The Tale #26 - Therapy at CREEPSVILLE.

So I didn’t have the balls to look through the MOM footage.  

I will get to it this week, I promise.


So I was a mess.  A big mess.  I wasn’t bouncing around in my daily life but the bouncing was still showing up in Yoga and my hip was so so tight, and…. it would “talk” to me.

When I say “Talk” to me, literally I would hear in my head “No.” Or my hip would shake my head side to side to say “No.”  You can see it on the Dr. Freud Video in one of my early posts. The hip talking to me thing was really weird.  I mean really weird.  But at least I could function, and go about my daily business.  It was at night, and during my daily Yoga practice where things would get scary.  Sometimes I would wake up in excruciating pain, at other times I would just feel a burning pain in my lower back, causing all the muscles there to be tight. And sometimes, I would just wake up knowing SOMETHING was wrong.

I called my sister again for a therapist referral, and she actually got back to me.

The therapist's name was KATHERINE FOOLMACHER (I changed the name for privacy).  I called her and set up an appointment for that week.  Katherine’s office was in her house, a very scary house in the boondocks of Putnam County, right above the Westchester border.

It was the like the ADDAMS FAMILY HOUSE, I am not kidding.   I parked my Green Honda Civic in her driveway and walked up a stone path to her front door and I entered into a small foyer with only a small wooden bench. There was a sign on the bench which read:  

“Please sit.  I will come and get you when I am ready”.


This was NOT promising. I sat down, nervous about the upcoming session and a moment later a thin wirey gray haired man who looked like a reject from the movie Deliverance walked down the stairs, dragging a canvas sack with what looked like a dead body inside.  I am not kidding.

“You’re here to see the MRS?” he said with a crazy look in his eyes.

“Yeah.” I replied politely.

“She’s good.  She certainly knows how to fix things.” He giggled.

“Uh huh?            

“She will be out when she is DONE fixin’ the person inside.” He stared at me.

My teeth started to chatter and it wasn’t from my PTSD.

“Feel free to make yourself at home.  But don’t take off your shoes.  People been know to take home some timber lice.”

I jumped up.

“Don’t worry I sprayed.” He laughed.  “I’m just teasin…. But you never know. Huh Huh Huh… Man I hate Laundry!“ And he left.

A minute or two later, the door to the “therapy room” opened and a strange little old gray haired lady in her early 70’s with a big witches wart on her nose appeared in the doorway.  It was Katherine.

I introduced myself and entered.  

Her office was a mess.  Magazines were piled left and right and the whole place was generally dusty and creepy. Really dusty and creepy.  Was this place some sort of psychiatric slaughter house helmed by some ancient gray-haired serial killer and her inbred son?  And what did they do with the bodies?  Obviously I was feeling a bit paranoid.

Kathryn sat behind her desk and gazed at me with a gentle smile.   

“I am Katherine Foolmacher.” She said calmly. “And what brings you here?”

And so I began telling my story. From my first Yoga cry to my inner child superhero adventure with Karen Judge I talked non-stop for about 35 minutes. Katherine listened intently.

“So that’s it.  And here I am.” I finished. 

Katherine pause. Scratched her long nose and then said.  “That is some story. “

“It certainly is.” I replied.  

She got all serious and then said. “Do you know what I would like to do?”

I shook my head no.

“I would like to take all the abusive parents in the world and sit them in a circle.” 

“Uh Huh?” I whispered.

“ And I would have them all turn to the right.” 


“And I would have them all take their right hand and make a fist.” She was very serious now.

“Uh huh?…” I murmured. 

 “And then WHAM! punch the person in front of them!” She laughed fiendishly.

“Wow.” I was in shock.  This was therapy?

“What would happen if they got a little of their own medicine?” she continued.  “That would fix em.  Yes, we will take all the abusive parents in the world and have them punch each other.  It would be a better world. That would fix things.”

She was advocating abuse to eliminate abuse.  Something was seriously wrong here.

 “So what can I do?  I mean for my hip and all this madness.” I asked.

“Well I don’t think we can organize a group punch right away, so I guess you will have to come here and we can talk about it.”


 “Come here and we can talk about it.” Katherine repeated.

 “But what can I do about the shaking?”  

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.  I am here to get help.” I was very confused here.

 Katherine smiled, a creepy smile. 

“And I am here to help you help yourself. Those nasty parents… they could really use a good left hook to the jaw.  We are coming to the end of our session.  Before we finish, is there anything that you would like to complete on?”

“No, I’m fine.” 

We made an appointment for another session and I left, knowing that I would never return.  

That’ll fix her.


And as I drove home down the Taconic State Parkway in my green Honda Civic, I suddenly folded into my steering wheel as my left hip flexor cramped up.  

Oh shit, this is not going to be fun.



Ken WolfComment