Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

‘Do you enjoy nudity with women?’ She stepped back from me, frowning over the top of her glasses.

‘I thought it might be expected.’

‘Uh-huh.’ She pointed again to the sofa with the end of her pen before sitting on a swivel chair and placing a stenographer’s pad on her knee. ‘Ho-kay, I’ll need some background info-data for my files. Are you affiliated with the motion picture industry?’

‘No.’

‘Film, TV, docu-dramas, mini-series, pilots, commercials?’

‘I go to the cinema sometimes.’

She frowned and noted something down. ‘Are you married or homosexual?’

‘I’m single.’

‘So you’re not homosexual?’

‘One never knows, I suppose. I’ve read that people sometimes discover homosexual relief in mid-life.’

‘Uh-huh.’ She wrote something else down. ‘Allergies, phobias, unresolved anger?’

‘I’m not allergic to anything but I am afraid of spiders. Especially those large, hairy bird-eating spiders that live on tropical islands. I have a horror of a bird-eating spider falling from a coconut palm, down the back of my cardigan.’

‘That’s fear of the vagina.’

‘I’m not frightened of the vagina. It’s spiders.’

‘Psy 101: Fear of snakes is fear of the penis. Fear of spiders is fear of the vagina. It’s the ABC of my trade. You’ve probably had a traumatic birth or a brush with a forceful lesbian. Sometimes it’s a distant aunt or over-friendly neighbour. Fear and shame drive the female child to internalise the incident and bury it deep in her subconscious. It takes multiple sessions with a highly trained expert to normalise a traumatised victim. It’s a baptism by fire, catharsis, rebirth. I have a time plan to ease the financial burden of payments.’

‘But I thought most people were scared of spiders. And snakes for that matter.’

‘Leave the thinking up to those licensed to do it.’

This statement was not very encouraging but it was not my place to question a certified professional. It seemed like a good moment to clarify my goals. ‘I’ve been told by a reliable source that I am abnormal. I’m looking for relief by Monday.’

‘There are two types of abnormal, the chronically abnormal and the averagely abnormal. My professional guess is that you’re the former.’ She shook her head and exhaled noisily. ‘I’ve heard it all in my game. Violence, torture, murder, rape, damage to private property. I carry it with me. It’s all up here.’

Bijou Poulet tapped her temple and sighed in a significant way. She had not chosen an easy career path. I knew for a fact that suicide among psychotherapists was uncommonly high. So was suicide among veterinarians. I was glad I had not opted for a career in veterinary science. It cannot be easy giving animals injections.

‘At least you don’t see animals suffer.’

Bijou Poulet seemed startled by my comment. ‘What does the word beaver mean to you?’

‘Dam.’

‘Ho-kay, I’ll take that as a hostile response.’ She folded her lips and wrote a lengthy paragraph on her notepad. She then reread her notes, frowned and scratched her scalp with her long fingernails. When she finally looked up, her expression was serious. ‘Your illness has a name.’

‘That’s helpful.’

‘Joan of Arc complex.’

‘But Joan of Arc was a soldier. She led armies into battle against the British. I don’t agree with fighting. I think it does more harm than good.’

‘That’s only what you think you think. What goes on inside your mind is a different kettle of fish.’ She pointed to her temple again before motioning in the general direction of my groin. ‘You’re a victim of unnatural impulses, dangerous impulses if left unchecked. They’ve got to be controlled, suppressed, suffocated, metaphorically held down and beaten with a stick. Electric shock therapy is no longer available but there are other psychological routes we can pursue.’

‘This is not very good news.’

Bijou Poulet held up a hand. ‘Describe a recent dream.’

I would have liked to pursue the Joan of Arc theme but it seemed prudent to do as instructed. ‘I dreamed this morning that I lost my job. I woke up with pins and needles in my legs. Would you like me to describe it?’

‘No.’

I was taken aback by this abrupt response but reminded myself of the ‘Psy Dram’ after Bijou Poulet’s name. ‘Earlier this week, I had another dream. It was quite strange.’

‘I’m sure it was.’

‘In the dream I was sitting in the therapy room of Mr Harrison Tanderhill, a registered hypnotherapist.’ I looked at her. She nodded for me to continue. ‘I was speaking indiscreetly.’

‘Filth, shame, childhood guilt. The hypnotist takes away your sense of responsibility. You’re under his control, free to pursue sexual fantasy.’

‘Mr Tanderhill then said, “I just love the Neapolitan lifestyle”. That’s the part I don’t understand.’

‘Suppressed sexual feelings for the maidenhead. Textbook case.’

‘He then started asking about money.’

‘Pure greed. It starts at the breast.’

‘I was bottle fed.’

She glared at me. ‘Get on with it.’

‘Then the dream seemed to jump ahead. The hypnotherapist was laughing and doing the Macarena.’

‘Release, sexual freedom, cork popping. You’re frustrated, craving sexual expression. If you dig deep into your subconscious, you’ll find that the hypnotist in your dream was actually a woman dressed as a man.’

‘I’m not sure it was a dream.’

‘The dreaming mind can be compelling but reality is reality, full stop.’ She clicked her fingers to emphasise the full stop. ‘An averagely abnormal person knows the difference. A chronically abnormal person should be put on high-quality psycho-pharmaceuticals to suppress the imagination, to kill it dead in the parlance of psychotherapeutic dramatology. I’m not licensed to prescribe but I can point you in the right direction. For a fee, naturally.’

‘The thing is, I did go to see Mr Tanderhill last week. He’s a certified hypnotics expert.’

‘Poppycock.’

‘I was mesmerised with a small medallion.’

‘In your dreams, sister.’ She raised her eyebrows and made a whistling gesture with her lips without actually whistling.