Poetic Injustice: A True Story of Forbidden Love

By Jonathan Sure

A true story with names and details altered, Poetic Injustice is a tale of romance between a therapist and his patient resulting in profound insights that challenge almost all objectives of modern day therapy. Jonathan Sure a seasoned therapist intuitively aware of projected feelings in transference and counter-transference, is nonetheless lured into an intimate relationship with his patient, Kulai and finds himself drowning in an abyss of confusion, submission, and obsession. Feeling he is on the verge of healing a very complex case he goes beyond the boundaries of his profession in an attempt to penetrate and heal the soul of Kulai. But Mr. Sure realizes he is missing something, something he intuitively knows may be very important to this case. Does Kulai, a seemingly innocence patient, have a dark history that he is unaware of? Or has Mr. Sure lost touch with his own alter ego? There is an unexpected ending to this drama, and Mr. Sure comes to realize the true nature behind all human behavior as well as the key to healing. Mr. Sure explains his new found knowledge and teaches very simple techniques to the reader, which he believes hold the keys to healing and which he also believes have evaded almost all therapists in the field.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: May 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798765226667

Jonathan Sure

Jonathan Sure is a retired licensed therapist who has work in various mental health settings for nearly thirty years in a variety of differing capacities.

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 Jonathan Sure.

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use

of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical

problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The

intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you

in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any

of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right,

the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version

(Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic

Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

ISBN: 979-8-7652-2664-3 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-2665-0 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-2666-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022907234

Balboa Press rev. date:  10/20/2022

This story is dedicated to the unity of humanity.

When we recognize our homogeneity,

And express respect, dignity, and honor for all human life

We will feel safe and heal this world

And bask in our own innocence.

Jonathan Sure

Contents

Disclaimer

1     A Clinical Picture

2     The Shift

3     The Second Shift

4     The Full Transformation

5     The Awakening

6     The Nagging Thoughts of Jonathan Sure

7     The Fear Directed Response Theory And The Unification Theory

8     Converting Good and Evil

9     A Sure Method

10   A Letter to the Peer Supervision Group

A Word for Professionals

11   A Letter to the Licensing Board

12   A Second Awakening?

About The Author

References

A Word About The Appendixes

Disclaimer

This story is a fictionalized memoir which is based upon true events. All names, profiles, poems, and communications as well as the lyrics to a song are original works, written for the sole purpose of this manuscript, and products of the author’s imagination. The story reflects recollections of the author’s life with all other characters fictionalized in a fashion to complement supporting documentation and events. Thus, any resemblance to actual persons and/ or their behaviors is entirely coincidental. While this story depicts the emotional intensity experienced during mental illness, it is not meant to romanticize it as something to be sought. It is meant to provide the reader with insight to understand how romantic intensities can supersede rationality during mental illness.

As a former professional, who has worked in the field, I do not support these romantic relationships. Relationships such as these can, and often do, cause harm to the patient who may: (a) relive past traumas, (b) sexualize all emotional support, (c) experience severe guilt and shame, and (d) experience difficulty trusting current and future emotional supports. Professionals involved in such relationships can: (a) lose confidence in their abilities, (b) experience severe guilt and shame, and (c) lose their careers. Finally, these situations damage the mental health profession by raising the question: Are professional therapist’s supportive caregivers with good boundaries who provide safe environments for emotional care?

WARNING

THIS STORY CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT IN THE FORM OF POETIC IMAGERY AS WELL AS ADULT SITUATIONS AND IS NOT RECOMMENDED FOR MINORS.

A Clinical Picture

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It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it.

ROBERT LEWIS STEVENSON

I heard the door open and close in the lobby, and I knew that Mrs. Kulai Madden-Mahajan had arrived for her appointment. This was a case I did not want to take on, because it appeared highly complex and, at the time, I had more clients then I could comfortably handle. I had attempted to refer Mrs. Kulai Madden-Mahajan to a female colleague who refused to take on the case because of its complexity. Feeling bad for her husband, Dr. Mahajan, who had pleaded with me to take the case on during a phone conversation, I finally agreed to meet with Mrs. Madden.

Mrs. Madden had received a full evaluation from one of my esteemed colleagues, Dr. Scott Hayes. Dr. Hayes wrote comprehensive evaluations and, in this evaluation, he pointed out that Mrs. Madden was suffering from a sleep disorder where she was sleeping excessive amounts each day, as much as eighteen hours at a time. This is often referred to as hypersomnia in the medical field. Mrs. Madden’s hypersomnia was complicated by the fact that she often reported having nightmares during these prolonged sleep periods. Today was the beginning of our seventh session and I had become somewhat frustrated with this case, feeling there was some missing aspect.

I watched her as she entered my office. Mrs. Madden wore a blue form-fitting yet conservative dress that reached her ankles. Her dark hair was elegantly pinned up in a stylish fashion, accentuating her classic features. This was her typical attire.

She sat in her usual spot; the chair closet to mine, with her knees pressed together. She leaned forward in her chair and reached out a hand to greet me. I responded, taking her ebony hand in mine, noting the well manicured nails.

Hello. It’s so nice to see you again, Mrs. Madden, I exclaimed as I ran my fingers through the gray wavy hair on the side of my head, a behavior that did nothing to my hair but had become a habit for years.

Well hello to you, Mr. Sure. What’s with the formality?

Oh well, nothing really. I’m just trying to be respectful.

I told you, Jon, I am an island girl, and we don’t play games where I come from.

Ah yes, the island girl comment. Mrs. Madden never let me forget that she was a young woman who came to this country in her late teens from Trinidad. She was raised as a devote Catholic by her mother and named by her father who had immigrated to Trinidad from India. Pressured into a marriage that she regretted by her mother; she married Dr. Mahajan, a well-known and highly recognized surgeon.

Well, I said, if you don’t like formality, why do you refer to your husband as Dr. Mahajan?

That’s something entirely different.

Why? I inquired.

Because he is a medical doctor and is given that respect. Her voice was firm, as she responded.

Is she insulting me? I wondered as I leaned back in my chair and began writing notes on the clipboard which lay on my lap. I swallowed, feeling that I might be entering a forbidden topic but continued. But shouldn’t you have the intimacy of calling him by his first name? I mean, after all, he is your husband.

Having said this, I realized I did not know her husband’s first name as I too was introduced to him only as Dr. Mahajan and thus called him by this title.

She leaned back in her chair and let out a long sigh. Then looking straight at me she said, Jon, it’s not like that. Dr. Mahajan and I have not been physically intimate in many months now. He loves me and he is a good man, but I don’t love him in the same way that he loves me. Do you understand what I am saying? Her response surprised me.

She paused for a moment then leaned close to me and began staring into my eyes. I was starting to feel uncomfortable and pushed my chair back just a few inches with my feet. I felt heat on my face and wondered if I was blushing.

With you, Jon, she continued, I can be myself. I can tell you things straight from my heart. You are more than just a therapist; it’s more like you’re a close friend with whom I can confide. That’s something I’ve needed in my life for a long time now.

Her voice softened even more as she continued. Dr. Mahajan has his medical friends and he is a scientist, through and through. She began looking down towards the floor, and I could sense a sadness overcoming her. He doesn’t have time for romance and, quite frankly, I am not interested in entertaining any of his advances.

The sad picture was beginning to fall into place. He wanted sex and she was not interested in him, and; not just because he was not the partner of her choosing, but, because there was no emotional intimacy shared from his part in the relationship or at least, that is the way she perceived the relationship. There was an air of something more to her statement and I remembered feeling he had conveyed a sense of entitlement when I was in his company. I recalled how he had waved his hand in disgust at something she commented about when I met with them together in the past.

I attempted to change the topic to address some of the more prevalent issues. Did you bring your sleep diary?

Yes, she replied and leaned over, handing me a small note book with dates and hours written on it.

I logged the sleep hours in a calendar that was in her file. Perhaps we should chat about Hannah?

Mrs. Madden had two preteen children. A third child, Hannah, had died from a seizure at the age of five, a loss she continued to struggle with years later. Because her daughter had excessive sleep periods and died in her sleep, Mrs. Madden’s case was considered a high profile by multiple medical doctors who were concerned that there may be a physiological cause to this woman’s disorder that had been missed and undiagnosed and possibly even genetically prevalent in this family.

Mrs. Madden pursed her full lips and then spoke. What good would that do, Jon? Regurgitating the same issue doesn’t seem to help. Hannah is still gone and there is nothing I can do about it. I miss her. She is no longer in my life, and that’s all there is.

Nevertheless, it might be helpful to discuss the anger you have towards your husband for her death. Just because he is medical doctor, doesn’t mean he could have had the insight to know that Hannah was sick, I replied.

I don’t want to talk about it. She responded in a firm voice that did not allow for any interjection.

Then, after a pause in which we both just looked at each other, she continued. Why can’t we talk about what I want to talk about?

Okay then, what would you like to talk about? I asked.

You. A broad smile came across her face and she began leaning forward again.

I could smell faint perfume and my face again felt warm and this time I was certain I was blushing. Why is she flirting with me? I thought. We’ve been meeting for weeks now and this never happened before. Why am I feeling this way? I’ve worked with other sexually provocative women who were just as beautiful, yet for some reason this is more uncomfortable. Am I missing something?

I felt a little dazzled, but quickly regained my composure. It feels as though you are just trying to avoid the more prevalent topics that would help bring healing, I told her. Sometimes, there is a need to face painful situations in the therapeutic process, because in the long run it places you on the road to healing.

That’s Mr. Sure speaking, she quickly responded, I want to speak to Jon. I want to know what kinds of things Jon likes. Why does he like being a therapist? What are his interests? She was talking about me in the third person, which I found somewhat amusing, but also bizarre.

Here is the question. How would knowing those things about me be helpful? I questioned being somewhat frustrated by her continued resistance to our session.

As I mentioned, Jon, you are like a friend I never had before but always longed for, so I could share things about myself to a trusted person. Mrs. Madden tried to move closer, but was unable to slide the armchair because of its weight.

I was looking down at my clipboard and writing notes as she spoke and realized that she still had not answered my question.

Please look up at me when I’m speaking to you. There was softness in her voice and nothing commandeering.

I looked up and found myself looking directly into her eyes.

She gave a warm smile, You have nice eyes. There is gentleness in your eyes. They are innocent.

I began blushing, again surprised at her flirtations. Thank you. I appreciate the compliments. But my mind was going in another direction. This flirtiness is new. I wonder if there is a history of sexual abuse, which would have resulted in her over sexualizing relationships with men?

Can I ask you something?

Sure.

Do you have any history of being sexually abused when you were a child or teen?

I already told you on our first session; no. There was anger in her response.

Okay, I responded, I’m sorry; now that you say that, I do remember you telling me that. But I wasn’t convinced and my thoughts continued. I wonder if she’s blocked out some memories of sexual abuse from her childhood. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve come across repressed memories associated with trauma. I knew I needed to be patient and not push the topic, Perhaps she will recall some repressed memories as we work together.

By the way, you’re welcome. Her response startled me out of my thoughts.

You’re welcome?

For the compliment about your eyes.

Oh, yeah, thanks. But I still feel you are avoiding other more pertinent topics.

Such as?

I’m not sure, I said, You tell me.

Jon, if I can’t be true to myself in our sessions this is not going to work between us, she said, while slightly shifting in her seat.

Oh? I was again surprised. First she’s flirting with me and now she’s threatening to terminate care, I thought, That’s unusual.

Yeah, she continued, One of the reasons I stayed with you this long is because I never felt judged in your company.

What do you mean? I said, feeling as though I might be uncovering a missing piece to this case.

Well, you know, I’ve seen a lot of therapists in the past.

Yeah, I know, I said as I removed my glasses to clean the lenses with a tissue.

But do you know why?

Because they didn’t seem to help? I said trying to answer her question.

No, silly, we never even got that far. The last thing I need is a therapist patronizing me.

Oh, I said replacing my glasses and writing on my clipboard.

Yes with you I never felt that way. You always seemed to respect me as an equal.

Well you are an equal.

Thank you, now will you put that stupid clipboard down? she said half joking.

I put the clipboard down, took off my glasses, and gave her my full attention.

Thank you, she said with a half smirk, there is something else you should know.

Oh, I said relieved that we were moving into productive territory.

Yes, I cannot be myself around Dr. Mahajan. He doesn’t even want me to put my hair down in public. He thinks its risqué.

Hmm.

It’s very hard to be yourself in your home with that kind of judgment.

I can only imagine, I replied reaching over to pick up my clipboard.

Don’t pick it up, Kulai said interrupting my motion, I want you looking at me. But there was nothing commanding or rude about her request.

I looked at the clock on the opposite wall and noticed our time was up. I began. Okay, so on that note, our time is almost up for today. What do you think your home work assignment for me should be?

She continued to stare at me and then swallowed. She took her time and chose her words carefully. I think I should decide if you can be someone I really want to confide in. After all, confidence is a two way street.

So are you still thinking of terminating with me?

Well, it wasn’t until I saw you blushing at a few simple compliments and trying to redirect the conversation. If I can’t be myself and relaxed in our sessions, it’s not going to work, Jon.

Okay, that makes sense, I said almost relieved the session was over, So I’ll see you next Wednesday at the same time?

Yes, she responded. She shook my hand and in a moment was gone.

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Later that week I found myself in Dr. William’s office. He was a stately looking gentleman who came across as very proper despite his casual dress. He sat back in his chair behind a large oak desk. Are you still taking 250 milligrams of testosterone each week? he asked.

No. I reduced it to 200.

He seemed annoyed as he leaned forward to write something in my chart which lay upon his desk, Why?

Oh, because I was getting the hot flashes again.

Okay, he said still writing.

Am I always going to have to have these injections?

He looked up from where he was writing, Jon, do you remember when we first started working together?

Yeah.

We’ll you remember I diagnosed you with hypogonadism?

Yeah.

Well you were what, then? Fifty-five years old?

Yeah about that.

Well I typically treat men in their 40s for this disorder, and it’s not one that goes away. It gets worse with age. You went much longer without treatment then most men. Why all the concern?

Well as you know, I’ve been bodybuilding and weight training for years now, and I’ve never used any kind of performance drugs because of the dangers I’ve read about.

Well, that’s because many athletes are young, don’t require this medication, and so they overdose their bodies; which would not happen under the care of a doctor. Your testosterone was very low when you came to me. Don’t you remember how you were so tired not only couldn’t you workout; you couldn’t even work a full day at your office?

Yeah, I remember.

Without looking up again he changed the subject. Are you still taking the estrogen blocker?

Which one is that?

The anastrozole.

Yeah.

Well I want you to increase it to three times a week, he said looking at more papers from his desk as he spoke, Your estrogen is high again. Did you ever donate blood, as I had asked?

No.

How come?

Well, I went to The Red Cross, but they said that I can’t give blood if I’m taking testosterone.

Dr. Williams shook his head while looking down at the papers on his desk, clearly annoyed. You should have just lied.

Did he say what I think he just said? I thought, as I continued watching him.

He sighed heavily. You’re on testosterone not synthetic anabolitic steroids. There are young men in their 20s who give blood who have higher levels than you. He scribbled something out on a pad on the large desk. Here, he said, handing me a small piece of paper, This is a script to have a blood draw at the hospital. You need to have this done, he said, in a firm voice. Your hemoglobin is elevated and we don’t want you having a stroke or, or worse yet, a massive heart attack.

Okay, I responded, and shortly thereafter the appointment was over.

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Kulai arrived early for her next session and sat far away from her husband in the lobby as she waited for me. I noticed some subtle differences in her demeanor and she appeared warm and inviting. I also noticed Kulai was now wearing eye liner and some additional makeup and more perfume. She appeared more relaxed. She chose the chair closer to mine as I turned and closed the office door.

So how are you today, Mrs. Madden? I mean Kulai, I started as I sat down in the chair across from her.

Very good; thank you for asking. She always had this way of sounding very proper in her verbiage. You are learning, Jon. Thank you for respecting my wishes and calling me by my first name.

What should we chat about today? I responded, ignoring her comment.

All business right away, right, Jon? she retorted. I remembered the content of a dream I had this past week.

That’s nice, Kulai. Why don’t you tell me about it?

She poised her lips while she spoke. "Well I’m not sure if it was last Monday or Tuesday, but that doesn’t seem that important. I had a dream about Hannah. She was wearing a white dress and running around and having fun outside. My husband came home from work and scolded her for some reason. I can’t remember why, but there was something that happened in the dream that he was angry about. So she started crying and I went to comfort her, but he wouldn’t let me,