Just a phone call away.

This column began in fits and starts. I set out with one seemingly brilliant concept after another, each of which turned out to be lame.

To give you an indication of what you’ve been spared, one idea was to detail the contents of my purse. Seriously. I thought this might offer a whimsical but poignant commentary on my day-to-day life—maybe even a window into the contemporary human psyche. Not so. The best I got was the revelation that my purse actually contains five pens. (Where are they when I need one?)

Another lame conceit—an attempt to tie in with Oscar season—was to list movies that other people love and I hate. I didn’t get much further than “Lord of the Rings” (It’s so annoying how Frodo’s facial expression never changes.) and “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” (so they can fly and fight, I get it). But then I remembered I’m no movie critic, and those movies are old news anyway.

You get the idea. Classic case of writer’s block.
So I decided to dig a little deeper, and eventually settled on this: My Therapist and Me.

I am not self-conscious about admitting that I speak to a psychiatrist. At least half the people I know do. But here’s the catch: note that I said “speak to,” rather than “see,” a psychiatrist. That’s because I don’t see him. As in, I’ve never laid eyes on him. And this is where I start to get the raised eyebrows.

The impetus for this curious situation is complicated, but I’ll try to make it simple. I once confided in an old college friend who lives in Chicago that I’d been feeling down in the dumps. He recommended me to a therapist friend of his, also in Chicago.

I’ll admit this arrangement—my becoming his client from 600 miles away—seemed dubious even to me and “Billy,” who’d never before taken on a “phone client.” But for some reason we decided to give it a try. And we clicked. He takes it very seriously, as do I, and more than a year later, we still have bi-weekly phone sessions—he in his Chicago office and I in the comforts of my own home. About every other session he’ll breach the subject of helping me find someone local, someone with the advantage of reading my body cues and so forth.
And maybe I’ll consider it—but not because I can’t stand the skeptics’ eye-rolling any longer. Because, by now, I’ve actually come up with a few justifications for this arrangement.

First, you’d be surprised how refreshing it is to hear the perspective of someone who lives in a different part of the country, a much larger metropolis, who doesn’t know anyone that you know and vice versa (with the exception of the friend who introduced us). When you look at it that way, it opens a world of possibilities.

Meanwhile, Billy might or might not be more effective with the benefit of reading my nonverbal communications (Here’s where mental-health professionals begin to tear their hair out: Of course he’d be more effective! Studies show up to 90 percent of communication is nonverbal!). Yet…
…I think I, conversely, benefit from being spared his nonverbal communication. I’m too easily distracted by visuals. I can’t tell you how many problems I’ve run into in traditional therapy by focusing on the nonverbals. Why is this person looking at me that way? What did I just say that prompted him or her to whip out a pen and start scribbling furiously? Why am I sitting in an office filled with University of Tennessee memorabilia? (I am a Vanderbilt fan. I loathe the Vols.)

Or, even this: how does this therapist’s spouse overlook the fact that they’re married to someone shaped like a piece of fruit? (I’d be more specific but don’t want to risk this person recognizing himself.)

With Billy, we simply talk and listen—closely—to each other, nonverbals be damned. It works for me. So don’t knock it until you’ve tried it—and based on the reactions of anyone to whom I’ve ever disclosed this dirty little secret, I can say with great certainty that you haven’t.

If you want to call and berate me for promoting such an unorthodox brand of therapy, go right ahead. Just not Wednesday at 9:30 a.m. I’ll be on the phone.