They call us “shrinks”,
shorthand for “headshrinkers”. In the past and now the profession has produced
more than its fair share of charlatans and sadists. Still...such hyperbole casually applied to the lot of us, its grim implications. That we decapitate
our patients, sew their mouths shut, peel the flesh from their skulls, boil it,
stew it with herbs, wrap the shrunken remainder around a ball or stone—might that be judging us too harshly? Save the insults for nurse practitioners or
psychiatrists, maybe? We don't write prescriptions. We don’t collect human heads, have no need for trophies. Though I
suppose a framed diploma on an office wall might qualify.
If any mouth should be sewn shut in this
arrangement, it should be ours. Confidentiality, informed consent. A code of
silence to uphold.
Every evening when I leave the office, switch the lamps
off, flick off the white noise machines that sit on the floor outside
each door, I complete the concluding ritual by running a finger across my lips. There, sewn shut. Finalized. People’s lives
protected from becoming dinner conversation. An ugly metaphor—but useful.
Whose heads most need a good shrinking but our own? Easy to fall into the illusion you
are some infallible guide, wiser than most, more perceptive than most… the head
swells and almost begs for someone with a long sharp needle to come along
and pop it. Here’s when I give myself a good shrinking, lift my head off its
shoulders, submerge it evenings and weekends in a jar of preservative chemicals,
the most powerful concoction available—critical self-reflection, doubt, regret.
What could’ve been said. What could've not been said. Better ways of not
saying what could’ve not been said. The walk from the building to
the car each evening, exhausting. But the outcome of that walk, the walk
and the drive home, is often a solid gain. At home when I walk through the door, I can actually walk
through it; my head isn’t so large it gets lodged in the doorframe. Reminder:
unsew one's mouth before kissing one's partner good evening. And if they happen
to be a shrink too, ever-so-gently help them to unsew their lips to prep them for a kiss.
That’s fine, that's good, part of the job. Embrace
people’s suspicions and general skepticism, have fun with it. Resist the urge,
no matter how strong, to peg their dismissiveness as defensiveness. As I said
before: sadists, charlatans. Certain extreme examples of bad actors have led to
a reputation; the reputation precedes us, and it’s been earned. It’s part of
the job, maybe, to unearn it. Me, I invite people to admire the sight of my own
head in its shrunken, unglorious, un-decapitated form, still free to swivel
about on its neck, nodding “yes”, “no”, tipping to the side every now and then
to rest a while in my hand. This is what a human head looks like, I tell them.
Not any larger than yours. Sometimes considerably smaller.
I’ve worked with veterans, either through rehab clinics
or by referral through the VA hospital. I’ve worked with a few who were
once Marines, many stationed in Iraq or Afghanistan. What they’ve seen and felt
and continue to see and feel will remain between us. But what I can disclose is
their pet name for me, for us, psychotherapists, the full lot of us. Social workers,
mental health counselors, Marriage and Family Therapists, clinical
psychologists, art therapists, nurse practitioners, psychiatrists. Wizards: they
call us wizards. As in: “Going to meet the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard, Oz.” The
man behind the curtain. People behind curtains. A big voice booming out condemnations,
advice, directives. After having come long distances and having survived such
perils, what does that make of him, most often him, almost always him, this U.S.
Marine, this unrecovered soldier? A girl from Kansas, a feisty terrier, a heartless tin man, a brainless
scarecrow, a cowardly lion, all in one. Can we keep them together? Can we help them
secure what they seek? A seasoned, skillful wizard will respond by stepping out
from behind the curtain. “Welcome to the afterlife of all magic,” they’ll say. “Notice
how small I am, and, by comparison, how large you are. I wonder what it would
it take to make us equal, to see eye to eye, even if painfully so.”
