—Fitzgerald
So, here I am spending this Saturday in October out in the country—but I’m not taking in the fall colours—I’m consulting a psychologist whose hobby involves past lives therapy and hypnotic regression.
Now don’t think for one minute I’m going to submit myself to that kind of intervention. Things like that scare the hell right out of me and I made that plain to Ken who’s presenting as less of a psychologist and more of a guru.
Besides, I’m not sure I get the point. Maybe Ken’s therapy might be able to change me but it’s not going to alter the past—especially the fact that Clare and I are not only separated but she’s planning to go further and initiate formal divorce proceedings.
Like I said before, I’d need a Time Machine to transport me back into my past and change that.
I decide to cut to the chase and get right to the point with Ken.
“So, how do you plan to help me get my life back together?” I say it matter of factly, just flat out, almost like a challenge to him.
Ken gives me a sympathetic smile and I half-expect him to cave and admit he can’t do much to change my past, but he doesn’t do that.
“Look, Lucas, I have an approach that I personally found very effective in coming to terms with the past and modifying present behaviour. I think it will work for you.”
I stare at him with a dubious look on my face. Maybe I’m hoping he’ll qualify his optimism a little.
“What does this approach involve? Am I going to have to make the trek up here for a year, or who knows how long until I make some progress?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing like that—it’s more independent work. I send you lessons via email and you practice the technique for several hours a day for a week before moving on to the next stage.”
I try to mute my feelings of disappointment. “What is this—something like A Course in Miracles?" I hope I don't sound too sarcastic.
Ken ignores the edge in my voice. “The process involves a combination of journalling, life review, meditation and self-hypnosis. Your rate of progress depends entirely upon you.”
Great—just great! I muse. I've wasted part of my weekend driving up here to be offered a correspondence course.
I'm tempted to get up and shake his hand and thank him for taking the time to see me. You know, a kind of Thanks but no thanks response.
And I might have done it but Ken is so damn personable that I find myself saying, “Fine, I’ll try it. I’m desperate to find anything that might offer some chance of working and making some difference in my life.”
Instead of standing up and leaving, I sit at his kitchen table sipping another fresh mug of coffee and signing up for a month’s worth of lessons with the understanding that I'm free to cancel at any time if I find the exercises unproductive.
I almost feel hypnotized—the feeling is like sitting through an Amway presentation while the salesman draws the circles and promises you a bright future—the only difference is I don’t walk out with having purchased an array of products. I walk out the way I walked in, but strangely hopeful.
Of course, it makes no sense. Ken hadn’t made a detailed presentation—he simply spent a pleasant hour with me over coffee and muffins in his house in the country, but I'm leaving feeling I've made the first step on a long journey and everything is going to be all right.
I have no basis in fact for that feeling, but already my depression has lifted and the week ahead looks brighter. That in itself is something.