I earned my graduate degree in 1992 with the idea of counselling whoever as predicated on wherever I got a job. (Forever earning, aren’t we?) I began working with teens and little did I know how off beam my perception of reality had (reluctantly at first) habituated in becoming while a teenager myself. After I began working with women, children and the disconnect resulting from a mother’s substance abuse, I recall a pivotal moment, praying to my then largely “problem solving” notion of God to cause me to forget the airy abstractions and theories learnt in school. The arbitrary rules of disengagement with both men and women became the exact opposite of the grace I’d craved from my distantly critical yet extremely abusive father. He was about rules but relationships were nonexistent. One day, an unusual realisation struck me in spite of not knowing what it fully meant. “Why do you take anything personally as a Christian, as a human being, as a prig, prostitute, Buddhist, Hindu, Catholic, Lutheran, Atheist, psychologist, an American, Armenian, low-brow, blue blood, a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, a corn dog and the myriad of millions of other labels that act to metastasise to the “little me”? This very silly image and idea we have witlessly accepted just to be accepted. “I’m Brian!” said I. The guy who’s not sleeping walking says: “I’m breathing!” The second is exceedingly more exciting. Other questions arose over the next several years; the questions may or may not have immediate answers or answers at all. To know that we don’t know is a sort of knowing because the mystery is a forever unfolding glimpse at heaven and destroys the insanity of the horribly senseless suffering of make believing we have arrived at eternal certitude. It’s like claiming explanatory mastery of the ocean by freezing a wave. Words won’t get us there. “Why am I engaged in incessantly trying to help others change and so damned preoccupied with trying to myself change?” The mind that anxiously desires change becomes a static statue while ever flowing dynamism remains willing for the “little me” to wait for the mentally muddled water to clear. Let the sediments sink as this is hardly another time to hurry up and wait again. “Be still and know.” Not, “I’ll be still once I know.” Hog wash! The more we know the less we understand. Pat answers have been the shopworn platitudes Sunday after Sunday so predictably preached that these absurd answers were what put everyone in the pews swiftly asleep. In England during the 18th century, the churches actually hired “Sluggard Wakers” to strike church members atop their skull caps with something akin to an ice pick just to ensure this narcoleptic kind of heretical common herd heard the full measure about molten lead and fiery tortuous brimstone. After all, perfect punishment keeps congregants coming back. My dad used to say, “I’d rather take a beating than listen to him scream one more Sunday!” Well, the Sluggard Waker probably worked around the clock for some needed overtime and would have happily obliged my dad. Clearly, more time, knowledge, trainings, data, platitudes, programs. Treatment plans and unending paper peddling for pay was quite predictable but also wholly unproductive if not unnecessary. I understand that I had to play the game but the clients see through the game like Saran Wrap. Eyesight without insight is like wearing a wig absent a head. We’re trimming weeds while the roots mock our paint by the numbers pattern. Cognitive behaviour therapy (CGT). CBT is a rather Pavlovian drooling dog method of keeping our egoistic identities temporarily off the reality radar by ushering us swiftly back onto the Productive Members of Society rat race wheel of misfortune (PMS). Equal opportunity gender syndrom