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By any measure,

measure, Marty Markowitz was a success.

He had an Ivy League diploma, a law degree, his own business, and plenty of money. But when he hit 38, he found himself feeling

seriously overwhelmed. His rabbi recommended a therapist, knew who had an office on Manhattan's East Side.

I go into his office, which was a modestly furnished office with a desk and a chair and a couch. The therapist's name was

Dr. Isaac Hirschkov, but he told Marty to call him Ike. He was a young

handsome man with a round face, a close-cropped beard, and curly black hair.

He was dressed casually in an open collar shirt and shorts.

I sat down right across from him

and we looked at each other and he said,

okay, why are you here?

Marty had seen a therapist before,

the kind who would listen

while you lay down on the couch and talk about your dreams.

This therapist was different.

His modus operandi was basically,

I'm your pal, tell me what's bothering it, and let's take it from there.

Marty spent the whole session laying out his problems.

He told Ike how his father and mother had recently died,

how he'd inherited the family business, how he was having a hard time dealing

...