Man on The Moon

When I wound up in rehab again after getting a DUI and totaling three cars, I mentioned that there were very special people there waiting for me, and I felt loved. I also felt like killing myself. I'd dodged so many bullets over all the years of my using, but finally, it all came crashing down upon me like an avalanche. No subtle buildup. No slow burn. Just a huge cartoon anvil dropping upon my head. And as awful as I felt, I was also grateful that finally, something truly terrible had resulted in all of my selfish choices. There was some feeling of atonement, but it certainly hadn't transformed into the courage to change. I just felt some sort of relief that, at least now, if I wanted to shut off all the lights, it would be somewhat understandable. I could hear so many people murmuring to each other, "Mike was a great guy, but Jesus, he just never got it. He didn't even seem to try. It was bound to wind up this way. Poor Mike, where should we go for lunch?" And they'd all just move on with their lives like I have after the hundreds of deaths I've experienced since first getting strung out and sober at a relatively young age. When you get sober, get used to friends dying. It happens like fucking clockwork, and it's a relentless assault. You might as well try to hold back an ocean wave as prevent the deaths of so many people you'll come to love or at least share something so intimately with.

              But, of course, I didn't kill myself, and I've written about one of these people suggesting I become a therapist. I remember when they first said it, and it was as if they suggested I become an astronaut. I said I was too old, and truly I didn't have a wealth of self-esteem to draw from either. Becoming a therapist would require years of school and then years more of getting hours and tests and exams and all that stuff. It still seemed easier to just go home and sit and drink until my Mom passed away, and then I'd be free to shut it down. Oh wait, I also had to wait for my dogs to go too. I couldn't leave them. And so, as this person said I should become a therapist, I was simply considering how much time I'd have to endure before the three most important creatures in my life left this world, allowing me to leave too.

              But a funny thing happened. I thought about what he said later that night in the detox bed I was put in until I was well enough to move to more opulent housing. I started getting a little excited by the idea. My friend, Chris, the one who suggested the therapist's idea, had said by way of answering my claim of being too old but simply saying, "Look three years is gonna pass one way or another, you might as well get a degree out of it. What else do you have to do?"

              I called Jana the next day. She'd had it with me, and our relationship was certainly over but she was kind enough to still answer my calls. I remember telling her of this new idea and that I could even become a PsyD or doctor with a few extra years. She reacted the way anyone would upon hearing such ramblings with someone in rehab who was days away from shattering her dreams. She said, "that sounds good baby. Why not?" I don't think I was foolish enough to expect anything more excited and supportive as that but at least she didn't just shut down the whole idea as just another detox fantasy looking for any piece of straw to grab onto and try and wriggle out of the quicksand which had engulfed me. I'm sure she had zero belief that any of this would happen but she was kind and let me have my moment and we said goodbye.

              I kept thinking about this inane prospect and eventually my three weeks in that place came to an end. No money left to stay longer. To their credit they gave me a free week. But I left and went home and somehow this crazy idea still held. I know myself fairly well. The good and the bad. Or at least I know my general patterns and habits. I knew that if I didn't dive into this it would vanish as an idea and become some irretrievable rusted tin can upon the pile of all of my other forgotten dreams and aspirations. So I googled Marriage and Family Therapist programs near me. Literally as close as possible. At the time figured I wouldn't be able to drive anymore. Turns out you can drive almost indefinitely after getting a DUI, at least your first one. There was a place called Pacific Oaks in Pasadena and was about 3 miles from my house. And so I just fucking applied. Just like that. I'd been out of rehab a day and I was filling out the online application. It wasn't particularly grueling. Basically I needed a BA undergrad degree and money for tuition.

              One of my degrees given the 5-year college program I finished was a BA in Physics. A preposterous coupling. But hey, I had one and it was good enough. I did all the transcript shuffle business and eventually set up a day to come in for an interview. Now I'm maybe 3 weeks out of rehab and still sober. I met with the head of the MFT department and he asked all the questions you'd expect. He was a good guy. Looking back I can't imagine what I might have answered which would have precluded me from writing my first trimester tuition check but nonetheless, I did the interview and they accepted me. Classes started in about 2 weeks.

              Five weeks earlier I was wondering how long I'd have to wait to be able to kill myself without breaking any of three very important hearts. Now I was wondering what sort of notebooks did I need. How does one go to grad school? What did I need? How would I marshall my fears and damning secrets.

              A day or so before classes were to start I got a notification from the school that I needed to take a special remedial writing class. They presented the idea like it was a reward. Basically, they determined I couldn't write worth a damn and had to have special practice in this class of twelve of us. And truly, 11 of us couldn't write a sentence to save their lives. But what the fuck? I said okay and took the thing. I didn't think I had much choice. It was a lot of extra work, but I just did it. And now look at me! I can write sentences!

              The three years I was there were actually really great years. I came to be very close with my "cohort." I'd always associated that word with criminality, but I guess they use it a lot in academia. They're really big on calling obvious things by new awkward phrases. You hear the word "praxis" a lot in these places. I'll try and remember some more of them. By the end of the first trimester, tho, I was a little worried. I'd received 100% on every single writing and assignment I'd turned in. Absolute perfection. Look, I'm a smart enough guy, but that just seemed crazy. And it just kept happening. Somewhere near the end of the first year, I got a grade in the high 80s and was so excited! I kept asking friends who were already MFTs if it should be this easy. Was I even learning anything? They all said the same thing. Just get the masters. You'll learn everything by doing it, starting with practicum. So I just kept going. I remember thinking one day at home while doing some assigned reading, "Jesus! If I knew that grad school involved so many naps, I woulda done this years ago."

              At the beginning of the second year, you start your practicum. This means you find a place to be an intern. If you're lucky, there'll be enough clients for you to actually do therapy. I got very lucky. A friend was the clinical director at a place called Refuge Recovery. It was a Buddhist-based rehab. I had just reached out to her for general guidance, but she said we need a male therapist; want to come on board? It was that easy. I started working there as a case manager before I was even allowed to start therapy. You couldn't do that until your actual Practicum class started. I had a couple months on everyone else. I loved it. They trained me in EMDR, and I just worked there as much as possible. I was wracking up hours. Shortly they hired me full-time, which is virtually unheard of in practicum Ville. They were paying me, and I had a full caseload and handled all of the case management. It was crazy, but I loved it.

I became best friends with Dan, the clinical director who replaced my friend. The rehab moved from Silverlake to Venice, and a lot of people said Fuck That! But I went and capped out on my pre-degree hours, but I was working full time and loving it. I truly loved sitting in a room and having people tell me things they'd dare not share with anyone else. I felt so incredibly honored. I still do. I take it very fucking seriously. I also realized that I was developing my own style and breaking virtually all of the stylistic rules I'd been taught. I shared anything about myself if I thought it would make the client more trusting. I told them I wanted to become friends. I told them I was in this with them and that we'd get through all of this together. Of course, It didn't always work out. Most people flame out of rehab, and those that complete generally get loaded within a month. Staying sober is an incredibly low outcome procedure. But at least we were "planting seeds" in them. Rehabs love saying " planting seeds." And so I planted seeds.

              And then the big day came, and I graduated. I had a master's degree. There was a ceremony, and I asked Jana if she wanted to come. She was so excited and said of course. I think she was just in full disbelief that those crazed and drugged mumblings that night from detox had led to this. Thank you, Jana, for being there. You'll never know how much that meant to me.

And so, the next chapter begins. I was now a holder of a Masters's Degree. I was proud. Look, it was easy, but I did the work and earned it. The next step was applying for my "associates number" from the BBS. The BBS is the California Board of Behavioral Sciences. They give out the licenses to therapists, Doctors, Psychiatrists etc. And to apply is no small feat. I had to cobble together all sorts of letters of recommendation, and since I had a DUI on my record, I had to give them all the documentation I could get about it. Police records, Court records, proof of rehab. All kinds of things. I was okay with it. I expected it. I did a crazy thorough job. I disclosed everything. After all, it was purely the DUI that had changed my life and put me on this path to becoming a therapist. So I put together this whole huge package and mailed it off to them and waited. Usually, it takes around 6 weeks to get your number. Everyone got one. Half the MFTs in CA are MFTs because they derailed and emerged wanting to help people.

              By this time, I had moved to a job in Santa Barbara. A great place started by the people who helped me so much at the other rehab. They started their own place, and they really wanted me to work with them. But I couldn't move to Santa Barbara, so they did something which is simply never done. They hired me and would pay for a hotel, and I'd work the next day and go home. I started a family group while I was there. I primarily did couples and family therapy. The family group I started, which was just for family members and not clients, took off. In time the Santa Barbara DA would send people there. I put a lot of myself into the whole thing. It felt good, but still, I was plagued with imposter syndrome. I'd be sitting in a session realizing this person is suffering greatly in front of me and hoping I can fix them. We know we can't, but every client wants to be fixed. Of course, they do. I'd ask myself, "who are you to think you can help these people? You're just a worthless junky who fooled a handful of hippies into thinking you were worth a damn. You figured out how to talk like them and look like them, but deep down, you're still Mike. And Mike is no good." Classic imposter syndrome. But I got through it when it got bad. I'd talk to Lacee, and she'd relate, and I'd pull it together,

              And so I waited. I doubted. And I ran family groups. And I like to think I helped some people, and the mail came one day. A big envelope from the BBS. This is it. I was so excited. I literally walked around with it, just holding it for a moment. It felt like a really important moment. I felt like I'd been accepted on some level, whether I'd fooled anyone or not.

And so I opened it and started reading. And then I just stopped and fell into some weird state of shock. They agreed with me. It said so right there on the first page. They decided that I was a phony. They denied my number because they said I wasn't a "good fit" for working with a troubled population. They told me to stop all activities, and I could either reapply in a year or ask for a hearing. I was fucking shattered. Imagine having your imposter syndrome endorsed in print by the state of California. They'd found me out, and they didn't want me.

At some point, after I leveled out a bit, I called CAMFT, which is the group that defends MFTs and therapists in general. I told them my story, and they were shocked. They couldn't believe I'd be denied because I had a DUI before I started school. They kept asking, "Are you SURE there's nothing else on your record that you didn't disclose?" Fair question. But the truth is that there just isn't. That DUI is my only engagement with law enforcement besides getting caught skinny dipping as a kid, which resulted in a visit to my parents, and that was it. They told me to get a lawyer who knew how to work the BBS, and good luck.

              And so I did. I got a lawyer and set about asking for a hearing or appeal. I had an army of people willing to come to testify for me. I fought this thing for a full year. Thankfully, the rehab I worked with fully supported me. They just said, "we'll give you a different title, and you keep doing what you're doing; we need you here." That felt good.

And so, for a very slow year, the BBS slowly fended off requests for hearings and ultimately offered me a probation deal. A three-year probation deal in which I'd get my associate's number, but I'd have to adhere to a list of requirements. I told my layer to just say yes. Whatever. I just want this over and want to move on with my number.

In about a week, I got a huge envelope from the BBS. It contained the 20 or so pages of stipulations of my probation deal. I was meant to sign it and send it back, and the deal would be done. So I started reading. And it just got worse and worse. I realized there was no way I would live like this for three years. So many requirements. I had to call in daily for possible random drug testing. That was fine. But I also had to be analyzed by one of their psychiatrists twice a year to ascertain if I was still fit enough to practice. I had to find all new supervisors to work with. Even my supervisors were being called into question. In addition, any time I got a new client, I had to have them read this agreement and sign it and then I'd have to get it to the BBS. And it just kept going on and on and on. It felt like killing someone required less restitution than this. Meanwhile, three of the interns I'd worked with over the last year had all gotten their associate's number while receiving DUIs while in school. Three of them!

I googled to find out what I was legally allowed to call myself without a license in CA. One was a therapist. I could legally call myself a therapist. And so I called my lawyer and told him to tell the BBS to fuck off. I wasn't going to give them the very rug that they could yank out from underneath me at any time.

And so, the whole process ended. I really wanted to be a licensed therapist. I wanted to be accepted by something bigger than me, which represented a lot of time and work. It's easier now to say it's the best thing to have happened to me, but at that moment, it felt horrible. The things that hurt us the most are when the world agrees with the parts of us that we think are the most fucked up. I thought I was a fraudulent therapist, and they sent me a letter telling me, "yep, you are. Get lost."

I'm very open about not being licensed. It's the first thing I tell any new client. I also tell them if they want to know why I'm not, I'm happy to share it with them. So far, no one has asked. Some have even said, "oh, I didn't even realize there was a license involved." Most just say I don't care. It's you who I care about and if you can help me. Two clients thought my not having a license was a wildly awesome thing.

I love what I do. And I'm good at it. I know I can connect with people easily and can form a mutual trust pretty quickly. And it's simply because I break all the stupid rules they teach us. I share about myself when they ask. I give advice. I tell them I'm in this with them. That we'll try and get through this, whatever this is, as a team rather than a client and a professional "holding space." Christ, I loathe that term. "Holding space." It's therapist code for just say nothing and wear them out with silence, so you don't have to offer any part of you to them.

And so now here I am. I'm a therapist. I get to talk to people and hear their darkest pain and most ebullient joy. I couldn't possibly be happier. And I have clients all over the globe because I can. Because I don't have a license. Best thing that ever happened to me was the thing that I thought had finally destroyed me.