[Below is a brief transcript from one of the therapeutic sessions held with a client during my time working with him this summer. Due to patient confidentiality restrictions, I will simply refer to the client as "Mr. Jones." Mr. Jones is the owner/president/ GM of a major sports team. Below you will find a transcript or some of our work this summer.]
Therapist: Hello Mr. Jones
Mr. Jones: Howdy, I just want to start by saying that I don’t believe in any of this therapy stuff, OK.
Therapist: No problem Mr. Jones. Clients initially feel uncomfortable with therapy but most find it to be helpful, even if just a little bit.
Mr. Jones: I feel like the windows are closing.
Therapist: No, they are already closed, is it warm in here to you?
Mr. Jones: No DAMNIT! The windows are closing!!! I determine the windows not you.
Therapist: Okay…you’re right. If you feel like the windows are closing, then let’s go with that.
[*Note: "have client complete assessment for schizophrenia and/or mood disorder"]
Mr. Jones: I’m sorry, I’m just not used to people telling me what to do.
Therapist: My apologies. How did it make you feel when you felt that I was telling you what to do?
Mr. Jones: (blank stare)
Therapist: You know…feelings, how did it make you feel?
Mr. Jones: I’m not familiar with feelings; Botox has taken all of the feelings from my face?
Therapist: What about inside of you, those are the feelings we need to discuss.
Mr. Jones: Oh, I feel good in there I like to drink a lot so I always feel warm in there. Windows are always open inside of me, unless I close them. *stern look*
Therapist: Umm….Let’s move on to why you are here.
Mr. Jones: I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. All I do is drink.
Therapist: So you are here because of a drinking problem.
Mr. Jones: NO! All I do is drink, that’s not a problem.
Therapist: (blank stare) Umm….
Mr. Jones: See… I need to make myself feel better that’s all. I gave a guy who plays like Rex Grossman a six-year $108 million contract. My wide receivers can’t stay healthy, and one of them guys even slapped his mama. My head coach should be a special teams coordinator, and I just hired a guy who could be MY daddy to run the defense.
Therapist: How does that make you feel?
Mr. Jones: FEELINGS!? Last time I felt something is when that RGIII fella beat us twice last year and won the division. I felt like a cattle prod had been wrapped in razor blades, dipped in alcohol, and shoved up my nether regions. I have nightmares and wet dreams about that kid. I have a bad case of the night-wets son!!! I’m leaving!!! You can’t help me. I see that kid everywhere. I feel like he watches me sleep at night. I even find myself randomly wanting pop rocks and tootsie pops now. I tried to get my hair twisted like his, but they told me that I’ve bleached it too much. He's inside my windows son. IN MY WINDOWS!!! I’ve got hot shivers and cold sweats. Help me!!!! Help me please!!!
[Client stands up and walks over to me and begins to violently shake me]
Therapist: Mr. Jones compose yourself!!!
Mr. Jones: Hail to the Redskins….Hail to the Redskins *begins to cry and whimper* more alcohol, more alcohol, more alcohol!!!
[At this point I pocket dialed 911]
Therapist: Mr. Jones…I need you to calm down. This is highly unusual behavior and I may have to call for someone to help you. It appears that you may be experiencing a minor breakdown due to the stress you are currently under. It sounds like this RGIII guy is really getting under your skin, coupled with your team not performing very well and your starting QB playing like a third-string QB, especially in the 4th quarter.
Mr. Jones: (staring intently with fear in his eyes) You know what? You look a little bit like him.
Therapist: Like who?
Mr. Jones: Like RGIII
Therapist: No, no…I couldn’t be him. I’m currently on my honeymoon. Not even I can be two places at once, I mean…, not even “he” could be two places at one.
[Patient was subsequently hospitalized due to a mental breakdown and being a danger to himself and others]
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and not based on any actual events.