Conversations

Conversation with a specialist - Amy meets Maggie Moran, MFT

The building was square-shaped, with a courtyard in the center, and serene palm plants blowing gently with the ocean breeze. This framed the initial view into one of welcome and safe haven as I stepped over the threshold of the 754 Broadway Building.

OK, not too intimidating, considering I was here to start therapy with a shrink who listed herself as someone who specialized in post traumatic stress recovery. That sounded appropriate for me.

She was waiting for me when I opened the door to the small waiting area of her second floor office. "Amy?" At my nervous nod, she came forward and took my hands, the smile on her face putting me at immediate ease. "I'm Maggie Moran. Come on in, let's get right to it."

I inhaled deeply to loosen my tightening chest and followed her into her private office. I registered soft florals and leafy green plants in colors that I liked. I registered that my therapist was probably three decades my senior. I also registered that she was tall, like I am.

"Tea?" Maggie asked. At my blank stare, she offered, "Chamomile, hon. It's soothing and it will give you something to fiddle with while we talk." The knowing wink again reassured me briefly.

"Um, yes. Thank you," I said. I sat on the sofa and let her serve me.

"There you are," she said in a calm, gentle voice as she handed me a large yellow mug and coaster. "Set it there, if you like." She pointed to the table beside me.

"All right," Maggie Moran, MFT began as she seated herself in the comfy overstuffed chair across from me. "Post traumatic stress, eh? Do tell!"

I blinked. I wasn't sure I was ready to dish about my experiences. Should I be offended here? "Uh..." I began to quake with the surge of emotion that I'd brought with me, just for this moment.

"Let's break it down into the general elements first. Just the facts, so to speak." Maggie suggested. "For example, define in literal terms what exactly constitutes your PTS? Violent crime? Victimization? Give me a brief factual overview of what you've just been through."

Deep breath, Amy. "Like you said, violent crime, victimization, deception, murder... and I guess heartbreak and emotional torment and guilt, if those apply."

"Ah," she said, nodding. Her eyes were on mine and I felt that she could read my struggle for emotional control. "We'll work through all of it, Amy. Not to worry."

I gulped and waited for her to ask the next leading question, but she didn't. She took a sip of her tea, so I sipped mine.

Finally she smiled at me and leaned forward, cup clasped between her long fingers. "So, what is his name?"

"I'm afraid that mine is not a romantic tale until well near the end," I tried to explain. She raised her eyebrows but didn't comment. "There was a child, a boy... And there was a public suicide... And there was the peeper."

"The peeper?" she repeated. "Start there, that sounds like a good place to begin."

 

 

(All content on this site is copyright protected. It is meant to inspire my readers to both read my work and to indulge in their own.  Amy Stuart is a character from Images of Silence, available here.)

Conversation with a Specialist: Halp's Second Session with Phyllis Benson

"I'm glad you've come back, Halp," Phyllis told me as we took our seats in her office.

"Yeah, well it was like pulling a plug and all the crap is spilling out now," I told her. "I can't say this shit to the others."

"You don't think you could trust them to handle what they hear?"

"I don't think they need to hear it until there's no time left," I said. "It's not like they can prepare for what's coming."

"What's coming, Halp?"

"Devastation."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, doc, I'm remembering more, and I'm seeing familiar faces in places they shouldn't be."

"Explain."

"Well, I was attacked a couple of weeks ago by a dude I'll just call the dickhead," I began. Phyllis smirked. I liked that she got my means of self expression. I continued. "And so this dickhead tells me Phase 1 of The Project has ended and that I should enjoy the last of my days, but to watch my back." I shot her a glance and caught the concerned look. "To which I responded, 'Fuck you,' and chased after his hammy ass. But I was on foot and he was behind the wheel."

"Hmmmm."

"And then we took a cruise that one of Alfonz's new clients gave them as a random gift." I waited for her raised eyebrow of inquiry which she provided obligingly. "Alfonz and Rafe clean pools. Who gives their pool service a cruise?"

"Well…" Phyllis toned her response to indicate she was trying to offer an open-to-all-possibilities response but couldn't quite muster it.

"Yeah," I agreed. "So anyway, we take the cruise and I see that dickhead there on the boat with us. And now he's got a cohort. They were doing a very shitty job of undercover surveillance. These are cocky, pathological predators who are just biding their time."

"You need to turn to Commander Reznik, Halp," Phyllis told me. "The INCE is being created as we speak to help you."

"I don't think they'll be up and running in time, doc."

(All content on this site is copyright protected. It is meant to inspire my readers to both read my work and to indulge in their own. Conversations With A Specialist is trademarked by Debbie S. Kirchen. If you would like to find out more about the Particpants of the Project, click here. You can follow Halp on Twitter @halpernensohn)

Conversation with a Specialist: Halpern Ensohn meets Phyllis Benson

I showed up at the building on Spear Street, where Palmer Reznik had suggested we meet. Got there right on time and went to the fifth floor to room 507. Walked in, and damned if it wasn't some kind of lobby for a shrink's office, the door to which was on the opposite wall.

"What the fuck!"

And yes, I said it loudly enough for whoever was on the other side of the door to hear me. When the door opened, a knockout of a female specimen stepped through with a raised eyebrow. I did the asshole man thing that chicks hate and raked her over with my assessing eyes, and then disregarded her beauty altogether. I've got my life partner at home. I don't need anyone else. "I'm supposed to meet some dude named Palmer here. Do you know anything about that?"

"You're in the right place, Mr. Ensohn," she told me. "Come this way please."

My instincts told me to bolt, but my balls and ego said to stay and show her who was in charge of me and my life. She led me into her office, which was a tad sterile with its neutral color palette and the clean lines of her decor. I was not impressed. I like color and comfort, like what we have a the flat I share with my best friends.

"So, Palmer fucking tricked me into seeing a shrink," I surmised. "Nice."

"He felt you could use a sounding board," Phyllis confirmed. "I believe he's quite worried about you. I've known Palmer for a few years now, and he doesn't usually stick his neck out like this."

"Lady, I can't tell you anything," I said matter-of-factly. "My secrets are way beyond your scope of practice. I'm quite sure of that."

"Well, even if that it is the case, Mr. Ensohn, - "

"Call me Halp."

"-Halp, what you tell me here is confidential, and will stay within these walls."

"You won't record?" I asked suspiciously.

"Absolutely not," Phyllis told me. "I understand you are in a great deal of danger, and that, in itself, could put my own safety at risk. Therefore, I will not keep any traceable record of our conversations."

I stared at her as I contemplated actually voicing all of the shit in my head. "Just to be clear, I am not the one who is a threat to you," I said.

"I understand that completely."

"Okay…" I was suddenly choked up. Where to start? And what to say that won't make my voice crack like a weenie?

"Tell me about your friends," she suggested. "Palmer tells me there are five of you."

"Yeah," I confirmed. "We're The Circle of Power. There's me and Skipper, and Rafe and Alfonz, and Dakota."

"Tell me about Skipper."

"Skip and I have been together since the moment we set eyes on each other. She's tall, blond and gorgeous, and comes off like a total ditz. And sometimes she really is a ditz, but she mostly is completely aware of what's going on. She chooses not to engage in shit that is a waste of energy. I respect that about her."

"But you are afraid for her," Phyllis surmised. "Why?"

I blinked. How the hell can she see that? I battled myself for a moment. Say it. "We all have implants in our bodies. They're made of a special material that is not available to the general public - some kind of biotechnological breakthrough miracle shit that was used to replace our shattered bone matter. Every one of us had suffered violent and devastating injuries that should have killed us about fifteen years back. Skipper's was to her skull. She's got a plate in her head that's made of this stuff. And I have a bad feeling that it's failing her."

"Why do you think this?"

"She has always had occasional bouts of dipshit moments where she spouts off incoherent nonsense. We've called these incidents her trips, and they've always only ever occurred once in a while. But in the past couple of weeks, they're happening all of the time. And the scary thing is, she's saying stuff that comes from our past, that's part of the secret we keep."

"Maybe she's tired of keeping secrets?"

"No, it's not like that. It's like her brain is misfiring. She's saying shit that - it's like it's coming from another dimension."

Phyllis raised her eyebrows and waited.

I sighed. "I occasionally have flashbacks to my time at the Institute that the others don't know about. I was there first, you see, and I saw things and heard things, and was silenced. I think something was done to my brain to make me forget the majority of what I saw there, but, like I said. I have flashbacks."

"And this Institute? Does it still exist?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Supposedly it was shut down when we were released to go to college. It was a top secret facility, and we were subjects of an experiment. I know it was government sanctioned, and I know that if all of the details were revealed, that the public outcry would be substantial and that public figures would be disgraced."

"And when you consider the degree of danger you are in," Phyllis asked carefully, "do you believe your lives to be at stake?

"Oh yeah," I said firmly. "Hell yes."

(All content on this site is copyright protected. It is meant to inspire my readers to both read my work and to indulge in their own. Conversations With A Specialist is trademarked by Debbie S. Kirchen. If you would like to find out more about the Particpants of the Project, click here. You can follow Halp on Twitter @halpernensohn)

Conversation with a Specialist - LizBeth Bryant meets Maggie Moran

LizBeth “Lizzie” Bryant stepped over the threshold into the small private office of Maggie Moran, MFT. She brushed at the fine droplets of perspiration collecting around her hairline, smoothing them into her thick auburn hair which was clasped in a large clip on the back of her head. She felt disheveled and clammy, suspected her pallor was pasty, but decided to avoid the beautifully gilded-framed mirror on the opposite terra cotta wall. To confirm her suspicion would require allowing the mirror to reflect the discoloration that still lingered on the left side of her face from the bitchslap she’d sustained a few weeks back.

Lizzie sat heavily on the loveseat that was crammed into an inset section of the wall, knowing that the warm tones and floral print were supposed to put her at ease.

They didn’t.

Nor did the leafy green plants and brilliant watercolor paintings adorning the space. This was somewhat of a surprise, actually, because this woman who would be Lizzie’s therapist had very similar interior design inclinations to Lizzie’s. And, Maggie Moran’s practice was obviously one that focused on women. This was a definite plus for the moment, although again Lizzie felt little comfort. She glanced around the room, wondering idly what a male client would think on his first arrival to this office for therapy. Would he stay? She wondered. Will I? She checked her watch. One twenty-eight. She had two minutes to collect herself.

The inner door opened gently and a tall willowy woman stepped out. Lizzie felt a brief lift in her spirits. Maggie Moran was in her early sixties, carried herself with the grace of a dancer and dressed with an understated elegance in a long ivory dress that flowed with her movements. She greeted Lizzie with a warm, welcoming smile.

“LizBeth Bryant?” she asked.

“Lizzie,” Lizzie corrected in a tight voice that sounded bitchy to her own ears. She stood and took the older woman’s hand. “Nice to meet you in person,” she said in a smaller, softer tone.

“Call me Maggie.”

Lizzie was led into the inner chamber, which was furnished in much the same manner as the waiting room. The walls in here were a buttery yellow and the crisp white trim around the windows lent a sense of calm to the atmosphere. With a deep breath intended to calm her pounding heart, Lizzie sat on the couch and faced Maggie.

***

Maggie May Moran smiled openly at LizBeth Bryant. Though she knew her new client to be older, she looked to be in her mid-thirties, was of medium height and build, and beautiful in an unconventional way. She suspected immediately that Lizzie was incredibly attractive when she was happy and animated. At the moment, the younger woman carried herself like the lone survivor of a harrowing disaster, and the remnants of a nasty bruise on her face gave testimony to a recent and violent experience.

Maggie had her own style of therapy. She believed in positive thinking, having full faith that the powers-that-be never give us more than we can handle, and that all adversity had an incredible silver lining. The joy in recovery was discovering that lining. Her clients tended to be women over forty, who had faced their childhood demons and addressed their horrible traumas from the past. They knew their strengths and were more interested in recognizing and discontinuing lifelong coping mechanisms that they no longer needed to employ. They wanted to stop withholding from life, to stop letting opportunities pass them by, and to broaden their own experiences.

Lizzie Bryant would fit in just fine, Maggie decided, as she watched the other woman first fuss with her long skirt and then clasp and unclasp her hands in her lap before finally raising a disgruntled gaze to meet Maggie’s. Again Maggie smiled. She leaned forward and peered into the pained green eyes of her newest client and said,

“You’ve been through some kind of recent hell, and you want to put it behind you.”

***

Lizzie was flustered by the direct and accurate statement. But there was something about Maggie’s smile that was already growing on her. She lifted her chin. “Yes, that’s mostly it, Maggie,” she returned in a strong voice. “I’ve got a doosey of a tale for you, and I’m going to need all the help I can get to move on. Especially since…” she stopped speaking because she’d come to the part where she knew she’d break down if she went any further.

Maggie clasped her knees, as she continued to lean forward, her full attention on Lizzie. “Tell me what you’re ready to tell me. The rest will come out in time.”

Lizzie’s mouth curved in a half smile. She took another deep breath, blew out most of it, inhaled again in sudden panic and burst out, “Some kind of fucking CIA or DOJ-sanctioned, privatized special ops organization thought I was some kind of fucking international arms-dealing terrorist and kidnapped me when I was on my way to see a concert in San Francisco!”

“I see,” Maggie said. She grinned in delight, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, tell me everything, Lizzie. Everything.”

 

(All content on this site is copyright protected. It is meant to inspire my readers to both read my work and to indulge in their own. Conversations With A Specialist is trademarked by Debbie S. Kirchen. If you would like to find out more about the Particpants of the Project, click here. Lizzie Bryant's tale begins in Book Two of the INCE Trilogy - Launching the Project)

Conversation with a specialist - Agent Christopher sees a shrink

"Mr. Christopher, Morgan, can you tell me why you're here?"

"Well, love, I am here to be assessed for degrees of insanity, I presume."

"Please don't call me 'love.' I'd prefer Phyllis, or Dr. Benson." At Morgan's nod of acquiescence, she continued. "I doubt we will determine you to be even slightly insane. Would you agree that we are aiming to take a look at why you are where you find yourself at this time in your life?"

"To answer the question that is in the foreground of my thoughts at every waking moment?" he finished for her. "Yes, I agree that this is our aim. And I apologize for my attempt to condescend. Bad habit."

"Not to worry. We're making progress already!" Phyllis smiled benevolently. There was a pronounced silence in the air while she waited for Morgan to respond. But the man before her was struggling to mask the sudden wrenching vulnerability that was claiming his state of being. She softened her tone to gently prod, "Why don't you state for me in your own words, what exactly that waking question is for you?"

Morgan took a deep breath and was suddenly thrown back to the memory of watching Dakota Craig break down and admit that he'd hurt her, broken her heart in fact. He'd long before dismissed any possibility that anyone could care enough about him to be emotionally hurt or distressed by his actions. She'd driven a huge blow into his psyche. A gift, of sorts, but also a resulting burden of both guilt and desire to atone. Something he feared was impossible to do.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he cleared his throat. "I awaken each day with a sense of dread and shame, and the question in my mind is literally - and pardon my language - 'how in the fuck did I become such a bastard?'"

Phyllis gave a soft smile at his honesty. "And you would define bastard how, exactly?"

Morgan smirked. "Bastard. A noun used to define a man who is capable of cold, cruel behavior bordering on evil. He is unapologetic for his ways, and unmoved by the distress of his victims."

Phyllis held his gaze, contemplating what he'd revealed. Morgan expected her to show shock, or register a level of fear for her own safety to be in the presence of such a monster, but she just pondered for several moments before responding. "How do you think you became this bastard you claim to be?"

Morgan snorted. "Oh, I assure you, I am a brutal bastard." He stopped for a moment, catching himself from going to any further length to prove his claim, realizing the opportunity she'd provided him. Was there a reason for this? He'd not gone so far as to even consider the idea until now. Maybe... "I can say, however, that I'm only brutal when I'm being paid to be. It's as though I've got an ironclad rule within myself that I have to succeed at any cost, even if it requires human suffering."

"You take your job very seriously," Phyllis supplied.

"I do," he agreed. "Although, I'm having some confusion about my job description these days."

"And what triggered that?"

"I took the time to notice I'd hurt someone. And then I noticed that I cared for her."

 

(All content on this site is copyright protected. It is meant to inspire my readers to both read my work and to indulge in their own. Conversations With A Specialist is trademarked by Debbie S. Kirchen. If you would like to find out more about the Particpants of the Project [#POTP] click here. You can follow Halp on Twitter @halpernensohn)

New Session - Pre Epilogue (Images of Silence)

"So Amy, how's your week been?" Maggie Moran, MFT asked, probably because I'd been sitting there, not speaking.

I was staring at her mug. She had quite a collection of them.
"I'm writing a book," I said, realizing I'd been stalling, not sure how to begin. "I know I've told you that I've been working on a story, a romance. And yes, the lead man was based on the persona of my former boss, and I was using it as a way to vent my frustration at his stubborn arrogance."

"Uhm hm," she prodded.

"But that got old, and it's obviously gone nowhere... It's gone from being a deceptively light chick lit story, to an entirely different exercise."


"I like that you call it an exercise," Maggie said with a warmly intrigued smile. "Now, how does that work exactly?"


I sighed, pondering how to explain. "It's just there in everything I'm writing. I seem to need to continue to have a strong element of deception and betrayal in the plot. The sort that defies basic human decency," I told her.

Her smile turned to a smirk that told me to admit more.

"I imagine that's because I still need to purge some of my own baggage." There, I said it. I smirked back. "But mostly, I need to escape my current reality, and I'm finding that investing my heart in the lives of my characters is giving me a new sense of purpose."


"I like your level of introspection, Amy," she praised. "And I'm not hearing anything here that causes me concern. You don't necessarily need to consider what you're doing as escape. It sounds constructive and purposeful. It's important to bring in a balance of happier times to help level out your recent hardships. This endeavor sounds both productive and entertaining. I'm looking forward to reading your story." She leaned forward with elbows on knees, hands clasped around her mug of chamomile. "Now, tell me about your characters?"


I smiled the smile that comes when I think of them: The Circle of Power. "Well, there are five of them. They are the core, bonded by common childhood horrors, and united through an organization that is unfortunately not the educational institution that it represents itself to be. But that's another explanation for another session. Besides, I don't have the details worked out yet. Only that it's called The Institute."


"The Institute? Sounds official, and subversive. I'm intrigued," Maggie said. 


I wobbled my eyebrows at her, but said no more. She sipped her tea.


Now I grinned. "Okay. The characters are Dakota Craig, Halpern Ensohn, Skipper Long, and Rafe and Alfonz Romero." 


"And who plays the lead in this cast of characters?" she asked, tilting her head as she openly studied me. "I like what I'm seeing here, my dear. Writing is your calling.

"
My grin widened. "Yes." I swallowed hard, suddenly overcome with the feeling of cry - that surge of joy that swells your chest and clogs your throat and fills your eyes with tears. Deep breath, Amy. "There are two leading roles at first, but then I'll introduce two more." I took another deep happy breath. "The main character, the one whom I want my audience to follow the most is Dakota Craig. She's my age, and she's got a lot of baggage."


"And who is Dakota?"


"She's me, most definitely, although she's not all of me," I readily admitted. "She's my inner loser, the one that blames herself for life's horrible twists of fate. She's also a singer. She sings the way I always wanted to." I laughed at that, remembering the way I'd scream sung to Natalie Furtado's I'm Like A Bird as I drove to this appointment. "I just wrote a scene with her singing. It's when she's at her best."


"What led up to her singing, in this scene you wrote?"


I still had that silly grin on my face. I felt happy. I shook my head. "Uh, well, they're on a cruise, and there are bad things happening behind the scenes on the ship. Something I've called portholing..."

"Excuse me?" she asked, with a look that said she was pretty sure I meant what she thought I meant.

(All content on this site is copyright protected. It is meant to inspire my readers to both read my work and to indulge in their own. Conversations With A Specialist is trademarked by Debbie S. Kirchen. If you would like to find out more about the Particpants of the Project, click here. You can follow Halp on Twitter @halpernensohn. Amy Stuart is a character from Images of Silence, available here.