Louisville Slugger

     In all my years of studying counseling and psychotherapy, no one ever taught me to ask clients about their poop.
     On the contrary; we're taught not to give advice, not to fix it. Many a lip has been bitten in the consulting room, believe you me. And mostly, that is the right thing. It's partly the handing someone a fish thing, versus letting them pierce the worm on a hook and let it dangle in the water, then yank. Fish tastes way better that way. Not only that, but when we give advice it's usually given to take us off the hook (different hook, sans worm), relieving us of the squirmy feeling of wanting to fix something.
     Secretly, though, I love to fix the problem. I daresay this is counselors' dirty little secret. We give each other advice on the sly all the time, and it feels fabulous; like you've been holding your breath all week, and finally you can exhale with a paaaaaaaaah.
     My point today is this: graduate school did not teach me to help clients poop -- and it should have. It turns out that lots of depressed and anxious people are constipated. Freud has something worthwhile to say in there, but he doesn't have The Answer. Constipation, you've just gotta fix. Otherwise, you can't hear, you can't think, you can't do anything but desire to poop. When Buddha said desire is the source of all suffering, he may have been making a veiled reference to the matter of constipation.

     Remember the Squatty Potty? I bought one in the thick of my nutritional studies because it sounded like every home should have one, since humans in the developed world have not been pooping correctly since the days of squatting in the veld. I was alarmed to find I had been doing it wrong, and probably had raised three children to poop sub-optimally, too.
     It turns out -- hold your applause -- that no one in our household actually needs any assistance in pooping. Hydraulics: check.
     Not so fortunate are several of my clients. And what freedom I have felt when together we get to the bottom of things! How is your poop? I ask. Well, I am, in fact (here their face contorts exactly as yours is now), constipated.
     Well, screw that. Yesterday I met with a client who hadn't pooped in five days. Maybe one pebble, she moans. We have a long, meaty talk about her poop. I'm telling you, aside from conversations about life and death, this is my favorite kind of intercourse. That may not be the word I'm looking for.
     Wait right here, I say. I go upstairs and come down with the Squatty Potty. This is today's door prize, I tell her. Keep it. I demonstrate the correct positioning while perched on my office chair. I describe how it will position her colon differently.
     We then realize as the session ends that she had walked to my office. Carrying a Squatty Potty down Main Street, Farmington, Connecticut -- that's asking a lot of just about anyone, even someone looking to counseling to help expand their general sense of freedom in the world. Firmly set on getting this person unplugged, I drive her home.
     She wrote this morning: "The Squatty Potty worked. Today I delivered a Louisville Slugger. Literally."
     You will forgive her use of "literally," won't you? In the end, it had to feel that good.