going rate

I think the most surreal revelation

     of working in private practice

     at which my going rate is determined by the higher ups

Is that I don’t really think I could afford myself

And I might be the one who needs me the most.

two things, one not being so much a thing, and another couple things

One thing:

A supernatural occurrence
A confrontation
of otherworldy forces
Bringing quakes and tremors
Volcanic ash
Hellfire
scorching and razing
The Devil rising 
out of a chasm in the earth 
that wasn’t there a moment before
Demanding the unconditional surrender of our head-of-state
and unequivocal submission
an effective refutation of our economic philosophies
and geo-political ranking


-OR- another thing:

the public lynching of an innocent


Which one would it be easier for me to believe happens everyday?

     which would be one thing

Then to die just so the truth of it has the chance to be known?

    which would be another thing all together

tasted

The politics
were really some matter
for me
Like a taste of blood
accidentally got in the way
and I got it in my head
the fruit was supposed to taste like steak
when
in actuality
Probably was the wax stuff supposed to be left on display

Better left in the past
If it was to be anything at all
the wax figure on display
standing in for something

That I could
change?
A puzzle I could
complete?

          Maybe...

But I would live for the politics of the thing
I would pore over it
Learn
Study
Digest
Live
Speculate
Expound upon

And it wasn’t cheap

Bleed
  for
with
and from

For me, it was sport
While for everyone else
a struggle
and blessing
Which is what I hoped for myself too

but for that taste

On it goes without me
And me a bit lost at times without it
I still hear faint echoes sometimes
As if it knows it could draw me back in
Anytime it wanted

Perhaps I run from it
Because it’s a worthwhile thing from which to run
Or a worthwhile thing to run into
once the circle unbreaks

But I’ve still a really bad taste in my mouth until it does

where

Following the Reckoning
once I have renounced all privilege and capital of my social location
be it through coercion of the new order
Or
I’m just that nice of a guy
I will be in the very safest of places:

A dizzying series of panned shots
Portraying scenes of my life
that didn’t…really…happen

But it will be edited and choreographed
as if a music video
to a song by The Killers
inspired visually by Baz Luhrmann
for good effect
And the memories will be
a tad wistful
angst-y, yes, because adolescence was pretty good to me after all
Bittersweet even
but ultimately good


I will have laid down my test kits and scoring templates
I will have critiqued my last empirical study
I will have entered the last bit of raw data
Clicked the mouse for the calculations

The results will be the most significant EVER

And I will be shown the door
Going in
Going out
Either way

The benediction will be something like
“Well done, buddy…
THAT
was impressive.”

Or
Something else
Which I am very happy at present
Not even able to fathom

But you’ll know where to find me

midterm

This evening

The mother

She asked me:

           “Should I hit him back?”

With regard to her son

Now

           It was a sincere question

           Asked through no small amount of tears

And such was the context

I didn’t for a second think she was joking

My response:

“It doesn’t look good.”

In that ironic way I have

           Which I’m still hoping

                     has its way of conveying more

           than anything I could say less dry

Just WHO would be learning WHAT from THAT?

which is what I did eventually say

don’t worry

But the distance

           and resolution

between the usual baseline of self-doubt and inadequacy

          which I pray to G-d never goes away

when I sat down with her

knowing intuitively what she was going to want to know

          what we all always want to know

          in that moment

          when we suck at something so epically bad

And the Tennyson Center that then kicks in

There must be consequences

There must be opportunity for him to make repair

There must be a safety plan

             (Hope that it won’t happen again

             Figure that it will)

But there cannot be hands laid on him lest the county hear from me

That conversation is up to her now

But make certain that it ends somewhere in the ballpark of

           “You are mine

            And I love you”

The midterms I’m taking this week

           mean something

           This I know

           It’s good to know

secured

"You're gonna miss me when I discharge, AREN'T you?? I've been your longest client and the most engaged of ANY of them."

I just looked at him and grinned.

Because while both assertions are debatable
and we would have that debate
Again and again
We would have it
There is always a ring of truth to all his hyperboles and occasional allegations

And maybe I’d humor him on that day
with a simple ‘Uhn-uh’
Just for the little charge I know he’d get out of it
Like when he pokes and prods
Opposition-ating and Defying
(easier than Acutely Stressing)
his way through the sea of youths in a 24/7 shit show
a Disorder, if you will
saying with his Bx’s
what he can’t say with his words

I got thrown away before I could crawl
The one home that kept me couldn’t be bothered to keep me
from seeing exactly what Dad did to Sister
and then couldn’t be bothered to keep me

Every piece of rhetoric I’ve ever been given is that Family--
FAMILY
--is unending
--is safe
And every reality I’ve ever gotten is that Love is conditional

I am not secured 
And I am detached
And yeah, I am reacting
But this is where I was sent
And you’re the guy who got assigned
And you are not going to ignore me now.

Connections get forged through hard work
And yes--
Attachments
And he was
is
Nothing if not hard work

So we agreed
That I would not ignore him
(not that I was planning to)
That we would hold each other mutually accountable
to our assignments

No matter the weeks after the full benefit of treatment
that turned into
needless
months
of languish

For each one, my report to the County reading between lines in attitude
What I could not write out in words:
“Get him
the fuck
out of here.”

Lest his world become that much smaller
Which it did
Lest he have nothing else to do
Which he didn’t
But ruminate on the monsters in that world
which the local news was making all too plentiful at the time
and reminding him daily:

unsafe
devalued
unsecured

And what exactly can I tell him?

That didn’t happen to you...
it just happened.

But it did happen
to him.

That the monsters aren’t real?

They’re real

And under his bed is about the only place they’re not hiding.

More hard work
Entailing much immersion with stuffed animals
and me learning all of their names
and dedicated night staff tucking them in with him

(His idea)

More attachment
Making sure there were surrogate stuffies
for weekends and days off

(My supervisor’s idea)

Ritual (side)hugs
Never less than five to end a session

(His idea, supported by my supervisor)

All the while I aged in clinical years
a factor of 3 to 10
holding the social service’s hands
pulling over a finish line
what seemed curiously either like heels digging in or an immobile body slumping over

Whatever

I don’t judge
I just make lots of phone calls
And occasionally curl up into a fetal position of my own in the middle of the office for all co-workers to see.*

*(Truth)

Then I judge.

Because the longer he’s here
The harder to make the transition
The needed goodbye
The more difficult for it to be a healthy one
Because when exactly has he ever had that?

But there we were
On that last session
In his new home
a temporary, hopefully long-term, one
but one I fought hard for and knew I could trust with him
Less Stressing
Still occasionally Defying
But well on his way to Adjusting

Saying goodbye

(Not his idea)

“This is hard.”

All he could say.

“You’re ready.”
All I dared to say.
No less than five small hugs.
Then one long full one.

“This is hard.”
He repeated.
                       (for both of us)
     This time looking right at me.
His voice shaky
Uncertain
 
But secured.

so there

That thing where I have a light fever

I’m teetering between consciousness

     and the extremely inviting third nap on a sick day

Suddenly it’s ten years ago and 700 miles away

     The last time I saw her in person

     It’s a random flashback

     I know it’s just a flashback

           And yet I am so there

                and can’t do anything about it

And I remember the last thing I said to her

     With the misguided intention of communicating

          That I am Standing My Ground

          The Line is Here

               This Thing I’m Trying to Pass Off as Assertiveness

                    Will Finally Make You See that I’m the One

When really I may just as well have been saying

     I’m Just Gonna Refuse to Grow Up For Just a Little Longer

               If That’s Okay With You

      I Hate Change

                and This Really Should Just Validate Your Decision 
                To Move On With Your Life

                But It’s Going to Take a Few More Months For Me 

                          To Find Other People and Other Sources to Focus On

                               Take One More Year For Me to Make

                                         a Superficial Gesture of Letting Go

                               Take Two More Years for me to Deal With This in its Totality 
                                         and Get Over You

                               Three More Years to Get Over It

                               Five More Years to Realize It was Never About You

                                         you were just the important person that got in the way

                                                   -sorry about that-

               Six More Years to Really Understand Letting Go

               Seven More Years to Really Come to Peace with That

               Ten More Years With the Help of a Light Fever To Help Me Realize

                              What a Really Dick Thing That Was to Say To You

That’s when I come to a second later

                    "What the hell was that?" I whisper
          and I panic

     wondering if I’ve done anything else with my life 

          for the last ten years

          hoping lessons were able to be learned through other avenues

               pretty sure that all has been well

               and all shall be well

                         by means of grace if nothing else

Fevers are terrible things

And yet

          The only reliable means of time travel I have yet to find