient is under, you’d know that really, it would be irresponsible for me not to keep my mind limber through the responsible use of pharmaceuticals.
“I’ll be proud of my body.”
“Yes,” I say, pushing forward to regain some momentum. “You’re going to work hard on that body, and you’re going to rub it on the faces of those damn Internet strangers, for all those dicks to see.”
“Rub it, on the Internet, for the dicks” she mutters, too deeply relaxed to repeat the whole thing.
To be fair, that’s my fault. It’s best to keep suggestions short when a patient is this far under. “You won’t be ashamed of your work on your body,” I tell her. Or was it... “You won’t be ashamed of anything you contribute within the body.”
“I won’t be ashamed of my body. Won’t be ashamed of what I put inside it.”
“In fact, you’ll gladly post about how proud you are on the Internet.”
“Post my body on the Internet. And post putting things into it.”
Drat, I knew one of those was wrong. I had meant to suggest that she post her achievements on the Internet, but it would seem one of my slips suggested posting fellow members of the student body. However, Philippa’s interpretation lends a little more insight to her case: her peers are clearly just as important, if not more, than her achievements.
“Excellent!” I say, fully aware that I’m basically talking to myself, as in this state Philippa’s brain is only really equipped to field questions and handle suggestions.
I glance over to the grandfather clock and am surprised to see just how many times it’s ticked—our session is running dangerously close to ending, which means her oafish father will be by to pick her up and give me another stink-eye in a few short minutes.
“Philippa, our time is short, but we’re going to pick this up next week. Okay?”
Philippa nods slowly.
“Good. Now, we’re going to do what I call an affirmation round. It’s where we briefly go over what we discussed, and repeat it so that it can find purchase in your subconscious. Are you ready?”
Philippa nods.
“Your full name is beautiful.”
“My full name is beautiful,” she repeats.
“You’re a smart and attractive girl.”
If she were awake, I’m certain that Philippa would have scoffed at how corny this sounds. But, in her current state, she wholeheartedly agrees: “I’m a smart and attractive girl.”
I consult my notes for details before continuing, “Eric Strummer and his friends are meaningless as people to you. They’re nothing but dicks.”
Philippa nods. “Eric Strummer and his friends are all nothing but dicks.”
“But being surrounded by dicks doesn’t bother you.”
Philippa makes out that “Mmm” sound again—the poor thing—but she soldiers through and repeats, “Being surrounded by dicks doesn’t bother me.”
I don’t like that she’s uncomfortable, so I try it again. “Sometimes in life you... how do kids say it... blow big chunks. Especially when you’re surrounded by dicks. They want to get a rouse out of you. The key is to just keep chugging away in spite of them, until they come to realize that they won’t get a rouse out of you.” I realize part-way through that I’m rambling a bit, but thankfully Philippa begins repeating. Mostly.
“When I’m surrounded by dicks... I can blow... they want me aroused... just keep chugging... when they cum... won’t be aroused...”
I’m a bit taken aback that she had butchered the grammar of ‘get a rouse’, but given her father’s loose grasp on the English language, I suppose it’s to be expected she would have some bad habits.
“And believe me,” I add, “every one of those dicks you find surrounding you will come around in their own time. Before you know it, it’ll be all over.”
“Every dick around me... cum in their own time... all over...”
I smile and nod. Now to the last stressor. “You’ll keep working hard on that body of yours you were anxious about.”
“Work hard... on my body.”
“You’ll be proud of your body—your entire body.” I glance down at my notes, and see the words FELLOW STUDENTS accompanied by CONTRIBUTION and add, “And you will be proud of what you put into it.”
“Proud of my body. And putting things inside”
“You will have no fear or shame about posting on the Internet about how proud you are about your body.”
“Proud of my body... post on the Internet... ”
Lost in my own roll a little, I continue, “You’ll want to post pictures of your hard work, and rub it on those random strangers’ faces.”
Philippa’s cheeks flush as her breaths accelerate—curious that she knows the session is nearing a close and that it’s nearly time to end, given that she’s facing away from the clock. Her internal sense of time must be exceptional!
“I want to rub my body in strangers’ faces and post pictures,” Philippa mutters while I’m lost in thought.
“Excellent! Now, let’s repeat those affirmations. Do you remember them?”
“My name is beautiful. I am smart and attractive.” Philippa slows down slightly, too relaxed to grasp for the next topic.
“The dicks at school,” I offer.
“The boys at school aren’t people to me. They’re nothing but dicks.”
Hmm, I would normally be concerned about the generalization, but these are the boys from her high school. She’ll likely never see any of them again, so it’s no great mischief if she thinks ill of a few nice ones.
“Continue,” I say.
“I don’t mind being surrounded by dicks.”
“And when you find yourself surrounded by them, what will you remember?”
“Big dicks want attention. It’s okay to blow. They want me aroused. Keep chugging. They’ll all cum in their own time. All over. ”
Marvellous! The girl is a natural at hypnotherapy. She just took four affirmations and compressed them into one mantra. I quickly jot it down in my notes, for use next session: The ‘dick’ [aggressor] students want attention. It’s okay for a situation to ‘blow’ [negativism] when she’s surrounded by aggressors. They want to ‘get you roused’ [sic—uneducated parent], so keep chugging [perseverance] along. They’ll come [around] in their own time, and all over [regressive form of ‘the trouble will be over’].
“Next?” I ask when I’m finally done scribbling on my notepad.
Philippa pauses.
“Proud of your body of work...”
“Mmm,” she says again, clearly ashamed to have forgotten. “I’ll be proud of the work I do on my body. I’ll talk about it on the Internet. I’ll be proud of my whole body. I’ll be proud of what I put into it. I’ll post pictures on the Internet to show them. I’ll proudly rub it in strangers’ faces. I’ll want to post pictures that on the Internet, too.”
“Very good, Philippa. Now, from the top. This time, no hints.”
Philippa takes a moment to think before she begins: “My name is beautiful. I’m smart and pretty. I don’t mind being surrounded by dicks. When I am, I’ll remember: Big dicks want attention. It’s okay to blow. Don’t stop chugging; they’ll all cum in their own time. All over.”
She takes a deep breath, then continues, “I’ll be proud of the work I do on my body. I’ll talk about it on the Internet. I’ll be proud of what I put into my body. I’ll post pictures on the Internet to show them. I’ll proudly push my body onto strangers’ faces. I’ll want to post pictures of that on the Internet, too. And I’ll post it all for the dicks.”
I nod. “Perfect. Now, we have time for one more round of affirmations. But this time, try saying the exact thing without using different words.” The exercise is meant to add a functional layer to the retention of the affirmations—much like how teaching a subject can help you to better understand it, reiterating hypnotic affirmations engages more active parts of your brain, and therefore can greatly improve efficacy.
“The name Philippa is beautiful,” she begins. “I’m top of my class, and I can be very sexy.”
The one downside of this exercise is that, by this third repetition, the affirmations get dreadfully boring. To be honest, I started changing the third affirmation out of boredom rather than academic curiosity, but I still often find myself zoning out.
I let out a yawn, Philippa droning on in the background.
“Being surrounded by big cocks excites me.”
The substitution barely registers, and even then only because I’m surprised that the youth still referenced gamecocks when talking about overly-aggressive males.
“When I see a bunch of big dicks, I’ll remember to show them how aroused they make me, by dropping to my knees and taking them into my mouth...”
Then again, I think to myself, Philippa’s voice a white noise in the far distance, Philippa is an unusually intellectual girl. While her language is quite pedestrian when it comes to youthful slang, and she has retained some bad habits from her uneducated father, I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s well-read enough to pick up a few anachronisms here and there.
“...and then keep chugging those big wonderful cocks until every single one finishes, all over my slutty body...”
Then again, is it an anachronism? After all, I reference gamecocks quite frequently, as do a number of others my age. Sure, it may be old-fashioned, but it’s not like we’re Victorian dandies or something.
“I’ll make sure to work out, to keep my body sexy. And I won’t be self-conscious about showing off my tits or pussy.”
On the other hand, I’m not exactly a spring chicken. And it’s been quite some time since I’ve heard a youth reference gamecocks. Or spring chickens. Or any poultry-based metaphors, I suppose.
“I’ll post pictures of my body on the Internet, for strangers to look at. I’ll fill my pussy and post pictures for all the strangers to stroke their cocks to.”
Why wouldn’t they, though? Gamecocks are the perfect metaphor for such people. They’re aggressive, they’re unintelligent, they’re known for being violent...
“I’ll show my body to strangers and take pictures of them touching me. Licking me. Playing with my sexy body.”
But more than the direct violence metaphor, gamecocks are a morally repugnant product of their morally repugnant upbringing. And as such, every gamecock—and, indeed every bully, as well as many other classifications of misbehaving youth—could have been harmless, upstanding, moral creatures if only those in charge of them had taken the time to simply pay attention.
Suddenly, I realize that the only sounds in the room are my own thoughts and the ticking clock.
My, I certainly hope I didn’t leave her silent for too long. Not that she would mind, being left in a state of rest.
“Very good,” I say, suddenly flustered, as though the young woman would be able to tell that I’d hopped on a train of thought and left her behind with her boring recitations. “Yes, that’s wonderful. As you fall asleep tonight, and every night until you graduate from university, your subconscious will repeat those affirmations to you. And every time it does, those affirmations will become stronger within you. Do you understand?”
Philippa smiles and lets out a happy sigh as she nods. The poor thing must have felt so held-back by her anxiety—I hope that the affirmations help her find relief. Not just in her bed at night, but in her day-to-day life as well.
“Very good. When I count down, you will awaken, remembering what we talked about: that your given name is beautiful, that the bullies who make fun of your name are inconsequential, and how you should be proud of your scholarship because you’ll do great things with it.”
Philippa nods again, her face relaxing a little more.
“However, your conscious mind won’t remember the affirmations,” I tell her.
This is something that some of my colleagues might debate me on, but I’ve always personally felt affirmations to be somewhat hokey. Not because they don’t work, mind you, but because they simply feel silly. In my early days of practice, I found that people became very self-conscious remembering all that “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and—doggone it—people like me” stuff, often growing so self-conscious about needing therapy that they actually cancel treatment altogether.
However, tuck them in the subconscious, and you bypass the superego. Plus, you get the added benefit of having the affirmations repeated while the patient is in a more suggestible state, right as they fall asleep, instead of rattling around in their head when they can be picked apart and misremembered.
Frankly, it’s all upside, and Dr. Weaver can fill an enema bag with his stupid formal concerns a quart of sand, and then have himself a beach party.
In a brief count, Philippa is up again. She’s flush and dazed, as is common with my female patients, but the haze soon lifts and she’s back to her bright, jovial self.
“How do you feel, Philippa?”
I see her smile as she hears me use her full name—a truly promising sign. “I feel... excited... is that weird?”
I chuckle, watching the clock tick past our session end with no Mr. Lizewski in sight. “That’s perfectly natural, my dear. Especially given the incredible progress we’ve made today.”
She nods slightly. “I... I remember. I think. But when you said my name...”
I nod. “No shame,” I finish for her. “Were you aware how much you were still bothered by that rude kid making fun of you over ten years ago? ”
Phlippa shakes her head. “It’s... incredible. I mean, I remember that dumb kid, but I thought I left it behind. I didn’t see it, but it makes so much sense that it would stick with me.”
Finally, out the window I see a battered old red SUV pulling into the parking lot. “Your ride is here, Phlippa. Off you go.”
Philippa takes a half-step forward. “Mr. Propos, how can I possibly thank you?”
She must have stood up too fast, because her eyes become half-lidded, and she begins to rub the paresthesia out of her inner thighs.
“No need, my dear,” I say, waving the young woman off. “As the blue-collars would say, I’m just doing my job, ma’am!”
Philippa confirms my assessment that she’s still groggy from being put under, as this hilarious joke doesn’t rouse so much as a chuckle from the poor girl.
Instead, she scrunches her brow a bit, shakes her head, and then heads out the door.
I watch through the window as the young woman bounds out of the building, catching her father off-guard with a surprise embrace, and I can’t help but smile and think to myself: I am, indeed, a damn good therapist.