Three notes of interest as we welcome the holiday season at an unidentified mental health facility nestled somewhere near here in between a toxic paper mill and a confederate flag-flying institution of learning'�

First point: I was given a gift today, a gift of untold proportions, a gift that, until now, has taken massive amounts of money, privilege, luck, and possibly, magic, to receive. First some background'�I have a dear schizophrenic patient who is not fond of taking his bi-monthly injections. He continues to be baffled as to why the entire population of his Nursing Home literally runs to the other end of the building when he enters the cafeteria. This man, let's call him Willie, of course, has gifts untold that we could all benefit from, if only we at the facility would allow him free reign to grope any part of anyone's body he chooses. Still, a true visionary perseveres, and Mr. Willie is doing just that.

He answers the voices in his head, he plays air guitar, he heals, he growls, and now, he changes faces. In the span of one and a half hours of group therapy today, Mr. Willie informed me three times that he had changed my face. Being a simple therapist, not in tune to the higher healing arts, of course I was a doubter at the start. But no, Willie educated me; he had changed my face for good. He was even so kind, as we processed our feelings and discussed coping skills, to interrupt the group and dispense to me some sage advise. Do you have your pocketbook, he asked? And sunglasses? He ticked, growled, and smiled knowingly as he explained that I would need protection as I entered the world outside with my new and improved face. I sighed, sat back in my chair, and prepared to enjoy my celebrity status according to the poster boy for schizophrenia.

Second point: I suck babies' brains out! In the middle of my workday, I received an email from my father saying as much after my letter to the editor of the local Podunk Gazette was published. A gentle reminder about the cruelty of big meat industry in America, the letter sparked a heated and passionate debate online and beyond. My father, whose computer knowledge rivals his fashion sense ( black dress socks, loafers, running shorts, and orange Jesus t-shirts) read said article and sent me a very enlightened email admonishing my decision to protect Bambi while I simultaneously wield the hose that sucks babies brains out of their wealthy white mother's wombs. Oh dear. I replied as kindly as I could, in bulleted outline form, and proceeded down the faux hardwood floor hall of the facility to conduct my afternoon rounds of group therapy. The oldies but goodies looked sweet in their holiday wear, my group was small, and all signs pointed to an easy day. As I sat back to enjoy a nice discussion of feelings, I heard the letters NRA escape a generally comatose patient's lips. As I reeled in disbelief, my patients had their own right wing rally in Group Room 2. Pat Robertson saved Kenya! Willie Graham single handedly fed Sudan! These rich old white farts even gestured generously to the one person of color (and I do mean any color, as we all, regardless of ethnicity, tend to get a bit pasty as the years go by) and shared that they really thought we'd 'done a lot for them!'� My legs were hopping, I'd pulverized the piece of paper in my hands, and weird itches and ticks were manifesting all over me. They discussed 'IS LAYM'�, why those heathen babies' stomachs stick out, and how they could all save the world by finding a way to raise Harry Truman from the dead. I held my head in my hands and prayed to IS LAYM, Sudan, and Charlton Heston for a fucking coffee break.

Third point: Saved the best for last. I'll leave you with a mental image, you decide the outcome. Picture this'�A large cordoned off parking lot, tons of screaming children, fire trucks, and the news that Santa will arrive soon via helicopter. Novel, right? Fun, sure.

Picture this, the aforementioned events are occurring at precisely the time that my star students, in all their manic, depressed, and schizophrenic glory, storm the doors of the hospital to board buses going home. The doubled locked door swings open, the children turn in horror'�and the rest is history.

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