Chapter 2 - Of Mice and Mikey Bevins
“I
know nothing will ramp up anxiety like lack of closure.” Walter scratched the
back of his neck and then slowly leaned forward in his chair. “So, I’m sorry to
report that I’ve got no official remarks on this topic.
Several
of the members whined. “Oh, come on.”
“Hey,
if you think I’m going to take sides with this issue, then none of you were
paying attention to what I told you when I gave you your individual
orientations.” He grinned. “This question of whether I support the idea of us
all having a mysterious figure in our past that we would like to annihilate or
not is a moot issue! As a therapist and facilitator of this group, you will get
very few self-disclosures from me. I do need to remind you that I am mandated
to report anything of a dangerous or criminal nature to the local authorities.”
“So,
you would turn us in?” I said, half teasingly.
“It
is an ethical requirement. Truthfully, people often exaggerate or say a lot of
bullshit in the early weeks of group therapy. But if I was certain that you
were serious, yes! You would be removed. Otherwise, I could lose my license and
livelihood, not to mention my reputation as a psychotherapist.”
There
was a general grumbling, then Walter pointed at the door. “This isn’t he first
time you all have heard this speech. I know Nixon is running things now, but so
far, it is a free country. If you dislike the arrangement, then hug each other
goodbye, and I will wish you well.”
Silence
ensued. After a few moments he leaned forward again and beckoned us all to lean
forward as well. With some coaxing we
all followed his directive.
“Remind
you of a huddle Mr. Dubrovsky? Walter waggled his grey eyebrows at Manfred. The
large man laughed and shook his head. “Nope. Sorry Doc."
Knivens
feigned disappointment. “Oh well. I had a client last year, a man of
questionable motives, who would begin a disclosure in therapy with a thinly disguised
‘I once had a friend that…’ I was never one
hundred percent comfortable with this half-lie, but I let it slide for a while.”
Several
of us nodded as if we understood what he was trying to tell us. I wasn’t one of
them, however.
Walter
seemed to brighten up a bit after this. “So, to move closer to the primary
reason we are here today, Mr. Bevins. Would you be willing to discuss some of
your struggles and experiences with anxiety.
Mikey
was a pudgy man of average height. He was about two sandwiches shy of being regarded
as fat. Some of us had talked to him during the coffee breaks that interrupted the
three-hour sessions. Gossip suggested that he was once a street cop in a rough
part of Chicago. He had somehow ended up in a less stressful job as a dispatcher
for a Sheriff’s office in a small town just south of the ‘Windy City’.
My
mind began to wander while Mikey fidgeted in his seat. Dr. Knivens had been
working with the rest of us on the topic of silence. How to tolerate it. Or, as
he put it, how to honor silence as a part of the process of therapy’. However,
Mikey seemed to need more silence before speaking than the rest of us. I was
tempted to look at my watch, but Walter had told me that I should look at
whoever was speaking. He said gently that if he caught me again, he would confiscate
my watch until the end of the session. I don’t know why that seemed daunting,
but I guess I would figure it out eventually. I looked around the room briefly
instead.
The
room was a dingy large room in the basement in a fifty-year-old First United Methodist
Church. As part of the group I was also required to have individual sessions,
which met in Dr. Knivens office. The office, which was much more upscale had a water cooler and stereo system.
The
walls were painted a dull yellow. The plaster was cracked a bit, revealing
fault lines running up the walls. A pair of narrow windows near the ceiling let
in a muted sunlight filtered through grime and dust that cast a golden glow
about the room. Styrofoam cups and a plate of store- bought cookies, the type
that crumbled too easily were on a long wooden table pushed against one wall.
The table also held an ancient coffee urn. The table wobbled a bit due to a
warped linoleum floor. The air carried a faint mustiness of old hymnals and
damp stone.
My
eyes returned to Mikey. He was taking forever to begin speaking. “Well, like
most of you probably can relate, debilitating anxiety is hard to talk about for
most men. To begin with, I have a condition, a phobia that I have found
humiliating for most of my life.”
My
attention focused sharply on the pasty-faced squat man in the folding chair
sitting opposite me.
“I
have a mouse phobia.” He waited a bit, perhaps listening for snickers. When he
heard none, he continued. “People that don’t have phobia can’t really understand
what it is like. Doc, could you help me out here. Dr. Knivens has been treating
me with hypnosis for a couple of. months now.”
“I
prefer not to speak on your behalf, so just once I will say that a mouse phobia
is an irrational fear. Mike knows that mice can’t hurt him. He realistically
understands that while they carry diseases sometimes, there shouldn’t be any
urgency to avoid them. Let me repeat, this is an irrational fear. Mike can’t
talk himself into confronting it. Most animal phobias begin in childhood and
contrary to what the Freudians have to say, they are created via simple negative
reinforcement and avoidance learning experiences.”
Walter
continued. “Mike, what would happen if you saw a mouse in your office at work?”
“Oh
man! I would just lose my shit. I’d flee the room. Which is ironic because I was a street cop
for several years. I faced down a loaded gun once. The bad guy shot me in my
shoulder. I chased him anyway. My partner and I cornered him and he gave up. I’m
fearless under normal circumstances, except around mice.”
George
raised his hand to ask a question. “But you’re not a cop anymore, correct?”
“No,
I’m a dispatcher. The mouse phobia info got around the precinct that I belonged
to.” Mikey looked at me because, I guess, I was hyper focused on his story.
“You
know anything at all about cops Jax?”
“Um,
not much.” I admitted.
“Well,
they’re good to have in your corner when you are in trouble but in their down times,
they can be real ass holes. I started finding mice in my squad car, dead mice
in my desk drawers in my office and in my locker. I finally quit and took a less stressful job
as a dispatcher in White Creek, Illinois. So far, the work situation has been
much better for me. Less stress.”
“Can
I see your bullet wound after group?” I said with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm.
I have ADD and sometimes I don’t have much of a filter.
“Sure
kid. For five bucks.” Mikey stared at me. I looked back confused.
“I’m
messing with you kid. Remember what I said about cops.
“Oh yeah, right! I stammered.
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