Chapter 1 from Deny You Think You

So, I took your advice and went to see a therapist. I’d heard he was a Jungian, and though I know nothing about Jung, I like the idea of tapping into the collective unconscious and dream analysis, and something else, though it escapes me now. I wish I hadn’t skimmed my required intro to psychology course texts. I hear so many references today where I recognize the names yet vaguely understand.

His name is Thierry, curly black hair with gray roots, deep bags under his eyes, wide nostrils with wire-frame glasses perched on the end of his nose.

After an awkward intro and a long series of questions and jotting down my symptoms on a clipboard, he said he’d prescribe (redacted ssri), or maybe (redacted ssri),though they might not help that certain snowballing matter. In fact, they may make it worse.
“Don’t want it,” I said to him.
“Why?” He adjusted his glasses.
“I don’t do drugs.”
“But this is medicine. It’s been approved.”
I wondered what kind of kickback he gets for each prescription but couldn’t think of a good way to ask. You’d think it’s a fair question but might come across as hostile, and I didn’t want to leave without Viagra+ and lithium, but I didn’t want a prescription for those either. I just wanted to sleep and function without pills. Was that asking too much?
“I just want to feel normal. The natural way.”
“Normal?” his black eyebrows arched. “And what is normal for you?”
“I go to bed and fall asleep,” and wake with morning wood – but I left that out as I didn’t want set off red flags.
“That seems like a reasonable ask. You might reconsider (redacted ssri)."

A long minute of total silence. Sound of his clock ticking on the wall. Beeping sound from a truck going in reverse outside his window. His head tilted to the left. No answer from me. His head tilted to the right. I didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have any prescriptions?” He glanced over his wire frame glasses.
“Nope,” I said but hoped for a few.
“Have you had your blood work done lately? I mean, that is to say, have you had a blood test? Someone will draw your blood and test it for different levels. You may find high cholesterol or vitamin D deficiencies and so on. A number of health issues can be managed after understanding your blood,” he focused on me with piercing green eyes.
It then struck me that he might have access to my files, where I had blood work done on a number of occasions. Were those files public? Seemingly they wouldn’t be, but he’d know they existed due to my past employer. He looked like he knew I’d been scanned many times and was ripe for experimentation.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, figuring we could move beyond all blood letting and Pharma pitches and get into repressed shadows. Maybe I should let him enter my skin, but I didn’t want my blood scanned by someone whose first impulse was to talk about prescriptions.
Thierry sighed and looked at his watch.
I wanted to get up and leave, but felt moored by your point that my Tricare Prime insurance would soon be canceled when my discharged status is finalized. I needed to buy some time. I looked at his diplomas on the wall. He had one from the University of Wisconsin, a doctor of psychology.
“State school?”
“It’s a top-tier university comprised of leading academics and researchers. Our contributions are immense.”
“Isn’t that by Fargo?”
“Madison is to Fargo what goat’s cheese is to cheddar.”
“You don’t like cheddar?”
“Madison is a vibrant city?”
“What’s Madison?”
His lips pressed together. His green eyes refocused. “Do you know what we can learn from your blood?”
My neck tingled, “I don’t have diseases.”
“How would you know?”
“It’s unlikely.”
“How do you feel about being examined?
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“And yet,” he clasped his hands and waited for me to finish his sentence.
I didn’t say anything.
“Rob. You are denying professional advice. Why is that?”
I got up and left. He stood and watched me leave and told me I was welcome to return. I headed back to Lake Missoula.

Two weeks later of bad sleep. And ants. Everywhere ants crawling up the walls and in my sheets. White bumps on my legs. I woke up scratching and bleeding the white bumps. A couple more nights of poor sleeping and heavy drinking and I was pacing on my back deck, looking over the edge, admiring the silence of ravine below.

I called Thierry. He was friendly on the phone. He invited me back to his office. When I got there, his office smelled like patchouli incense had just been lit to mask a bong-load. I apologized and told him that I looked up Madison and it seemed like a splendid place for higher education. I asked if he liked cheese and had any recommendations. He mentioned something in Midwestern French, but I forgot what he said. He smiled a little and revealed a set of bright white dentures. My mind wandered to his gray roots as I tried to calculate his last hair dye session. His skin was like oatmeal and his body sagged with irregular lumps. He leaned forward and took off his glasses and cleaned them with a tissue,
“So you haven’t changed your mind about prescriptions?”
“No.”
“What bothers you about medical treatments?”
“Side effects.”
“They are extremely rare. The prescriptions of which I recommend are safe and effective.”
“Do you believe that?”
He smirked. “If you don’t believe it then let’s try something else. We can always matriculate later.” He slightly shook his head in mild disbelief, as though my distrust of prescriptions was a sign of idiocy, as though he were speaking of hard science and not modern witchcraft. I almost wanted to ask him if the field of psychology had trouble duplicating its results, or if its journals took donations from drug companies, but I didn’t. Dad always told me that if you want to challenge an opinion or ask about methods or evidence, that you’re better off finding a new doctor.
So I hinted that I’d matriculate if we could start slowly. First, we’d need to talk, then I’d let him hold my hand. So he suggested a therapy program that used an app called “The Virtual Couch.” One can trust it, he said, because it is funded by major financial institutions who have the resources and necessary concerns about reputation to keep it secure. Turns out, there are new layers of military-grade encryption that cannot be cracked, though I feel like everyone says that.

What is The Virtual Couch?
It’s rooted in Jungian analysis, though he said not to worry about the mythology and wild speculations about Jung and just focus on the process of letting my thoughts go. Try and let yourself write without thinking about it. Find yourself typing before you know what’s coming out. You might think of it as a brainstorming activity, he said. Use it as an online journal. Report things that are on your mind. Write up events from the other day. Erase what you don’t like. Revise if you feel like it. There’s something about writing that differs from thinking. When we write, a different part of the brain is engaged and things will emerge that are unexpected. “Take a few months and journal,” he said. “Write to someone you know. Someone you feel comfortable with. You don’t have to send it. You don’t need to keep it. The Virtual Couch app is a secure platform. Check out their website and see their profile. Hundreds of international corporations are invested, and they wouldn’t let a security breach arise as it would undermine their investments. So, feel secure. Let it flow, just put words down. Don’t worry about what they are. For example, a few lines about a dream you had last night. You know, I was walking in a creek and a purple fish swam by and when I reached to pick it up, there I was holding a block of yellow cheese. It was warm and soft.” He smiled at me. His white dentures were brighter than seemed natural. “Something like this. Or whatever you remember from your dreams.”
“What’s that supposed to accomplish?”
“Hard to say. It’s your path. As you do it, you’ll start to see patterns and images. Answers will emerge. And when, or if you want me to help you process, then I can do that as well.”
“Do I need to take drugs?”
“Drugs, no. Medicines may help you along your journey. It’s your choice. Do you have a friend, someone you like?”
“Sure.”
“Why not write to this person? You don’t need to send your entries to this person. You don’t need to tell this person. Just put it in writing and then forget about it. Come back later and reread. See what it means to you then.”

So here I am, writing to you. Just in case this gets out, it was never intended for you to read. You’ve always been my closest ally. Like family, as they say. A sister. And so maybe I should tell you what happened that night of horror and get over it.