In Bed With Dr. Wally

How crazy am I, anyway?

Never have I considered myself to be particularly stable, mentally. I suffer from OCD and anxiety. I have a shit ton of personality quirks and I can be a real pain in the ass. Just ask my hubby.

And recently, the weird dreams I’ve been experiencing have sealed the deal for me: I’m certifiable. Perhaps it’s due to the pandemic, the horrific and tragic attacks on African Americans, the Orange Turd, or a combination of all three. Or maybe, it’s just me.

I woke up early yesterday morning, sexually aroused. Incredibly so. As I struggled to clear away the cobwebs to unearth the source of said arousal, I realized that I’d just dreamed of having sex with my longtime shrink, known by his patients as Dr. Wally.

Yeah. Ewwwwww.

My shrink, a dark, brooding man of East Indian descent, is a psychiatrist, not a psychologist. There’s a difference. The latter is actually more of a counselor who listens to how fucked-up you are and goes the extra mile to suggest different therapies, behavioral and so-on, that might help you become less fucked-up.

Psychiatrists, on the other hand, spend about fifteen minutes avoiding eye contact and then dole out the scripts, which is why you’re there, after all. You know it and so do they.

The moniker, “Dr. Wally,” is actually a shortened version of his real surname, which I will not include here. I may be nuts, but I’m not an idiot.

My husband and I share Dr. Wally, so I’m not going to point out this story to him. Again…I’m not an idiot.

I meet with Dr. Wally every three months to get my greedy hands on the scripts for the two drugs that allow me to sleep at night. And also, help to alleviate my anxiety. One is Xanax and the other is Seroquel.

Seroquel is prescribed for racing thoughts. (Get the “quel” part? Clever, huh?)

Anyway, when we meet, I scrunch down on Dr. Wally’s sofa and he sits across from me with his laptop open. After the initial, “So, how are you doing?” he turns his attention to his laptop.

I never answer that question truthfully, by the way. I put on my game face and tell him that I’m “doing okay.” What am I supposed to say? “Hey Dr. Wally, I’m as fucked up as I ever was but I appreciate you asking.”

Now, I’m not sure what he looks at, but during our meetings, Dr. Wally rarely takes his eyes off the screen, EXCEPT for when I talk about my writing. He seems fascinated by it. As well as my love for the film The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Go figure.

When I shared that particular bit of info, Dr. Wally excitedly pulled up a few bits on his laptop from some of his favorite Bollywood films.

Score! We’d made a connection. It had nothing to do with my mental state, but what the hell, it beat a poke in the eye.

Dr. Wally’s also amazed at my knowledge, and frequent use of, Ayurvedic health and beauty products!

“Ayurveda” is a centuries-old belief that health and healing should be a synergistic blend of mind, body, and spirit. How can you not be down with that?

When I told Dr. Wally that I use a face cream comprised of turmeric and sandalwood oil, he nearly lost his shit! At a subsequent appointment, he told me that because of my bringing it to his attention, his whole family was using it, including him!

My husband is aghast that Dr. Wally and I have actual discussions as, during his appointments, they barely exchange ten words. It’s get in, snatch the scripts, and bounce.

Now, in all the years I’ve been seeing this guy, I never thought him to be particularly sexy. Intense, yes, but sexy? Uh uh.

But in the dream I had last night, Hoo, boy! Dr. Wally was hotter than the most incendiary Vindaloo!

I only remember snatches of the dream. The overall look of it was dark, with intermittent shimmering flashes of light.

Dr. Wally wore an impeccable white shirt, also shimmering, that beautifully contrasted with his inky skin.

We were in bed, but you probably gleaned that from my headline.

I’m sure we either were already or were just about to get busy. As I said, I was worked up. We had to be doing something! I know he wasn’t writing me a script.

What really got me going was the moment when Dr. Wally slowly unbuttoned his pristine shirt, took it off, slid closer to me…

And then I woke the hell up! Party over!

I tried to go back to sleep to see where the dream would lead, but no such luck. Plus, I was in such a state, that I had to “interfere with myself,” as the Irish say.

Luckily, my husband was in the basement, crashed on the couch. He suffers from insomnia, so he does a lot of rambling around at night.

Dreams are strange beasts, are they not? I can’t explain this one as I’m certainly not harboring a jones for my shrink.

But hell, it was fun while it lasted.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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