Counseling Casey

"You have something here," I said, pointing.

"Hmm?" she said, licking her teeth.

It was still there. I pointed again and laughed.

"Don't make fun of me," she said.

"I'm not."

"Is it off?"

"No."

She used the camera on her cellphone to check herself. "Oh my God!" she said, horrified. Then she burst out laughing.

I went to hand her a tissue, but she didn't take it. She wiped her teeth on her sleeve.

"Here," I said, "let me." I gently wiped the make-up smudge from under her eye. She held very still, so delicate, so maddeningly sexy. Her breath smelled faintly of coffee. She had on perfume, a bit too much for my taste, but still attractive and alluring all the same.

"Thank you," she said playfully, perking up. Some life had come back into her.

I had agreed to be her therapist. Madeline, my boss and supervisor, had made the decision. Madeline was seven years older than me and had more counseling experience, saw things I didn't. Casey and I were therapeutically compatible, Madeline insisted, and would have a healthy and productive therapist/client relationship (Madeline liked the word "client" better than "patient"). I might even learn things from her, Madeline said. I couldn't forget step 12, and that I too was a recovering addict.

"Make any meetings last week?" I asked Casey, sitting back at my desk.

"One," she told me. "At that church you told me about. It was a beginners meeting. I went last Monday."

"How'd it go?"

"Fine. The people were nice, like you said. It was AA though, for alcoholics. I don't think there were many people like me there. No sex addicts, I mean. In the beginning, we went around the room and everybody took turns saying their first names and what they were addicted to, and how much sober time they had. Nobody said they were a sex addict but me. It was weird. I felt like everybody was staring at me. It got better after that, though. The people were really nice."

"You'll get used to it," I said. "Those people there aren't really that much different from you. The 12 steps are the 12 steps, regardless of whether you like sex or cocaine. Cravings are cravings, and support is support. Any luck with finding a sponsor?"

"No. Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I'm not judging. It's tough finding a sponsor, or at least the right sponsor. It takes time. The important thing is going to meetings, and keeping your eyes open. When that person comes along, you'll know it."

Casey nodded.

I leaned back in my desk chair. Casey took out her phone and started texting. I hadn't yet established the no cellphone rule during therapy, but I thought now was a good time.

"Casey," I began, "no phones during our sessions, okay? Is that fair?"

"I'm so sorry. Here, I'll put it away." She finished her text and put it inside her purse.

She sat in her chair, hands folded in her lap. The quiet made her fidgety. She stared at her manicure and tapped her foot on the floor.

I took an old fashioned marble notebook from my desk. "I want you to keep a journal," I said to her, handing over the book. "Just to record your thoughts. It's just for you. Write in it whenever you want. It's yours and yours only."

"Thanks," she said, paging through it.

"Of course. I will give you some homework to do in there from time to time. Mostly to record how you feel when you get the urge to do something impulsive or unhealthy. Something that could cause you anxiety later, or make you feel unworthy or unloved. You could write out your feelings before you consider engaging in any risky or unsafe behavior. And if you do go ahead and do something you regret, you can record your thoughts in the book afterwards. No one will read it but you."

"You could read it," she said. "I wouldn't care. I trust you."

"That's up to you," I told her. "Whatever you want to do. If you wanted to keep certain entries private, you could fold the pages over. But therapists usually don't read journals like this. You could share parts with me in our sessions though, that would be fine."

"Okay," Casey said.

"Great. So keep that book in a safe place. Oh, and that reminds me: I want you to come to therapy twice a week. Once for a one-on-one with me, and once on Friday nights with your skill building group."

"Friday nights? Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. This is to get your mind in the right place to start your weekend. To give you support. And on the nights you're not here in group, I want you going to meetings. Stick with the St. Gabe's people until we can find you a group more geared toward sex addicts. I'll keep looking around for you. There used to be a great group in Northern Liberties, right next to where you live, but it slowly died out about seven years ago. People moved away and moved on. It was a shame. Those people - Chad and Shakira and Leonard - they really helped."

Casey sat up straight. "Wait, are you talking about alcoholics or sex addicts?"

"Sex addicts.

"Did you go there?"

I didn't answer her.

She pressed. "Did you?"

"Don't worry about me," I said, smiling. "This session is about you."

"Oh my God!" she shouted. "You went there! No way! I don't believe it!"

The cat was out of the bag. Addicts treated other addicts, it was no secret. Some of the best therapists were in recovery themselves. It was called the 12th step - helping others.

I grabbed the Big Book from my desk and began reading: "Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other addicts, and to practice these principles in all our affairs."

"Step 12?" Casey asked.

"Yes. Step 12. The program works. Go to meetings. Get a sponsor. I can't stress this enough. It only works if you work it."

"I know the steps," she told me. "I've been down this road before." She paused, blushing. "You're a recovering sex addict? Really?"

"Yes, and alcoholic. I've been sober for over 20 years. I've been married for 17. I haven't cheated on my wife once. Ever."

"That's so awesome, Mr. Adler," she said. "You must be so strong. Your wife is definitely a very lucky woman."

"Yes, she is. You can call me Randy, by the way."

"Your wife is very luck, Randy."

"Uh-huh." I checked my watch. It was ten minutes until my next appointment. "So let's wrap this up now, so you can get to work on time. Keep a journal, go to meetings, and get a sponsor. Oh, and make sure you talk with Tom to schedule our next one-on-one, maybe on Wednesday?"

"Sure," Casey said. "I have the second shift on Wednesday."

"Great."

She got up to leave, but turned back in the doorway.

"What's up?" I asked her.

"You should be my sponsor," she said.

I shook my head. "Sorry, but absolutely not. That's a conflict of interest."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your therapist. There needs to be boundaries."

"But you're a recovering sex addict."

"Yes Casey, I know that."

"And you already worked the program."

"Sure, but—"

"And you know me and care about me and are older, and can really help me get better."

I stood up. "That's true, but—"

"And I trust you because you're married. It will just be temporary, okay? Please?"

"No. No way. It's not possible."

"Fine. I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I get it. Forget I asked."

"Okay."

"Good."

She slung her purse over her shoulder and walked out.

***

Casey was making steady progress. Her routine was slowly falling into place: working out at the gym, working her clerical shifts at U-Penn hospital, and going to meetings. In less than six weeks, she was starting to look more like a responsible, mature 24-year-old woman, and less like an addicted teenager who liked to party and sleep around.

We'd been making headway in our one-on-one sessions, but I felt she benefited most from the skill building groups on Friday nights. Watching Casey share at these meetings was eye-opening in that I was starting to see the true Casey emerging, a relatively smart and surprisingly articulate young woman, who not only took her own recovery seriously, but also wanted to help and support others in the group. Madeline was right. I was very glad I'd agreed to take Casey on as a client, and not pass her along to someone else.

We were finishing up a Friday night meeting during the last day of June, getting everybody prepared for the upcoming Fourth of July. These kinds of holidays were sobriety killers, filled with some of the worst cravings and uncertainty addicts faced all year. The only times more challenging and depressing were Thanksgiving and Christmas. It all depended on the individual, of course.

Casey was clearly worried about the upcoming holiday. July 4th was Tuesday, which meant tonight was the start of the long four-day weekend. She was trying to prepare the best she could. She'd meticulously filled out tonight's skill building worksheet called "Surviving the Fourth of July: A Plan for Staying Sober During the Holidays." It was nothing more than a glorified daily planner that required group members to fill out a schedule of events or activities they planned to do to keep busy and stay focused on their recoveries. Casey had filled out her entire schedule, from Saturday morning when she would get up, to Tuesday night when she would go to bed. She'd put in a request at her job to work all four days at the reception desk at the hospital, but her department did MRI imaging, and was going to be closed for the entire four-day weekend.

This really concerned her. How was she going to fill her time? She would go to the gym every day, of course. That was now a given. She would go to meetings every day, too. Maybe two meetings, if need be. Her aunt would be down the shore the entire time, leaving Casey to fend for herself at home. To fill the rest of the time she was going to binge-watch her favorite TV shows on Netflix - definitely Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul - and order in pizza and buffalo chicken fingers, her favorite comfort food. She was also going to meet up with Kira, one of her best friends, who didn't drink or party. Kira knew what Casey was going through, and was also there to support her.

"I just wish I could go to work this weekend," Casey told our group that night. "It would make things much easier. Keep me busy. I'll manage though, I got this. I'm going to stay off the grid. Seriously. Kira's coming over to hang out, too. She's my BBF. She's awesome. She doesn't party or drink or anything. Her boyfriend does, but he won't be around. He'll be down the shore with his friends."

"Sounds like a solid plan," a woman named Rasheeda, who was a recovering alcoholic and substance abuser, said. "And make sure you have your sponsor on speed dial, honey. I guarantee you will be calling her at least once this weekend. It's the Fourth of July. You better know it."

"Yeah," Casey said. "True that." She looked to me to see if I was going to say anything to the group about her losing her sponsor, but of course I would never betray her confidence like that. Casey was embarrassed about the whole thing, and even felt responsible for it. Her sponsor was a schoolteacher and open lesbian, and apparently had hit on Casey Tuesday night after a meeting. They'd gone out for coffee and were working step 4 - doing a moral inventory - when there was some kind of mixed signal between them. Casey told me the whole story Wednesday night in our session, explaining she felt guilty that she'd led the woman on, which she hadn't. Casey had done absolutely nothing wrong.

Still, I was hoping she was going to share what happened with tonight's group. This way, someone might have volunteered to be her temporary sponsor, which would be an extra layer of support during the long weekend. But Casey chose not to. That was her right.

The group ended, and everyone left. I went to my office down the hall, sat at my desk and stared out the window. Something didn't feel right in my gut, and I knew what it was: I should have agreed to be Casey's temporary sponsor this weekend. She'd all but asked me Wednesday night in our session, but I kept changing the subject. I was her therapist, and there needed to be boundaries. I was here to counsel her in this office, nowhere else. Not in the basement of St. Gabe's church, or at an AA clubhouse, or anywhere else outside this building.

"Randy?" a voice called from the hallway.

It was Casey.

"Yes?"

"Are you busy? Can I come in for a quick minute?"

"Of course."

I stood up from my desk and met her in the doorway of my office. She had something in her hand. A book. A marble notebook.

"I've been writing poetry and other things," she told me, "and I was hoping you might read some of it."

"Wow," I said. "That's great."

"Yeah, I've been doing it in the journal you gave me. I've filled the whole thing up. Isn't that nuts? I actually started a second journal. It's at my house. I bought a new one at CVS. I really like to write. I'm going to do a lot of writing this weekend. I was going to share this with the group, but I didn't want to tell anyone yet."

She put her journal on my desk.

I picked it up but didn't open it.

"You filled this whole thing up? Really?"

"Uh-huh."

"Wow," I said again. "That's impressive."

"It's been almost six weeks. I write in it every night. I know I haven't mentioned it in our sessions, but it's true. I was going to share some of it with you, but you never asked. You never really mentioned my journal after you gave it to me."

She was right, I hadn't. I'd done it on purpose because I was honestly nervous about what might be in there. Things that might blur boundaries. At least I felt that way in the beginning, before I knew much about Casey. Then I genuinely forgot all about it. The notebook was probably harmless.

"There's a bunch of poetry in there," she said, blushing. "And other stuff, too. It's probably not that good. I can't believe how much I like writing. Who would have known!"

"Take out your cellphone," I told her.

"My cellphone?"

"Yes. I want to give you my number. I'm going to be your temporary sponsor this weekend. I'll be down the shore with my wife, so I won't be able to see you in person, but you can still call me in an emergency."

"Oh my God, okay. Let me get my phone."

I gave her my number, and we did the ritual of calling each other and logging the info in our contacts.

"Thank you so much, Randy. Seriously. This means a lot to me."

"Of course."

"I promise I won't call you unless it's an absolute emergency, unless I'm going to jump off the Ben Franklin Bride and you need to talk me down. I wouldn't want to bother you and your wife down the shore."

I smiled. "It's all good. I'm sure you won't even need to call me. But just having my number in your phone is a big deal psychologically."

"Oh my God, totally! Thank you so much Randy!" She hugged me, a long, warm, tremendously therapeutic hug.

"Alright," I said, ending the hug. "I have some paperwork I need to finish here. I'll see you next Wednesday. Good luck this weekend. I'm sure you'll get through fine."

***

I put her journal in my leather saddlebag to take home with me from the office. Then I took it out again and put it back on my desk. Then I put it back into my bag, figuring I could just leave it there if I didn't feel comfortable reading it.

I thought about Casey's journal the whole ride home. She'd written her name on the cover - Casey O'Malley - in neat Catholic school cursive. There were doodles of hearts and happy faces, too.

When I finally got home at 9:00 p.m. Nicole was sleeping in bed with Mandy and Ollie, our two yellow labs. The TV was still on.

"Down," I said to the dogs. They jumped off the bed and went downstairs to their favorite spots on the couch.

Nicole woke up. "Hey, you're home. How was group?"

"Good. Everyone is getting ready for the long holiday weekend."

"Come and give me a kiss."

I kissed her, and then she rolled back over. "I got some bad news," she said. "We can't go down the shore until Sunday."

"What? Why?"

"I have to work a double shift tomorrow. I'm the lead nurse. We knew this was probably going to happen. But we can get up early Sunday, drop off our shit at the house, and be on the beach by 10:00 a.m. That still gives us two full days, and depending on the weather, all day Tuesday. We can play it by ear."

"It's supposed to rain Tuesday."

"I know, but weather reports can change."

"Okay, fine. We'll leave Sunday early."

I changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, and went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. "I offered to be Casey's temporary sponsor," I said, spitting into the sink. "The girl from Fishtown. The one that works at U-Penn."

"Wonderful," Nicole said sarcastically, starting to fall asleep.

"Yeah, her last sponsor actually hit on her. It was this whole big thing. Casey didn't want to talk about it in group. I hoped she would. So she was basically sponsor-less for this long weekend."

"That girl's a mess," Nicole said. "You're better than me. I would have just let her deal with it. She's a big girl. She needs to learn to manage on her own."

I paused, looking at Nicole through the bathroom mirror. She could be so heartless sometimes.

"Goodnight," I said. "I'm going to go downstairs and get something to eat. I didn't even have dinner tonight."

"There's a half of a tuna hoagie in the fridge," she said. "I couldn't finish it. Don't stay up too late."

"Okay. I won't."

I ate the hoagie with a pile of corn chips. I had Casey's journal on the kitchen table next to me. Her handwriting was so neat, so pretty. It was girlie, I thought, reminding me of plaid school-girl skirts and bobby socks. I wondered if it smelled like her. Just open it, I said to myself. She asked you to. It's really not that big a deal.

Someone knocked at my front door. Mandy and Ollie started barking, jumping up at the window. A delivery truck door slammed shut, and drove off. It was Amazon. I heard Nicole get up, come down the hall to the top of the stairs. She wanted to know if her new bathing suit came. I quieted the dogs, went out and got the package.

"Is it my bathing suit?"

"Yes."

"Bring it up. I want to make sure it's the right one."

"Okay."

I took it up to her. It was a black one-piece, but cut really low in the front. Her tits would be falling out of this thing. I jokingly asked her to try it on and model it for me, but she was already back in bed. I walked over and started kissing her neck.

"Stop," she said. "I'm sleeping."

"You just got up."

"I know. But I'm tired now. I have to get up early."

"Come on. A quick fuck."

"Sunday. When we're down the shore. I promise."

"Fine."

I hit the lights and went to bed.

***

Nicole woke me up the next morning before leaving for work. She usually let me sleep in Saturdays, but she wanted to remind me about packing our beach gear for the weekend. I told her I would, that it would all be ready to go when she got home tonight.

"Don't forget the cart, too. I want to use the beach cart to carry all our shit. That's why we bought it. I know you think it makes us look old and all that, but I don't care. We paid for it, we're using it."

"I got it. I'll pack it." I threw the bed sheet over my head.

"And the dogs need to come in. I already fed them. Okay, love you. Kiss, kiss. I should be home by 10:00 p.m." I heard her walk away, then come back again. "Oh, hey. I almost forgot. There's a notebook on the kitchen table. I guess that's yours?"

I froze under the covers. I could feel my heart start to pound in my chest. Holy shit. Casey's journal.

I waited a moment. "Oh," I said, "that. Yes. It's a journal from group."

"Casey's journal?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why do you have it? Did she forget it or something?"

"No, she just wanted me to read some of her poetry. Therapy stuff. I felt bad. I said I would."