So, here I am spending this Saturday in October out in the country—but 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 Christy 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 and change that.
I decide to cut to the chase and come 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.
He 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 tried to mute my feelings of disappointment. “What is this—something like A Course in Miracles? I tried not to 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 wasted part of my weekend driving up here to be offered a correspondence course.
I'm tempted to get up, 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 was so damn personable that I found 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.”
And then, instead of standing up and leaving, I sat at his kitchen table sipping at another fresh mug of coffee and signing up for a month’s worth of lessons with the understanding that I was free to cancel at any time if I found the exercises unproductive.
I almost felt hypnotized—the feeling was like sitting through an Amway presentation while the salesman drew the circles and promised you a bright future—the only difference was I didn’t walk out with having purchased an array of products.
I walked out the way I walked in, but strangely hopeful.
Of course, it made 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 left feeling I had made the first step on a long journey and everything was going to be all right.
I had no basis in fact for feeling that, but already my depression had lifted and the week ahead looked brighter.
That in itself was something.
Besides, whatever alternative approach he had in mind it would be vastly preferable to either of those frightening scenarios.
My right foot had stopped tapping nervously—I took that as a good sign.
