Page 5 of The Girlfriend Game
Two
Kendall
“Hello, Mr. Forester. Please, take a seat wherever you’re most comfortable.”
I exchange a cordial handshake with my new client, Zeke Forester, ignoring thezingthat sizzles through my palm upon contact with his rough bear-sized hand. A flash of irritation sparks in his eyes, but is overshadowed by his handsome broodiness.
Zeke is obviously tall, considering his profession, but appears to possess a defiant, and maybe even dangerous, presence that only serves to intrigue me more. It gives me a quiver of excitement when I’m faced with a challenging client. And from what I’ve read of Zeke Forester, he’s caused his fair share of trouble.
Shaking my thoughts free, I gesture toward a pair of chairs reserved for my clients.
I carefully observe as he eyes the two styles of seats and chooses the one that reclines.
He sinks into the chair, crossing one of his feet over his ankle, as if he’s casually waiting on me to hand him a beer or a drink. I take the leather chair opposite of him and cross my legs.
“You can call me Zeke. What should I call you? Your book out there”—he hooks a thumb toward the lobby door—“claims you have a lot of fancy titles and degrees.”
I chuckle at his comment. “I do, but in here you can call me Kendall. I think you’ll come to find out I’m not too caught up in titles, but they are important in this line of work.”
A true and accurate statement. I’ve fought tooth and nail to build my practice and establish my credibility as a psychotherapist, spending years in academia, then in the field, to prove my expertise. In fact, my Rush Method is a bit unorthodox in its approach to mental wellness, but has proven to be an invaluable methodology that has helped many of my patients heal.
Nearly all my clients are high-profile people which means, quite frankly, their arrogance often disguises their deep-rooted psychological problems. The pressure of success in whatever their profession manifests itself in stress, disorders, and anxiety. Many resort to the use of drugs, alcohol, sex addiction, and various other unhealthy coping mechanisms that I, as their therapist, must work to deconstruct one layer at a time. Nothing fazes or shocks me anymore.
Whatever their symptoms or behavior, I treat them using proven methods outside these office walls.
It’s the same approach for everyone. No one is unique or so important that my method won’t work.
I employ community outreach and the act of service as the means of getting people to talk. It’s amazing what can happen when a patient gets outside their head, so to speak, and they focus their mental energies on something or someone else. It quiets their minds, allows a sense of stability, and offers a heightened level of sensitivity toward other people’s plights that they may not have been aware of before.
That’s not to say I don’t use traditional methods for treatment, which I do. Medications are often needed due to the chemical imbalances. But combined with my approach to improving mental health, success has always been a derivative.
Zeke remains quiet for a moment, taking in the décor of the office. It’s not too much to look at. Muted tones and soft lighting, a few pieces of artwork on the walls. The small desk in the center of the room, free from any unnecessary paperwork or clutter. A laptop and monitor and nothing personal that would give my patients a glimpse into my life.
I don’t share any personal details of my life with my clients. My job is to get them to open up, to dig deep inside a patient’s head, thereby creating a certain level of intimacy they often don’t share with others. But I never refer to myself, my life, or my own personal opinions.
It keeps the professional lines clearly drawn.
Leaning forward, I fold my hands on my lap, the pencil skirt covering my knees to provide some modesty, and ask my first question.
“What would you like to talk about, Zeke? Tell me why you’re here.”
He laughs caustically, his lip curling in a snarl meant to intimidate, if I had to guess.
“I’m here because I’m being forced to be here. And I don’t want to talk about shit.”
Aha. So, it’s one of those games he’s playing. Lucky for him, I’ve dealt with confrontational patients before. Those who want to blame others for their issues or feel like they don’t have a choice in the matter, when they really do.
“Okay, then. I can appreciate that, Zeke. How about this? Why don’t we start our session with you telling me what you love about the game of basketball?”
I start a first session like this with all my clients. It allows me to immediately get into their headspace to understand what drives them, what their motivating factors are in life, and how their behaviors are tied to their mental health. I use it to form a tactical plan to diagnose and determine a strategy to get them on the path to recovery and healing.
Mental illness is not a weakness. It happens to even the strongest, the most intelligent, the bravest, and the most “I thought they had their shit together” kind of people. What I want to impart to Zeke from the get-go is that this is a process. It’s not an overnight cure-all.
For most who suffer, it’s not one critical incident that affected their mental health, but a combination of circumstances over a lifetime. It’s a long-brewing storm that must be weathered by seeking shelter and holding on during the darkest parts of the tempest.
“Hmm…what do I love about basketball? That’s easy. The money,” he jokes sarcastically, placing his hands behind his head and lounging back. And then he bounces back up, snapping his fingers as if he’s forgotten something important. “No, wait. It’s the fame. Nah, not that either. The women and the sex. Yes, that’s it.”
He strokes the dark stubble on his chin, digging a finger into the divot on his chin before releasing a brilliant, cheesy smile.
