And now for my next act...

Therapist leaves an apartment after visiting a mother and daughter. Therapist decides she can no longer participate in this charade where children are assigned mental illness because its convenient for their parents. Therapist wonders about the ultimate consequences of simply being truthful about who the patient really is and refusing to pretend she is "doing therapy" with people who don't want it or need it. Therapist envisions herself working as a housekeeper at the Hyatt where nobody speaks her language and never being heard from again.

Therapist has a fantasy between Reno and Truckee while stuck in construction traffic:

"So, Lola, I'm thinking that it isn't actually your daughter who could benefit by therapy." Lola sits on her sofa in her living room which is so clean that I feel I should suspend myself over the furniture so I don't make a dent in the upholstery. All the items in her refrigerator face the same direction. The towels are folded, but she re-folds them every few minutes and scolds her daughter if one is incorrectly folded. She smiles at me after I tell her this.

"Oh?" she says forcing a worried smile.

I tell her that her daughter doesn't actually have a discipline problem. I tell her that it's too much to ask of an eight year old to organize all her dolls so that they face a certain way, that every piece of lint is picked up of the carpet and to make sure every book is in alphbetical order. And I tell her that this level of regimentation and pressure on her daughter will result in horrible disaster,I would guess right around 12 or 13, when she realizes she can loosen her chains and run away into the arms of her dark side. There, she will explore her own underbelly in ways her mother never thought possible even when she herself was a crack addict living on the strip in Vegas, cocktailing to feed her habit. This little girl of hers, now so clean and tidy, not a hair out of place, will suddenly turn and become very messy somewhere inside. Maybe a raging eating disorder? Anorexia to act out her starvation and to manifest how the quest for perfection has dried her out and made her wither inside. She will get smaller and smaller, closer to death, disappearing from this noisy world of folding towels perfectly and peering fearfully from her perch of perfection into the abyss of disapproval. Or maybe she'll burn and cut herself, marking herself as a separate being from her mother. She will carefully take the cigarettes and leave perfect circles on her arms and legs, alternating them with careful carvings which she will leave in her flesh, each one telling a story of unspoken rage. Or she might curl up inside and retreat, becoming withdrawn, closed and dark, like a snake preparing to shed her skin. She will be dusky and silent and in time, she will be unable to distinguish between reality and unreality. Or perhaps she will turn on all her faucets full force, spewing psychic blood and vomit everywhere, thereby reminding her mother that the dark side never goes away. One cannot exorcise it with three hours per days of Bible study, or take a dust cloth and polish and polish and polish hoping the shine will hide the shadow. She will be everything her mother is fearful of and she will not be discreet. She will smell like every dirty mattress she sleeps on with men she doesn't know and she will only live at night. By day, she will sleep it off somewhere while her mother paces and calls the police to find her...again.