Teeny Hypno

Well. You think you know a person. Like….I dunno…..me, for instance. I’ll bet a lot of you think you know me.

“Well…yeah,” you say. “You’re one of those goofy people who hits her head on the open cabinet door, then leans down to pick something up…and hits her head again.”

Huh. Maybe you do know me….or, are you watching me?
My ever-wise IV, the handsome and witty Clinton Kelly has suggested an intervention to “knock some sense into that noggin of yours”. I’ve agreed to a teeny hypnotherapy session, as Mr. Kelly has assured me that he’s done this at least once before and nobody’s reported him to any law enforcement agency...that we're aware. So, I figure….what the hell? Bring it.

Dr. Kelly: “Do you have any other pads? I’d feel a little more professional if I wasn’t holding a binder with three-dimensional skulls on the cover and Connor’s name written on it with a Sharpie.”

Kathryn: “Nope. Sorry…that’ll have to do. Just fold it over…no-one can see you, ya know….”

CK: “Um. Shouldn’t you be lying down on some institutional couch that has a lingering smell of desperation and a tear-stained pillow for under your head?”

K: “You wish. I much prefer sitting ramrod straight, staring intently into those cornflower eyes and making absolutely sure you don’t somehow screw this up and permanently change my sparking, remarkably resilient personality and replace it with some corporate drone who speaks in monotone and spends long, awkward silences counting the acoustic ceiling tiles and drooling.”

CK: (Throws down pad with 3-D skulls on cover) “Okay. I’m out. There’s no hope for you. I’m calling the men in the white coats.”

K: (Whines) “No! You said you’d do this! You said you’d help me to become more…focused. Help with the stress. Unless you don’t think you can do it….”

CK: (Squinty-eyed stare…thinking. Finally picks up pad.) “MY session. MY rules. Lean back in that chair and close your eyes.”

K: “Oh, my….you’re so…forceful.”

CK: “Kathryn.”

K: “FINE.”

CK: “Try to relax….and think of someplace peaceful and calm.”

K: “My back is itchy.”

CK: (Sighs) “So, scratch.”

K: “I can’t reach it.”

(Turns back towards Dr. Kelly, who simultaneously rolls his eyes whilst scratching Kathryn’s back)

CK: “Now focus. Happy place….peaceful….no worries….”

K: (Frowns) “Wait. Is tonight Tuesday? Is it garbage night?”

CK: “Are you trying to appear crazy? ‘Cause you’re doing a damn fine job of it.”

K: (Sullenly) “Pish. Whatever. Daisies….butterflies….seagulls….warm sun….hummmmmm”

CK: “Are you mocking? ‘Cause your mental instability’s gotten you this far…maybe we shouldn’t mess with it. Your blog might suffer. Did you ever think of that??”

K: (Eyes wide) “Aw, crap! STOP THE SESSION! GET OUT OF MY HEAD, KELLY! ABORT! ABORT!”

CK: “I’ll stop if you’ll promise to lighten up on the self-recrimination. You’re only one person…24 hours in a day… yada, yada. You’re not Superman and sometimes you can’t make things happen any faster than they’re supposed to.”

K: “Pot…kettle, Clinton. And is ‘yada, yada’ a board-certified therapeutic word?”

CK: “It is when I say it is. Agreed?”

K: (Smiles wearily) “Agreed. I’ll try, anyway.”

CK: “Okay! Another successful blog-intervention…brought to you by FAWK, Rubbermaid, and Verizon.”

K: “My hero…”