Priceless Tharapy

Dear Dr. Thomas,

Please accept my sincerest apologies for the sudden cancellation of our upcoming sessions. I know how much you value "closure"—and your $250-per-hour cancellation fee—but I’ve recently had a breakthrough that rendered our professional relationship... well, redundant.

I must apologize, first and foremost, for my initial lack of trust. When I came to you after losing my job and being dumped by my girlfriend, I was a broken man. You told me I was "spiritually blocked." I realize now that when you suggested I "divest from material attachments" to pay for your "Premium Zen Package," you were actually trying to embezzle my remaining savings. I'm sorry for being so slow to catch on; my depression really did fog my judgment, making me the perfect mark for a "healer" who prefers bank statements to breakthroughs.

I also owe you a deep apology for my behavior in your waiting room. You taught me to find "outlets for my inner tension." Unfortunately, my outlet was shoplifting. I am sorry to inform you that the 18th-century Ming vase in your foyer, your vintage fountain pen, and your framed diploma are currently sitting in my guest bedroom. I felt terrible about it at first, but then I remembered your lecture on "letting go of the things that weigh us down." You seemed much lighter after the vase was gone, so in a way, I was just helping you practice what you preach.

The apologies continue, I’m afraid. I feel an immense guilt for not being "transparent" about my ex-girlfriend. You see, I finally realized why she left me for an "elite doctor"—it’s because her father is a prestigious, albeit slightly fraudulent, therapist. Yes, Dr. Thomas, I’m sorry I didn't mention that I’ve known your daughter for years. It made our sessions about "overcoming rejection" feel a bit like a prank show, especially when you’d nod sympathetically while knowing exactly whose heart she’d stepped on. I suppose the "elite group" her father wanted for her didn't include patients he was actively fleecing.

But here is the most significant apology. While I was burning with vengeance and planning to steal your car, I ran into someone I never imaged breathing in your house Initially I thought she could be your older and more mature daugher as I already delt with your carbon copy.

I’m sorry to say that we bonded instantly over a shared diagnosis: you. She told me all about the "loan adjustment" that led to her marriage with you and how she felt trapped in your "Doctor’s Club" social circle. It turns out, while you were busy "curing" me, she was looking for an escape from a man who treats his spouse like a taxable asset.

I told her I wanted to return everything I stole from you to clear my conscience, but she stopped me. She suggested I take one last thing that you clearly didn't value anyway. She pointed at that old, dusty sedan in the back of the garage. She said you hadn't looked at that car in years and wouldn't even notice if it vanished.

I am so sorry, Dr. Thomas, because I know you didn't care about that car, but she loved it. It was the one thing she brought into the marriage that was truly hers; it held more memories for her than your entire house ever did. She said you’d be perfectly fine without the car, and frankly, she was right.

However, In our last session, you told me to "take one final, bold step toward happiness." I took that literally. I am most sorry to say that I didn't just drive off with the vehicle. I stole your wife, too. It turns out she was the "material attachment" you neglected the most.

I’ve enclosed a check for $1,000 to cover my final bill. Please consider the remaining balance—and the passenger in my new car—as a souvenir of our time together. We’re currently driving toward the coast. As you always said: "The past is a foreign country; don't pack a bag."

With deepest regrets,

Your Favorite Patient

Chris Fish