2024

My life changed forever the day Jude Prak walked into my office. In my endeavors to become a licensed clinical worker—my second career — I secured an internship in a community health center, providing either free or low-cost in-person counseling. Of course, I didn't get paid a dime. For an intern, I had a large caseload, seeing fifteen to twenty clients per week in the three days I was there. The other two days I spent in class while continuing to work part-time as an elder law attorney, my first career I couldn't wait to leave.

Five years into practicing law, I discovered it wasn't the right fit for me. My conservative father — also a lawyer — didn't speak to me for a month after I told him I wanted to give up law to become a clinical social worker. He'd hoped I'd become a partner in his law firm some day. The idea of spending the rest of my life in a boring career made me want to throw myself off a bridge. In just a few months I'll have my Masters degree in Social Work.

I didn't blame my father for his disappointment since I'd made dozens of bad choices in my life.

Jude Prak... hmm... where to begin...

As I opened the door to the crowded waiting room, I observed young children running around as their parents remained oblivious or indifferent. Slouched in his seat and wearing a pair of Bose headphones, a moody teenager sat beside her mother, her arms tightly folded across her chest, looking as though she wanted to be anywhere but here. 

I'd never met a person named Jude before. I'd only heard the name from the Beatles' song, Hey Jude, and the commercials of sick children at St. Jude's Hospital. The first name, Jude, was even more unusual given his surname was Prak, a common Cambodian last name in the area. I looked forward to hearing his story. Everybody had a story to tell. Some clients were keener to tell it than others.

In the sea of people, I suspected I spotted twenty-four year old Jude. He was the only young man sitting alone, his skin lighter than I expected from a person of Cambodian descent. "Jude?" I called.

The young man with dark hair and eyes jumped to his feet, tossing the magazine on the nearby end table. Despite his disheveled appearance, he was handsome, and his two different colored sneakers both amused and worried me. His messy hair made me think he'd just crawled out of bed and threw on the only clothes he could find. His faded blue jeans were two sizes too big for him.

Standing directly in front of me, he paused at the door, his piercing gaze locked with mine. He seemed strangely familiar, as if we'd crossed paths before, but I couldn't quite place where or when. Our initial encounter was awkward. I masked my uneasy, conflicted emotions, in exchange for empathy and compassion, hoping to instill a sense of safety and security. 

"We've met before," Jude stated.

"I don't think so," I said, turning to lead him down the hall to my office. "Maybe we saw each other in a grocery store or something."

"You're Percy, right?" he said.

I assumed he noticed my name on the door. "Yes," I answered, opening my office door. "Percy Richler. It's nice to meet you."

He followed me into my closet of an office. As an intern, I had a limited selection of office.

"Your real name isn't Percy, though, is it?"

How did he know that? I had the most unusual first name, named after my grandfather. Most people assumed I was Italian because my name sounded Italian, but it's really a German name. Obsessed with Percy Jackson, family and friends started calling me Percy at a young age. My birth certificate and driver's license said something else. I didn't acknowledge his comment. "Is your real name Jude?"

"No. It's Judah, but people call me Jude."

The session was already off to a rocky start. "Have a seat," I said, pointing to one of the armchairs. Sitting behind a desk was never my style. I always preferred face-to-face meetings with clients.

If I had to guess, I'd guess that one of Jude's parents was white and the other was of Asian descent, probably Cambodian or Laotian. Holding a clipboard, I re-examined the intake paperwork and realized he'd checked off white/non-Hispanic. He plopped down in the chair and sighed deeply. Before I asked him 'what brought you here today,' he yawned and said, "I'm soooo tired."

I suppose his exhaustion partly explained his disheveled appearance and odd behavior.

"I haven't slept in over a year. I can't take it anymore. I just really need to talk to somebody. I need to talk to you."

"Have you spoken to your primary care doctor about your insomnia?"

"Yeah, a few times. He's useless. He told me to take melatonin, then he recommended I see a psychiatrist when it didn't work. The psychiatrist prescribed medication and sent me here for therapy. I've tried all kinds of antipsychotics: risperidone, Abilify, Seroquel, Geodon, Latuda, even Haldol as a last resort. Nothing worked."

Jude offered a lot of information without me prompting or prodding, making my job much easier. It was frustrating to have sessions with clients who simply sat there, offering only one-word responses, frequently filling the room with an uncomfortable silence. They rarely wanted to be there, court-ordered or forced by family members. I chose not to see children or teens for those reasons. Working with kids and teens required a set of skills and patience I didn't possess.

"You see, I was in a car accident a little over a year ago," Jude continued. "I was in the hospital for weeks. I was in the car with my mother when a car ran through a red light. I'm lucky to be alive... or am I? I don't remember much of it. My mother was there, too, in the passenger's seat. I can't even remember where we were going. It's not fair. She only got a few cuts and bruises. I got a big gash on my head and a broken arm. See the scar." He lifted the front of his hair, showing off the faded scar across his forehead. "I kinda wish I died in the crash. Life was simpler before it."

Uh-oh... now I had to assess for suicidal ideation. Again, Jude continued speaking without me opening my mouth to assess safety.

"But I'm not suicidal. I don't want to kill myself. I just wouldn't be sad if I died in my sleep... if only I could sleep. Melatonin did nothing because I fall asleep with no problem. It's what happens to me after I'm asleep."

"What happens after you fall asleep?"

"I wake up somewhere else. This is why I need help."

As Jude spoke, I was already trying to come up with a diagnosis. Was it bipolar disorder? Schizophrenia? If all else failed, I'd use the adjustment disorder diagnosis.

"What's going through your mind as you're trying to fall asleep?" I asked.

"Before the accident, my mind was blank, but now things are different. When I go to bed, all I think about is where I'm going to end up and whether or not I'll make it back. Sometimes I load up on caffeine so I won't go to sleep, but eventually I just crash. I've been to Cambodia so many times I can speak the language."

"But don't your parents speak the language?"

Jude rolled his eyes, replying, "My mother's white. My dad's from Cambodia and I've only seen him a handful of times. He's a useless drunk."

"Okay... let's talk about your parents. It sounds like your father has an issue with alcohol."

"Yeah, he has wet brain. He's in a nursing home because he's totally lost his mind. It's alcohol dementia or something."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What about your mother?"

"I don't want to talk about her. She's useless, too. My parents aren't my problem right now. At first I thought they were all dreams. And then one morning I woke up with a big, nasty gash on my leg. In what I thought was a dream, I cut my leg on a broken fence as I sprinted naked, trying to escape some guy with a shotgun. When I woke up, the cut on my leg was infected. I'd been gone for days, on the run. It wasn't sleep walking if that's what you're thinking."

"I'm sorry, Jude, I'm having a hard time following you. There's obviously a lot of things on your mind that brought you here today."

Jude jumped to his feet again, proceeding to pace around the small office, biting his fingernails.

"I was on someone's farm, caught stealing eggs from a chicken coop. It was like 1930,  somewhere in the U.S. Once I was back in the present, I went to my doctor and got ten stitches and an antibiotic. I don't even know if this is 2023. Is it 2023?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, that makes sense because I have a crappy apartment and a bed. I'm a junior graphic designer, so that's all I can afford. I don't know what to do. I can't live like this anymore."

As Jude spoke, I wondered if his condition was too complicated for me. After all, I'd only been an intern for three months. He seemed like he needed an experienced, skilled clinician, along with a good psychiatrist. Maybe he needed an intensive outpatient program.

But I couldn't just abandon him. He sought me out and his delusions fascinated me.

"But I don't want to die," he said on the verge of tears.

"Jude, sit down," I said. "It's okay. Sit."

He sat back in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees with his face hidden in his palms. I struggled with seeing a man cry, no matter how much I witnessed it.

"I don't assume you can help me," he squeaked out. "I just need someone to talk to. Please don't lock me up." He brought his hands down, revealing the saddest brown eyes I'd ever seen. "I promise I'm not suicidal or homicidal. I never thought time travel was possible, either. It's not like I own a machine or a hot tub or a Delorean. Have you seen the movie Insidious and its sequels?"

"No," I admitted.

"Well, anyway, it's sort of like that, but my entire body travels and not just my soul."

Jude piqued my curiosity. I decided I'd watch the movie tonight. I saw it advertised on Netflix.

"I don't expect you to believe me, but thanks for listening to me without making me feel like a freak."

Jude seemed so sane and stable; I couldn't believe he held such fixed delusions. "I'm wondering what you do before you go to bed. What's your sleep hygiene like?"

"When I'm not drinking five cups of coffee, I usually pee, wash my face, and brush my teeth. Isn't that what most people do?"

"Yes, I suppose. When do you turn off your phone and the TV?"

"I don't watch TV and I rarely use my phone. I'm not on social media, so what's the point? I don't expect you to believe me. I know I sound crazy. I don't want to time travel anymore. It's exhausting. It would be nice if I found someone to believe me. It's a lonely existence."

Tears resumed falling down his cheeks.

"I don't want to die, but I don't know how to stop it. Sorry," he sniffed, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. I handed him a box of tissues. "Thanks," he muttered. "I have no friends. It'd be nice to have sex in a bed and not in some random spot. TMI, right? Damn, you look as lonely as I am."

One rule as a therapist is to limit self-disclosure unless it would be helpful in the therapeutic relationship. Since this was just an intake, I couldn't justify self-disclosure. Jude was perceptive, though, and he didn't stop prying, continuing to be convinced that we'd met. I must have reminded him of someone.

"You were recently dumped, weren't you?"

Lyndsey and I broke up eight months ago, and it still stung. One day she locked me out and moved another man in. I wasn't on the lease so I didn't have a leg to stand on. So now I was living with my parents again. There were red flags way before I moved in with her, but I was desperate to move out of my parents' house. My sisters had left two years earlier, so I figured it was time I did the same. I accepted Lyndsey's invitation to move in with her. It was the worst decision I ever made because I'd seen the warning signs beforehand. She was possessive and paranoid, accusing me of cheating on her with other men. I regretted telling her I was bisexual. Sure, I was bisexual, but I'd never been with a man. And not once did I cheat on her. I wasn't that type of person.

But I stayed with her for five years. Five years of hell.

"We're not here to talk about me," I told Jude.

"I knew you and Lyndsey wouldn't work out. You were with her for all the wrong reasons."

I felt the color drain from my face. No one at the clinic knew about me and Lyndsey. I never discussed my personal life, so how did Jude know?

"How.... how... how do you know her name?"

"Now you're looking at me like I'm a freak. I'm sorry. I promised myself I wouldn't go there, but I break promises all the time. I really needed someone to talk to and you're a great listener. I guess that's what you get paid to do, right?"

"I'm an intern. I don't get paid."

"Oh, yeah, right," he said with a small smile.

Sitting across from him, my eyes remained on his. I started to believe he was right and that we'd met, but where? Jude didn't give off stalker vibes, but I wasn't always the best judge of character.

But where did Jude get all this information about me? He reached over, extending his hand to mine. I wanted to resist his touch, but I had no self control. He was right; I was desperately lonely. I let him hold and caress my hand, if only for a few seconds.

"It's okay if you don't remember me," he said. "Most people don't."

For some unexplained reason, tears rolled down my cheeks. I foresaw myself losing my clinical license before I earned it. Halfway through the session, I'd already crossed a line, allowing this young man to touch me. If I suspected I had such strong feelings for someone, I was supposed to terminate treatment and make a referral to another clinician. I felt like I was in love with this man, and it overwhelmed me with fear and confusion. Where and when did I fall in love with him?

"I... I... I can't be your therapist," I said. "I'm sorry. You should leave."

"You're the only person I can trust. I can't do this alone. I'm tired, Percy... really, really tired. Don't give me to someone else," he pleaded. "Don't make me tell my story again because you already know it."

Jerking my hand away, I stood up and walked toward my desk to review my calendar. I inhaled deeply, sensing Jude approach me as I pretended to focus on finding an available opening in my schedule. I didn't want to transfer him to another clinician. Maybe I could help him. "I'm wondering if you'd consider keeping a journal to track your... uh... your journeys," I said, making it sound like I believed his delusions. "We can discuss them in sessions. These journeys have to mean something, right?" There was meaning to all delusions and hallucinations. I flinched as Jude squeezed my shoulder.

"I keep journals all the time. I'll bring one in."

"Okay. Good," I said and glanced at Jude's hand on my shoulder. "Therapists aren't supposed to fall in love with clients, Jude, and vice versa."

"And people aren't supposed to time travel, except in books and movies."

"Yeah," I sighed, pushing his hand away. "Will next Tuesday at 3:00 work for you?" "

"I'll make it work."

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