Mental Migration

Psych flight.
My therapist informed me that she will be taking her three-week summer break in July. “Oh, it’s something that we all do; most therapists take off the entire month of August you know?” “No I didn’t know. This is all a new scene for me. So you all go on this kind of psych flight huh”? She laughed at the phrase I came up with and I thought I should trademark the thing under cute, esoteric terms.

I can just imagine… the entire eastern end of Long Island bends about five extra feet below sea level in August. As shrinks sleekly dive off diving boards in their backyard weekend home pools, New Yorkers left without them in the city do desperate half-gainers off the highest floors of office buildings.

The stock, conciliatory leave-behind is, If you need me for an emergency, just call me on the cell. When that call is placed however, the shrink is talking from the midst of a beach bonfire with sand, surf, and their kids arguing about whose turn it is to use the boogie board as the background of the call to help talk you off the ledge. “Jump,” she says into the phone. “What, doc, is that the ultimate answer?” “Oh, no sorry, I was just telling my 12-year old Kip to keep his damn walking cast from getting splashed. He’s getting too close to the water. Broke his foot at the equestrian showcase you know. I’m out of minutes.” “Your cellphone plan or your billable hours,” I inquire as she quietly hangs up the phone.

What the f@*k does Woody Allen do in August and does he only stay at sea level? This vacation from the therapy scene can be good. It’s easy to rely on as a habitual thing and not depend on yourself or other people you love to be there for you. I’ll call my mother. Wait, shit, that’s one of the reasons I’m in therapy!

Ah well…beaches and nature hiking paths are therapies in themselves (and they accept United Healthcare with NO co-pay).