11 – Session Notes of Dr. Heather Hale: Donnie Ramo
The following is transcribed from a session between me and patient R-01011 Ramo, Donald A.
Response Notes are included and can be found in Italics.
Therapy session scheduled to resume on the 29th of this month on a weekly basis.
RECORDED SESSION W/DONNIE (Notes Added)
REFERENCE PREVIOUS FILES THROUGH ID R-01011
EXPERIENCE W/PATIENT: EXTENSIVE
D: Again, I don’t know how to thank you for this.
H: Don’t thank me. Like I said before, this is your last chance.
Note: Brief pause. Patient shakes in seat. Visibly upset.
D: And again, I don’t know how to thank you for the last chance. I mean… I’m well aware how easily you could have told me to fuck off.
H: Given our history, I find it hard to believe you would take into consideration the prospect of my turning you away.
D: Believe it or not I did… however small a chance it may have been. I still took it under consideration.
Silence. Waiting for patient to stop avoiding issues behind visit. He continues to say nothing.
H: Why did you come here, Donnie?
D: You mean initially? The very first time we met?
H: You didn’t have a say in the matter when we first met. You and I both know what I meant.
D: Again you got me… you always know how to call me on my shit.
Patient says nothing for awhile. Not uncommon for him to dance around real issues.
H: You’re avoiding issues again. And until you show up next week, we’re still on my time. Don’t waste it.
Patient takes a moment. Again visibly upset.
D: I’ve been going through, I mean, I think… I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.
H: What makes you think you’re having a nervous breakdown?
D: Apart from living twenty-three out of twenty-four in a fucking panic attack?
H: Frankly yes, panic attacks aren’t a new thing for you.
D: These ones are.
H: How?
D: They just are… they’re different okay!
H: Different how?
D: For starters Xanax isn’t working.
H: Apart from that…
D: Just a minor detail? The Xanax not working I mean?
Patient is obviously worked up.
H: You and I both know you have a high tolerance to benzodiazepines. Panic attacks present a two way street. Medication can only go so far. That’s why these things are usually prescribed. Medication in conjunction with psychotherapy is the only way to find root causes…
D: Yeah well, let’s just say in my case a doctor isn’t needed when it comes to prescription drugs.
H: As I’m well aware… you’re dancing again. Apart from the ineffectiveness of the drugs, how are these panic attacks different?
D: I don’t know… there’s like a whole new… physical aspect…
H: Physical in what way?
D: For starters I shake like mental…
H: Possibly a reaction to the drugs or withdrawal from booze. I take it you’re still drinking?
D: Of course I’m still fucking drinking. And the shakes aren’t from DT’s, I’ve already ruled those out… quit drinking for a week.
H: How often do the tremors occur and how frequently.
D: Tremors? Please, it’s a tremor. Steady from wake up to lights out.
H: Have you explored other possibilities?
D: Physical three weeks ago, clean bill of health. And before you say it, I faked pain in my head a week ago and got an MRI on someone else’s social at UCLA Emergency.
Patient voluntarily provides information regarding his crimes. Almost proud of them.
H: You committed identity theft to get a free MRI?
D: Are you kidding? Do you know how much those things cost?
H: Yes well aware. I’m simply addressing the amount of debt you put someone else in as a result.
D: Spare me. The person’s social I used lives on the other end of the country. Once they see it on their credit report they’ll contest the charge and be made whole again. A victimless crime.
H: Again, you rationalize your crime… that’s not always the case. Especially with this one… this isn’t a charge on a Visa card, this is on someone’s credit history. People don’t get monthly statements for their credit history. This person could endure years of damage to their credit before knowing what had taken place… not to mention, after finding what happened, it could take the victim years before they mend what’s been broken… by you.
Again Donnie shifts in his seat. Where usually in past sessions he did quite well in masking his emotions, today a noticeably different Donnie presents himself.
D: Whatever, point is I got the MRI and everything’s kosher health-wise.
H: You don’t like to think about the effects your crimes have on others, do you?
D: I don’t like to dwell on the non-specifics.
H: That tells me nothing Donnie.
D: What do you want me to say?
H: Well Donnie, it’s no secret that you’ve been known to abuse substance. In the beginning sure, you used the writer cliché. But let’s be honest, you haven’t written a word since you came here regularly.
D: You don’t know that for sure.
H: Given information I’ve gathered in our extensive past I’m comfortable enough to come to this conclusion.
D: Yeah well… I don’t know what you want from me…
Donnie reverts back into silence. I get the impression he’s deep in thought. Whatever theses thoughts are, despite his not showing it, I’m certain he wants to get them out.
H: Well Donnie, you are the one who came to me… I guess it’s safe for me to ask the same from you… what do you, Donnie, want from me…
D: I told you, I’m having a fucking nervous breakdown.
H: And this comes from panic attacks?
D: Panic attacks sure, but it’s more than that… I don’t know. Like I said, it’s more than the past. The fucking pills aren’t working, and it’s like, I don’t fucking know… It’s like every day I can see that I’m losing control… but it’s like, not only do I see that I’m losing it, I am completely aware and recognize what’s wrong – and what’s worse, more times than not, I’m aware of what I have to do to correct whatever’s fucked, but I do nothing! You know what I mean? I know it’s happening… and I can’t do a thing about it.
H: What exactly do you mean when you say you’re losing control?
D: It’s a mix of everything… I can’t really put it into words.
H: But you said you’re cognizant of what’s going on…
D: Right, but I can’t control it.
H: Okay then, that aside, what is it you can’t control?
D: Fucking everything! I mean it starts with panic attacks – pretty much straight at wake up – the usual shit. Some days, like the days I take it easy and chill at the apartment, I can usually keep everything at bay. But lately… fuck I don’t know… It’s like I’ve absolutely no control of what goes through my head… I can’t… I can’t wash it away, no matter how hard I try. And when I try what used to work, it only makes matters worse. I see a fucking kid with his mom picking out groceries at Ralphs and next thing I know I’m in a bathroom stall throwing up and crying. And like I said, what makes it so fucked, is I am aware of it and I can’t do shit around it.
H: I don’t quite follow…
D: It’s like there’s two parts of my brain going at once. One part is just nuking all the major cities of my mind and where I once was able to contain the blasts, it’s growing out of control… and like… fuck I’m making no sense… try and follow me… while this one part of my brain is getting nuked to fucking dust, there’s this other part of my mind saying shit like, you’re a pussy Donnie or toughen the fuck up. It’s like that classic image of the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other. And the fucking Angel or maybe the devil, who knows, one of the bastards is bombarding me with all this… all this shit! And the other part of me is telling me to ice-down and forget about it and I… I just can’t. But I’m trying…
H: How are you trying?
D: For starters, the fucking pills.
H: What pills? The Xanax?
D: That and others. I’m on a fucking pharmaceutical-ambrosia-salad any given day.
H: You are aware of the dangers that come with self-medicating—
D: Of course I am and you know that.
H: What are you taking aside from the Xanax?
D: I do the Adderall like before.
H: Before you used the Adderall for your writing, or at least you claimed that’s why you took it.
D: Please let’s drop the writing thing for a minute…
A weak point for Donnie. Detrimental to his treatment. His writing and want to write is what drew me away from my initial opinion of his being a sociopath years ago. More on this in concluding notes.
H: Are you using the Adderall daily?
D: I go on and off. Lately I’ve been taking them to stay productive and focused throughout the day… time releases, 30mg – nothing major. A few months back when I tried to get back to writing I took one a day for like two weeks and lost fifteen pounds and passed out in the elevator and gave them a rest.
H: Did that frighten you… passing out in an elevator?
D: I don’t know if frighten is right… Truth be told I didn’t see the point in taking the shit every day if I wasn’t getting anything out of it… you know… it wasn’t worth the toll I was taking.
H: And did you get any writing done in that time?
D: In the beginning yes… but it was all shit.
H: But you’re back on the Adderall now?
D: Just the past few days, been busy with work.
Donnie shifts at mention of ‘work’. I circle this on legal pad. Will bring up in a moment – focus briefly now on pills.
H: You do know Adderall, when taken by those without ADHD or ADD is nothing more than speed in a pill.
D: Of course I’m aware of that. Why do you think I take the shit?
H: What I’m getting to is the effects speed has on the habitual user. With these panic attacks of yours are you finding yourself paranoid?
D: They’re fucking panic attacks Heather, of course I’m paranoid.
H: I mean irrationally paranoid…
D: I really don’t know how this is pertinent? The Adderall that is…
H: Well habitual users of Amphetamine are known to develop a psychosis.
D: I’m well aware. You forget I’m a closet Philip K. Dick fan.
H: I remember. Kerouac too.
D: I know, I know, they were both eating speed like candy and both went nutso. Kerouac hit the bottle. I hit the bottle.
H: Do you think your nervous breakdown may have something to do with the amphetamine consumption?
D: Fuck no. Believe me I’ve had moments in the past when I actually did get writing done and I’d be on the shit three days straight. I know what it’s like to reach that point where the third day is reaching the fourth and the world starts to look different. This isn’t it… As a matter of fact, this is waaaay worse than a little tweak-out.
I note on pad again patients words and way he said, “When I actually did get writing done”. Will touch on with him in moment.
H: Assume I give you the benefit of the doubt here and take you at your word that what you’re experiencing isn’t being brought on by your drug use – which I actually do believe what you say in that realm more than any of my other patients based solely on our history… assuming it’s not the drugs. What is it? What’s changed in your life?
I notice a crack that could be a smile from Donnie but doesn’t quite make it all the way. Something inside blocked him. Perhaps he’s unaware of this.
D: Well shit, these things started a few weeks ago, and back then it was pretty much life as usual.
H: For you Donnie, life as usual is anything but usual…
D: I’ll give you that, all the same, not much has changed from the last time we spoke to one another – fucked as it may be to admit.
An already established pain for Donnie, his inability to move forward… Emotionally I see many similarities, but something in his physical condition tells me a change has taken place.
H: What about now? What about the moment you decided to show up at my door?
Donnie takes a very long time to respond to this question. For records sake, my tape counter shows just less than two minutes.
D: I was tired.
H: Tired of what?
D: The nervous fucking breakdown! Christ I forgot how much you like to ask the same shit different ways.
H: Okay, let me rephrase… when did these symptoms of what you’re calling a nervous breakdown first start popping up?
D: It’s hard to put a finger on it. I mean, they’ve always been there, just not as prevalent. Not as constant. And at least before I could control it.
H: And by control you mean you were able to nullify by way of drugs and alcohol.
D: You say tomato…
H: And now?
D: It only makes it worse.
H: If you can, describe for me what you’re going through. Ideally, describe the panic attack that put you in that chair. If not that, explain to me in detail the most significant…
D: I mean they’ve all been significant in their own way, but at the same time, like I said, they’re happening all day now! So like, when something is going on like that so constant, it’s sort of hard to separate one from and another and stamp one more significant than the other…
H: So group them if you have to… help me out here…
Donnie takes another long pause. In past sessions, during pauses Donnie would always look me straight in the eye with a grin about his face – crafting and manipulating I’m sure. Today however he looks down at the carpet – almost ashamed to meet my eyes. Significant. Will reference past sessions to see if this has ever occurred before.
D: I think of all this shit… I mean bad shit… shit I’ve tried so hard to bury for fucking years. And it’s like… this is gay but remember that scene in Ghostbusters when the asshole from Die Hard shut the power down and that red container the Busters kept all their ghosts in had some sort of melt down and the city went fucking mental?
H: I’m familiar with the scene… along with your knack in using films for all your emotional metaphors.
D: Okay well whatever, I’m being serious here… lately it’s like that asshole from Die Hard came and shut my container down and all the ghosts are running wild… ghosts I’ve spent a long time trapping and shutting away.
Patient has opened door. Before we dive deep, I take a moment, review notes, and try to soften him before we get rough.
H: You keep saying this asshole from Die Hard… I understand what you’re saying but who’s the asshole you’re referring to?
The first time in our session Donnie has lifted his eyes from the ground. He stares at me hard for a moment – I suspect to let me know he knows I’m trying to soften him up… and he doesn’t appreciate it. A good thing I think, perhaps serious about therapy.
D: Even though I’m certain you’re fucking with me I’ll tell you, he was the guy who played Kent Brockman or whatever the fuck his name was. You know… the shady news-reporter.
H: Oh yeah I can picture it now.
Patient puts his eyes back to ground. Quiet. I notice occasionally shifting his attention to his right hand that shakes uncontrollably whenever he takes it off his knee. I note this and circle as well.
D: So you tried to soften me up, and given our history (he obviously mocks me), it’s safe for one to assume you’re about to get rough. So like… get to it. We’re on your time now…
Consulting circled notes I review key factors: his complacency, fear of losing control, panic attacks, vocation, etc… most important, his little Ghostbusters metaphor about the tank. Cartoony and way below his intellect and articulation capabilities, yes – but makes its point all the same.
H: When you talk about these ghosts – more specifically the tank – where you’ve spent years trapping them and now they’ve all been let free—
D: It was a fucking metaphor (he interrupts).
H: I’m aware. But please, let me make my point… I find it interesting that of all ways, you chose this particular metaphor to articulate what you’re currently going through.
D: I grew up on Ghostbusters… don’t dig too deep.
H: I don’t have to dig deep. (I pause to consult notes) You use words like trapped, chased away, bombarded, forced to face, washed away…
D: And…
H: And with all the faculties available to you, you chose a simple, yet significant way of illustrating what you’re experiencing.
D: It’s fucking Ghostbusters…
H: And think about that scene – ghosts trapped and forgotten, and once released, the heroes of the tale were called upon to face everything at once.
Patient takes another moment. Eyes on ground. Then a smile. Locks eyes with me.
D: They fought a fucking marshmallow-man and a woman covered in fucking soap-suds.
H: But they had to deal with their responsibilities…
D: You are not fucking psychoanalyzing me off of a scene from fucking Ghostbusters.
H: Of course I’m not… I don’t psychoanalyze you period. You put the metaphor out there. I see it and now I’m applying it.
D: You can’t be serious…
Patient is regressing by way of patronizing while establishing self-manifested-sense-of-superiority to avoid conflict and true issues.
H: You said you were lost and scared and you had nowhere to turn so listen to me. You’re having panic attacks; this is nothing new, right?
D: Right…
H: Now you’re certain you’re approaching, experiencing, or already beyond nervous breakdown, right?
D: I’m approaching… (Said in a tone of self-assurance)
H: And we both know treatment of panic attacks requires both medication and behavior therapy… i.e. working out root emotional ills through talking it out.
D: Which I’ve agreed to do.
H: Right, but up until now you haven’t. All that baggage, and believe me I know you have plenty of it, all these years you’ve simply locked it away and forgot about it. You’ve convinced yourself it all wasn’t there…
D: More like I’ve conned my way into believing it wasn’t there.
Donnie has always exhibited an above average aptitude in recognizing his behavior honestly. Noted however, his issue lies in executing after recognition. Although duly noted in past sessions, I note this as the focal point of our hopeful therapy to follow.
H: A more appropriate way to word it sure, but you understand what I’m saying?
D: Of course. I already told you, I see what’s going on, I just don’t… I don’t do anything about it.
H: You didn’t do anything about it… and I don’t think it was deliberate. You just weren’t ready. Like with your writing… you simply put it off for another day when you’d be ready to cope. Unfortunately life doesn’t work out that way and now you’re being confronted by all these demons, or ghosts as you put it, whether you’re ready or willing to deal or not.
Again the mention of his writing causes a shift in the seat – a consistent issue for the patient – now apparent to be taking greater toll.
D: So what are you telling me? I’m going through some sort of guilt-trip?
H: In so many words, yes, but it’s obviously not as simple as that…
D: No shit. It’s never that easy. Guilt trip is a chicken shit term to explain what I’m going through. Unless of course my guilt-trip was born of a Jackal by the cock of Satan with LSD-laced-semen.
H: That’s uh… pretty pleasant imagery.
D: Thank you.
Patient eases up – perhaps complimented by his use of words. It’s always been an observation through past sessions the patient is most comfortable in moments he feels like a writer. As I write these notes the patient is silent. Reflecting perhaps. No physical change in appearance. Eyes fixed on the floor. I’ve never encountered him so deflated. Not as much as an attempt to feign confidence.
H: Let me veer off only a little bit here…
D: Okay?
H: When’s the last time you committed a crime? Apart from the MRI of course, I mean a real crime. What you used to refer to as a rip?
D: It depends how you look at it.
H: You’re avoiding issues again.
D: No seriously, not this time. It really depends how you look at it. This was sort of what we call a long con even though it didn’t take too long. (He smiles but not for long.)
H: What’s a long-con? Another one of your terms?
D: Oh no it’s an industry term (another smile). A long-con is when the mark hands you money thinking it was their idea to do so from the beginning. But it wasn’t their idea. It was my idea.
H: Okay… so when was the last time you committed this long-con?
D: Technically I planted the seed the past few years just doing what I do. But specifically with this guy I pitched him maybe a few days ago.
H: So by pitching him you mean you’ve only just begun the process? You still haven’t taken any money?
D: Fuck no, I got his money today. And I didn’t take it… he gave it to me.
This exchange has resurrected Donnie in a way. His confidence restored. Smiling. Looking me in the eye. His demeanor aside, which I’m confident is only temporary, I note key facts hard to believe he can’t see himself.
H: You mean to tell me you were given this person’s money today?
D: Yeah a few hours before I came here. I made a stop at Frida afterward for Sangria.
H: Do you mind if I ask how much this person gave you?
D: Enough.
H: And how much is enough?
D: Enough to make sure he’ll be the last person I ever have to rip.
H: In the past you’d often excuse and rationalize your crimes as simply a means to finance your writing career.
D: I was hardly excusing or rationalizing. I meant every fucking word. Sure I’ve gone a bit out of control with spending here and there, shit I’ve grown accustomed to a life-style, whatever… aside from that I’ve never veered from my goal. I’ve saved up quite the nut. This guy put the cap on. I’m done from here on out.
H: How much would you say you’ve saved over the span of however long you’ve been doing these things you have.
D: It’s not important. It’s enough believe me.
H: And if I take your word for it and assume you’re now financially stable enough to never commit another crime, what comes next?
D: In some sense I guess that’s where you come in… but the intention is that I’ll write.
H: So that was the plan? Save up money, write, and have me tell you what to do with your life?
D: Well no… You’re role just sort of came in to play… I thought we made that clear…
H: So that’s what you meant when you said you weren’t ready for treatment before but now you are… that you reached a new phase in life but you don’t know where to go from here?…
D: Pretty much yeah, but like I said, all this shit I’m going through and coming to see you now… that wasn’t like… in the fucking game-plan.
H: So the game-plan was just to write?
D: Yeah. I mean long and short the end result was to write…
H: So now with mission accomplished, that’s it. Tomorrow you wake up and you start writing… just like that?
D: Not tomorrow, fucking today! That’s the point! I’m over all that bullshit!
Patient becomes somewhat hostile, however not threatening; the hostility appears to be directed inward.
H: I’m not quite sure I follow…
D: The whole thing saying tomorrow you wake up and start writing… it’s a personal thing, saying today I do one thing in the sake of survival or whatever, and tomorrow I’ll start pursuing my dreams.
H: Procrastination you mean…
D: Fuck no. This is deeper. There isn’t a single word to label it. Procrastination is a chicken-shit word. People procrastinate doing the dishes or organizing their DVD’s or paying their phone bill. What I’m talking about is life. These things we hope to accomplish or what we want to become and the ways we avoid doing it for whatever fucking reason… it’s like life gets in the way or something… and it’s always the same tune, today I’ll get by, tomorrow I’ll get shit done… and I’m over that shit. I took care of all the bells and whistles, the slate is cleared off, and today I’m ready to do what has to be done.
H: And what has to be done? For you at least…
D: My fucking writing… Fuck, aren’t you supposed to like, listen for a living?
H: I am listening Donnie, I’m just trying to make sure I’m on your page…
D: It’s not a tough page to get on. (Deep breath, composes himself, calms tone of voice) Look, like I said and I’m sure you are well aware of, not that I’m tooting the horn here, but unlike most people my age I know what’s up. It’s not hard for me to know what I need and how to get it. That said, I’ve worked very hard in keeping away all the bullshit that keeps people stuck – you know what I mean? I don’t have a nine-to-five to worry about, no girlfriend, I don’t like sports, I own my car out-right, I hardly watch TV… I have no attachments. All that’s held me back is money. And now I have that… so like… I’m ready to move on…
H: So no more excuses.
D: Fucking-A.
H: So now there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to proceed with your writing… that is if we follow your logic…
D: We are following my logic for one, and for two, yes you’re right, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be able to start writing again.
I note patients rare acknowledgment of a time in the past he wrote – ‘…be able to start writing again’.
H: Yet given what you’ve told me thus far regarding your recent panic attacks, would it be out of line to assume your current mental state could detour prospects of writing?
D: Well no… I mean… (patient flutters a bit. Confidence deflates. Eyes fall.)… Isn’t that where you come in?…
Patient falls back into silent state. I take moment to consult notes.
H: Let’s back up a bit because we’ve covered a lot of different things. Initially you came here because you’ve been experiencing panic attacks out of your control recently?
D: I think my exact words were nervous breakdown.
H: Okay, and this nervous breakdown, it’s happened rather recently?
D: I’d say it’s been progressive over time but yes, overall the out of control shit has just started within the last week or so.
H: Okay… you also mentioned this last job of yours, the job to end all jobs if you will… you started this, or pitched the guy, not too long ago as well. Is that right?
D: I see where you’re taking this but… I mean… yeah I guess you could say the two happened around the same time.
H: And your deciding to come here on a whim also occurred shortly after getting this persons money…
D: Well… yeah… but don’t read too much into it. This isn’t my first rodeo… in fact it’s my last… even still, I know how to cope.
H: You may have done this sort of thing many times sure, and this very well may be your last time… but at the same time, following your metaphor of all the ghosts coming out, we couldn’t say for certain you know how to cope as you put it…
D: What, you’re not suggesting I’m guilty or some shit… Granted I’ve got my share of shit I regret – truckloads of shit – but this guy is different.
H: Different how?
D: I mean it’s not like I took an innocent old ladies purse on Wilshire, this guy – all the guys I’ve taken for the most part – they’re fucking assholes. Dip-shits. And every last one of them, apart from whatever character flaws they have, all of them are fucking liquid rich…
H: So in your mind, not only do they deserve what they get but they can afford it?
D: I wouldn’t say I’m that out of line to follow that rational.
H: Not rational, rationalization.
D: Okay whatever… again, you say tomato.
H: Just hear me out Donnie, I’m just presenting my reaction to what I’ve heard and a pattern I’ve noticed. You’ve always been open in the past…
D: Ease up, I hear you. Go on.
H: Okay so whether you agree or not, there is a pattern here – at least with the start of what you call a nervous breakdown and your deciding to show up here… both concurrent with this last job you pulled. You can agree with me so far?
D: Of course.
H: Okay now with that, looking back at these fits of panic, you’ve said the worst part about them is your inability to control how you feel and react to them… isn’t that right?
D: Finger on the nose Doc…
H: Okay. Now when you’re experiencing these fits of panic, would it be safe to guess a prevalent overall could be guilt?
D: Sure… among other things though – regret, fear, sadness…
H: All of which can result from guilt?
D: Sure… I’m not fighting you on this.
H: Okay, just making sure. Now, despite your extensive expierence, could it be safe to say that you may have locked-up inside whatever feelings you should have had – which would have been normal to have – after ripping off some of the people from your past – or as you referred to them a while ago – ghosts.
D: Again with the fucking Ghostbusters thing, I fucking wish I never said that.
H: It was a fitting metaphor, Donnie. Please don’t dance around the issue. I’m making a point here.
D: Okay… (he takes a moment) I guess one could say, you can say, that I may have some feelings of guilt I never explored…
H: I’m sure you can say it too… after all, how many times have you yourself admitted in the past your need to self-medicate to get through the day?
D: Okay you’ve got me. I’d have to agree it’s probably a safe bet I’ve got a landfill of shit I need to address in regards to my past.
H: And when faced with that, what sort of feelings do you have? Or have had for that matter while enduring one of these panic attacks.
D: I don’t know…
H: You do.
Donnie buries his head in his hands. Frustrated. Messes around with his hair. Mumbles to himself. When he brings his head back up, I notice his eyes have moistened.
D: Fuck why do you have to make me… fuck it… sometimes I wonder…
A long pause. Tape counter reads just over a minute.
H: Sometimes you wonder what?
D: Sometimes I think of those people I’ve fucked… and I like… I take a look at where I am now – pretty much no different than the day I fucked them. And I think of the person – those people I usually forget – and when I think of the person I fucked, I wonder where they are like right now… you know what I mean. Like what are their lives like today… after being fucked by me…
Another long pause from patient. Watering eyes now bring about tears.
H: Go on.
D: And I mean usually I just don’t think of these people at all… you know? Just block it out, like you said. And like, when I do block them out, like right after the job, I tell myself they’ll be fine. But I don’t know that for certain… you know what I mean?
H: And if they’re not fine?
D: I don’t like thinking about that.
H: But you do and have… and I’m sure quite recently… so what goes through your mind when you contemplate their lives not being okay?
D: Frankly?
H: You never have a problem with frankly, at least in this office.
D: I want to jump off a fucking building. Or put every fucking pill in my cabinet in a fucking blender and drink it all down and fall asleep and never wake up.
Despite my obligation to report suicidal threats, in Donnie’s case we’ve established without any doubt – after ruling out his being a sociopath in past sessions – that he’s incapable of suicide on account of a very watered-down but present case of narcissism.
H: Why do you jump to such extremes so quickly?
D: Because of the wasted time… like I said earlier, the whole today tomorrow making excuses for yourself bullshit… It’s like, here I am potentially fucking up these peoples lives, getting by in telling myself it’s all serving some bullshit greater good, right? And sometimes I’m in some bullshit club or with another whore or doing another line or just laying out in bed and thinking to myself – I’m the same fucking guy I was two years ago. I’ve done nothing! And then I start thinking of all those poor fucks I took… and I wonder where they are. Sure most of them were rich but some weren’t. Out of all of those people, there’s bound to be one whose life is in fucking ruins because of me, you know? And what did it serve? Nothing…
All throughout the patients venting his emotions were on his sleeve – very unusual for him – he allowed tears to flow, his voice trembled, and at times it was hard for him to speak. Currently he’s crying. Although I’ve always guessed this part of Donnie was down there somewhere, I’ve never thought I’d see it. Shocking and promising. A change has no doubt occurred.
H: And when these thoughts confront you, however rarely they may come around, and you ask yourself what it all serves, what’s the last thing that comes to mind?
D: I wonder… (He wipes away his tears and composes himself as best he can)… I wonder if maybe they’d have been better off if they had never met me… If I had never fucked them over… Like, I don’t know, maybe they’d have done more with their lives had I not taken what I had from them… and when I ask myself that shit and actually sit on the thought for more than a few seconds… I fucking… I fucking hate myself.
H: For doing less with what your victim could have done more had you never entered their lives?
D: More like infected their lives…
H: You feel like a virus?
D: Let’s face it Heather, (he looks me dead in the eyes, meaning every word he’s about to say) I am a fucking virus.
I carefully wait a moment to see how patient responds after making this statement. Expecting his eyes to drop to the floor or maybe a shift in the chair or maybe even more crying – nothing of the sort occurs. I notice as well after the statement, the patient’s body-tremble seized. For the patient, at least physically, he’s completely calm. And in his eyes, which are known to exude a feigned but none the less very commanding and convincing confidence in himself – the same eyes stare at me now with a different sort of confidence… a confidence in what he’s said.
H: You’ve certainly lived like one, and I say that not to be offensive, but Donnie, you and I both know under that exterior of yours there’s a real, loving, inspirational, talented, and above all things—
D: Bullshit… (Patient interrupts but doesn’t raise voice. His physical demeanor is the same, staring at me, but void of any emotion. Almost numb. His voice, a monotone suggesting the same numbness)… This is my problem. This is what I think about every fucking day, and it scares the fuck out of me. I may have been those things, I may have those elements in my heart, but I feel like… actually I’m almost certain I’ve lost all of that… I’ll never be that person again… Too much time has gone by. Too many excuses.
H: But you said it yourself, you’ve reached the point in your life where you can’t make excuses any longer…
D: Sure I’ve reached that point, but at what cost? What if I’ve removed myself so far from that person I once was in pursuit of the person I could be that no matter how I try, I’ll forever remain the product of my crimes… crimes ironically committed to aid in my progression as a human… this is the kind of—
H: Isn’t all this just another excuse, Donnie?
D: What?
H: All of this… the panic attacks, the guilt, this belief that you’ve lost who you are and who you could be… these are all excuses – more ways to delay what you believe you’re supposed to do. And it’s in that delay, that need to put off your future, where the true root causes reside.
D: What the fuck are you talking about? I’m venting here and you’re throwing it all back at me, like I’m some sort of—
H: I’m doing my job, Donnie. I’m doing what you asked me to do.
D: I asked you to listen.
H: And I did listen. And with the information you provided I came to a conclusion I think would be therapeutic for you to hear. Hard as it may be to listen to me or accept what I have to say, you owe me my time to respond… and truth be told Donnie, what I have to say isn’t all that mind blowing, you’re smart enough to have picked up on what I have on your own. If you haven’t by now you’re either dumber than I’ve given you credit for or you just don’t want to hear it…
I in a way cheat by insulting the patient’s intelligence – fully aware this is an effective tactic in getting him to listen.
D: You know how much I hate it when people insult my fucking intelligence. I’d be careful; most people unfortunate enough to do it tempt me to show them just how smart I am…
H: Don’t threaten me Donnie. We both know how smart you are, which is why you should have no problem hearing me out…
Patient says nothing. Eases back in seat. Feigns confidence and control along with demeanor suggesting he’s doing me a favor by listening to me.
After a little over a minute I continue—
H: Making excuses for yourself is obviously an issue for you. And for so long you’ve hidden behind the blanket of one core excuse – this whole plan you’ve had to save up enough to finance the kind of life where you could invest your days in your writing and your writing alone. And now, today, you’ve reached that goal… yet here you are now, talking about losing your mind as well as losing your soul, claiming you’re too far gone—
D: What is your fucking point?
With the patient’s interruption he remained completely still. Although he never broke eye contact since allowing me to make my point, with his interruption his eyes took on a dark and threatening glow – along with the tone of his voice. It’s my opinion the patient is not only threatened by what he may hear, but so much so, he’d resort to intimidation to keep from having to hear it.
H: My point, Donnie, is this… for someone so tired of making excuses for himself, why do you keep doing it? What are afraid of?
D: I told you, today I’m done making excuses—
H: Yet whether you want to believe it or not just you being here is an excuse in itself… You’re the one that said it, not me, once you saved enough you’d start writing, not tomorrow but today. And what did you do once you reached this today of yours? You came straight here… another excuse.
D: I went to Frida first… for Sangria.
H: Jesus Donnie, I refuse to believe you can’t follow what I’m saying to you.
D: It’s not that I’m not following you, it’s just I’m asking myself how you can judge what I’m going to do from here on out, after having achieved my goal, and say I’m making excuses… that probably came out wrong, what I mean is… After knowing I’ve been waiting for this moment, the financial stability thing that is, after knowing this, and knowing my plans to write afterward… just how in the fuck can you tell me I’m not going to move forward a mere hours after having achieved my goal? What because I made a stop off here? Spare me, it’s part of it – my being here that is – you’re just an element apart from my writing to contribute to my fucking growth. You say I’m making fucking excuses… we’ll I haven’t gotten home yet, who are you to say I won’t do what I haven’t had the chance to do yet?
H: What’s that?
D: What’s what?
H: What you haven’t had a chance to do yet?
D: Fucking writing!
H: You haven’t had a chance to write?
D: Not today. I haven’t been home yet.
H: An excuse.
D: Are you serious? I just fucking told you I finally reached the point where I can write a few fucking hours ago… what, am I supposed to—
H: You couldn’t write yesterday?
D: What?
H: Were you home at all yesterday?
D: Sure.
H: So you had some free time?
D: What kind of fucking question is that?
H: So why didn’t you write?
D: I’m pretty sure we’ve made clear that I’ve been waiting for today so I can start writing… how the fuck is yesterday and my antics therein of any concern to what matters now?
H: We’re talking about writing here Donnie…
D: Okay?
H: Writing… not starting up a business, not financing a film, not preparing to circle the globe, but writing…
D: And?
H: And I have to wonder why one would need to finance their writing? Writing is something you can do anywhere and anytime – you can write for two minutes or two days – you can write on a napkin or a scroll like your buddy Kerouac – you can write with a pen or typewriter or a computer… you can write with lipstick on a mirror.
D: Again a question presents itself to me, what’s your fucking point?
H: To put it simply, what’s kept you from writing all these years? Have you ever once considered the opposite route from the one you took?
D: I don’t follow?
H: Have you ever wondered how different your life may be now had you just sat down and wrote, rather than telling yourself you have to have a certain amount of money and a certain lifestyle in order to write?
D: I used to write all the fucking time until life, or more specifically this city got in the fucking way.
H: So the pressures of life pushed on you as they do everyone else and you still couldn’t write? Isn’t that what a writer’s supposed to do? Put what all of us go through into words the everyday person couldn’t have?
D: There’s not a single aspect of my life that the everyday person could fucking relate and you know it…
H: Maybe your life now, the one you created… but all the same another excuse. Sure a regular person from Middle America probably couldn’t relate to the drugs you do, the crimes you commit, the places you go, the things you see… but that’s all exterior… just as you couldn’t relate to regular family life. But inside… inside it’s all the same. Bottom-line—
D: Bottom-line bullshit, I get it, I could have been writing all this time but I didn’t. I’ve hidden behind the excuse of financing my writing… I’m not fucking daft.
H: Then consider for me, if only for a second, how different life may have been for you had you just wrote rather than made the excuse you had as to why you couldn’t…
D: I honestly don’t think anything would have changed. I still would have had to eat… to survive. Only difference is maybe I’d have a scattered library of unfocused and deranged scribbles written during the few free moments of my chaotic life.
H: I’m trying to get you to see that your life didn’t have to be chaotic – it doesn’t have to be chaotic – if you’d only trust in yourself enough to write.
D: As much as I love our little chats, believe me, I’m the only person I trust. Trusting in me will never be a problem. I’m fully fucking aware of what I’m capable of.
H: I’m not sure how true a statement that really is. If you’re so aware of how capable you are, why is it you’ve made so many poor decisions?
D: What, in regards to how I chose to make a living? I told you to finance my writing…
H: How you’ve chose to make a living, how you’ve chosen to live your life… all of it.
D: I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I’ve been on my own since sixteen! I’ve got a mother I talk to maybe twice a year – who by the way called for the first time in God knows how long the other day – I’ve got prick of a father I haven’t spoken to in years – I have no family, no support, and this has been constant for years! From where you sit I’m sure it’s easy to say I could have gone another way, but dollars-to-donuts you had a mommy and daddy that paid your way through school. You had a fucking support system. You had—
H: We’re not talking about me here, we’re talking about you, and all I’m hearing is one excuse after another.
Patient rises from his chair. Heads for door.
D: I honestly don’t think you’re hearing shit from me. I’m thinking it was a mistake coming here.
H: The door isn’t a bottle of booze, Donnie – walking through it won’t chase everything away.
D: What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
H: That running away from your problems hasn’t helped before and it won’t help now! That constantly, whether you know you’re doing it or not, making excuse after excuse isn’t going to change the fact you’re absolutely terrified.
Still standing, patient begins to shake again. Does best to appear in control – obvious to me anything but…
D: So I’m terrified now… that’s a good one.
H: There’s no other explanation… and in the out of nowhere case there is, your being too scared is the only explanation that could possibly hold water.
Patient begins to pace in place erratically. I suspect he’s frustrated and confused – while at the same time realizing but not wanting to show his weakness and helplessness. Out of all our sessions, this unexpected visit has by far brought upon more breakthroughs than I’ve ever encountered with any patient in my career.
D: So riddle me if you can what it is I’m so terrified of?
H: Honestly?
D: You’ve never had any trouble being honest here… (He mocks me).
H: Although I’d always strongly suspected, up until now it hasn’t been so clear…
D: What? (He interrupts)
H: Your complete and utter lack of faith in yourself.
D: And this prognosis comes from what, a fucking Ghostbusters metaphor?
H: Enough with the Ghostbusters, Donnie. My prognosis comes not only from years of experience with you – but more than anything – the limited information you’ve provided in this surprise session.
D: This is bullshit!
Patient makes way for door.
H: Think about it, Donnie! Just give it a minute’s thought.
Hand on doorknob patient turns to me and with genuine interest asks—
D: Think about what?
H: In all the time we’ve been together and have had our little chats – from the days you were court ordered to these spontaneous appearances – in all that time, honestly, we haven’t made too much progress… hard as it may be for both of us to admit.
D: Well maybe that’s a you problem, not a me problem… ever take a beat to consider that?
H: Sure Donnie… but the thought didn’t last too long. I’m the therapist here. In my work I experience day in and day out some of the most explosive emotional instances and turning points of the lives of my patients – but despite this, I don’t get emotional. I notate the facts and from there give a suggestion. That’s what makes therapy so effective – the patient puts their heart on the table and the therapist leaves theirs in the car.
D: What you’re saying to me means nothing…
H: Okay let me put it another way… as far as our relationship goes, past or present, my role and suggestions consistently change based off what you tell me… you’re following me, right?
D: Yeah, one day I’m mad at dad next day I’m waking up on a balcony… I get it.
H: But for you, Donnie – my patient – you’ve remained consistent.
D: How’s that?
H: Specifically… you always have an excuse. Sure your goal is always the same: that dream of writing. But the excuses you furnish are always different…
D: And?
H: And that’s a textbook example of doing what’s essentially the same thing over and over expecting a different result.
D: Okay now I’m leaving… you’re going to flip the AA insanity card on me now!
H: Think about it Donnie… I mean it, just take a moment and really think about it… When all is said and done, what’s your ideal result?
D: You mean with life?
H: Of course.
D: I want to write.
H: Yet day in and day out, for so long I don’t think either one of us could put a stamp on it, rather than writing you have actually gone out of your way to not write. The result is always the same. The excuses are the only inconsistency. And if you are able to dig deep enough, you’ll find this comes from one thing alone – an inability to trust yourself.
D: Look at the way I live, I mean I’m on the fucking wire minute to minute – that is until now – and you say I don’t trust myself?
H: It’s not that you don’t trust yourself, it’s that you don’t believe in yourself. The way you live, that whole on the wire thing, that’s simply another excuse.
Patient heads for door. Certain he’s set on leaving I drop notes and stand up to hold him back. No real-time notes to follow…
D: Get your hands off me!
H: You need to hear this.
D: Fuck it. I’m over this. I’ll take my chances…
H: If you go down that road you’ll only fall deeper down the very bottomless pit you’re falling now…
D: What is that supposed to mean? And why the fuck do you care so much anyway? Just let me—
H: I’m a therapist Donnie! And although I’m supposed to approach my job objectively, hard as it is to face, in your case I can’t help to get emotional. You’re one of my first, since back when you were a teenager in Chicago and I was still just a CDAC… remember?
D: Of course, I faked a substance abuse problem to avoid jail-time and you, a fucking newbie, called me out while all the supposed pros were convinced I was the real deal.
H: And although you had no obligation to accept my requesting one-on-ones you took it… you liked the challenge… but moreover you liked—
D: I liked that you knew what I was really about. We’ve been over this.
H: And as fate should have it I moved my practice to California.
D: We’ve been over this too… right around the time I moved out here.
H: I know you Donnie… more than that, given our history, I have an investment in you. You may not see what I see, but there’s so much—
D: Don’t read too much into it, you’re just another chick I’ve pulled the wall over…
H: You’d like to think so but we both know that’s not true. I’ve treated you in three stages of your life, and in each stage, we have ended the same way… you don’t want to hear what I have to say.
D: Because it’s bullshit.
H: Call me up after your next panic attack and tell me the same thing. Like you said, I’m all you have left…
D: That doesn’t oblige me to listen to nonsense.
H: You’re smarter than this Donnie, how can you not allow yourself to hear what I’m saying!
D: What are you shocked?
H: No Donnie, I’m scared. I feel sorry for you.
D: Welcome to the club.
H: Joke all you want and by all means leave if you want, but at least respect me enough to hear what I have to say.
D: You have ninety seconds.
H: With all your talents Donnie. With all you know deep within yourself you’re capable of doing, you constantly veer away. You wander around as if the solution to all your problems is some distant and incomprehensible enlightenment when really it’s all right in front of you. You know what you want, granted, to write. But for one reason or another, rather than writing you’ve jumped into a well of excuses not to – and as you’ve been falling down this well, deeper and deeper, you find no end in sight – leading of course to more excuses.
D: Ghostbusters or not, I would leave the metaphors to me.
H: Joke if you want, but hear me out.
D: I am… I’m falling down a bottomless well or pit or hole or whatever.
H: And rather than thinking of a way to get back up, you hold off in doing so only to fall deeper…
D: I’m really having trouble following…
H: When freefalling down a well, there’s only one hope to get back to the top.
D: A trampoline at the bottom?
H: A bungee cord.
D: Okay I’m leaving… I’m officially over this.
H: So I may not be as proficient with words as you but think about it. Think of your writing as a bungee cord. And all these excuses and poor choices you’ve been making are the free fall down the pit. With every excuse you make all you do is fall deeper and deeper down the hole.
D: Which makes my point for me… I’ve fallen too deep over time.
H: You can never fall too deep with a bungee cord, and your writing is just that… rather than make excuses, just do it! You say you need me in this self-titled new chapter or phase in your life to tell you what to do, when in truth, what you’ve needed to do has been there all along… Just write! Yesterday it was money, today it’s panic, tomorrow it will be something else. But if you can believe in yourself enough, put aside whatever fear you have, and just start writing… as you fall down this hole you’re in you’ll find out of nowhere something attached to your ankle… and maybe it may have a little slack on it, maybe it may take a little work, but I assure you if you keep at it and trust in yourself, the cord will surly lose its slack before you find the bottom of the well you’re falling.
D: That’s all very deep and I thank you for it but I think I’ll be going now.
H: Walk out that door then… be a… be the… be the pussy you are!
D: Did you just say—
H: You are a pussy Donnie, whether you want to believe it or not. You should have seen yourself a few minutes ago – or when you first came through the door – you’re fucking helpless! And you can joke and dance and avoid the truth all you want but sooner or later, and I fear it will be later, you’ll realize all of this – the cons, the panic, the drugs – all of it – it all stems from fear. You don’t write because life gets in the way, you don’t write because you’re terrified of what may result in your writing.
D: What, like my book will tank?
H: In a way I’m sure that’s a contributing factor… it’s prevalent in most artists. When one holds back from their dream, the dream still stands. You can assure yourself that once you start writing the dream will come true. But once you write and the dream doesn’t come through, you lose that hope. But in your case, Donnie, I think that cliché among most aspiring artists is secondary to something far deeper.
D: Like the hole I’m supposedly falling without a cord?
H: I was going to say something more in the lines of you’re scared to start writing because you’re terrified of what you may find about yourself.
D: What, like the fact I’m a virus? An asshole? A waste?
H: Apart from those things even deeper… maybe you’ll find your father was right. Remember when you told me he never had faith in you. That he said you were destined to fail?
D: This conversation is over.
END OF TRANSCRIPT
SESSION TIME 1:22:11
POST SCRIPT NOTE:
Minutes after Donnie stormed out of the office after the mention of his father he called me from his cell phone and apologized. After this, he assured me he’d be on time for our session scheduled for the 29th. After this he assured me, in what was almost a childish manner, once home he’d deem writing priority number one. He then referenced something I told him back in Chicago when he was only a teen. He said—
“Remember when you called me out on my ruse. How you said I should take all these fantasies I have in my head, all these evil and destructive ideas and use writing as a catharsis? Remember how you brought up Bret Easton Ellis and American Psycho? I’ve never forgotten that. Maybe I should have listened to you rather than acting on my ideas. If I had only written them down I’d be a best-seller. And you’d be a shoe-in for the dedication page. I can’t go back in time that’s for sure, but maybe I can wrap the cord around my ankle… who knows… if all goes well, if anything you can still get the dedication…”
Most people I find in my line of work either ‘walk the walk’ or ‘talk the talk’… Donnie has always been one of those exceptions that walk and talk at the same time.
Well aware how well Donnie can ‘talk the talk’, my respect for him acknowledges his ability to ‘walk the walk’ as well…
And as I conclude this Session Note I find myself hoping come the 29th he does a little of both…
Talking the talk just after walking the walk…
…walking the walk over the threshold leading into my office…
… an office that no matter how much I threaten, will never be closed to him…
… fully aware that whenever we meet, in the end one of us always ends up hurt…
…as with everything in life, one side is right and one side is wrong…
… I just pray for Donnie’s sake, my side is the right side.
