Adventures in Binge Therapy

If one shrink couldn't RAP resolve an anxiety-borne tic, would a squad of them work better?

- By Matt Sullivan

At some point after, I dunno, maybe the 12th time that the pandemic did not in fact "end," my Hot Vax Summer got so compounded by stress-another kid on the way, dad in the hospital, cross-country move that I felt almost blind. A tic, which began with occasional blinking, had devolved into a full-on facial contortion, all squinting and snorting and-ahem!-a socially awkward clearing of the throat. Strangers asked if I was okay, then shuddered. I wore sunglasses in the shade.

The eye doctor deferred to Therapist No. 1, also known as my judgmental analyst and her weekly hour of couch-bound guilt, but rambling about my mother was no cure for a case of the blinks. For a second opinion, I turned to my second mental-health regular-aka Therapist No. 2, aka my psychiatrist, aka the overpriced drug dealer for my anxiety medication-then asked her to refer me to a third opinion. And a fourth. And a fifth. If you could expect a menu for your mouth, I figured, why not a buffet for your brain? Why order the usual when you could try it all and choose a new favourite?

My shrink suggested three additional options: a solo specialist in a different, more interactive brand of therapy; a self-help group; and a textbook featuring 422 pages of mental health workouts. Indeed, I was assured that any one of these referrals could function more like a new personal trainer offering exercises in cognitive jujitsu-no meds required, no couches allowed. Determined to outsmart the tic at any cost, I signed up for all of the above. These new modalities might take at least a month or two to rewire my worst instincts, but then, as Therapist No. 3 soon promised, "You become your own therapist."

THERAPIST NO.3:

THE RADICAL