TumbleDweeeb

Hawks Nest: The Healing of Hawk
Episode 1 (2026)
A Therapeutic Journey
Written by: Emmitt Owens
(Index #12022025-12042025)
As narrated by: Waylon

Waylon, Intro: “Well now, folks, settle in for a tale about the day Hawk Dawson decided he needed professional help—not for the reasons most folks thought, mind you, but because he’d reached what he called ‘a level of emotional intelligence that frankly intimidates most people.’ Now, I’ve known Hawk most of my life, and the only thing he’s ever intimidated is common sense. This here’s the story of Dr. Eleanor Finch’s first and last session with Buzzard Roost’s most self-aware man who ain’t actually self-aware at all.”

   Dr. Finch come highly recommended, though Hawk had his doubts the second he stepped into her office. The waitin’ room had one of them white noise machines — already a red flag in Hawk’s mind. If you gotta manufacture peace, you probably ain’t that evolved.
     He spotted her degree from Auburn on the wall.
   “ROLL TIDE!” Hawk hollered, just to establish dominance.
     Dr. Finch winced.
   “Mr. Lonnie Dawson?” she said, appearin’ in the doorway.
     “Ehh, Actually, it’s Hawk,” he corrected gentle-like. “Lonnie’s my government name. Hawk’s my authentic self.”
   “Of course.” She didn’t write it down.

Waylon Intermission: “Now folks, right there you can see the whole session summarized in thirty seconds. Hawk walked in thinkin’ he was about to enlighten a professional therapist, and Dr. Finch was already calculatin’ how fast she could refer him to someone else. What followed was less therapy and more like watchin’ a man dig his own psychological grave with a shovel made of delusion.”

   Hawk followed her into her office, carryin’ his emotional support duffel bag. Inside: six collectible Coca-Cola bottles, his therapy journal (blank but intimidatin’), and a framed 8×10 of himself for what he called “visual anchorin’.”
     “What’s in the bag?” Dr. Finch asked.
   “Healin’ totems.” Hawk begun arrangin’ the bottles on her coffee table in a sacred pattern he’d seen on TikTok. “This’n represents my inner child. Ehh, This’n’s my abandonment wound. This one’s just a 1985 commemorative bottle, but it’s worth like forty bucks.”
     “I see.”
   “Ehh, You don’t see. That’s the problem with traditional therapy. No respect for alternative healin’ modalities.”
     Dr. Finch sat down with that “welp… mistakes were made” expression. “So, Hawk, what brings you here today?”
   Hawk took a deep breath, preparin’ to gift her with his truth.
     “Ehh, Dr. Finch, I’m here because I’ve reached a level of emotional intelligence that frankly intimidates most people. I’m what you might call an empath.”
   “Empaths usually listen more than talk.”
     “Ehh, Exactly. I can feel how much you want me to keep talkin’.” Hawk leaned forward. “For instance, right now, I sense you’re threatened by me.”
   “I’m not threatened.”
     “Ehh, Classic defense mechanism. Denial. It’s okay. When you meet someone operatin’ on a higher emotional frequency—”
   The door burst open.

Waylon Intermission: “Now what happened next is what we call a Buzzard Roost Special—when the universe decides your day ain’t chaotic enough and sends in reinforcements.”

   Gutglor stood in the doorway, holdin’ his stomach with one hand and a broken muffler with the other.
     “This the dentist?” he asked.
   “No, this is—” Dr. Finch started.
     “Good, ’cause I swallowed a spark plug.” Gutglor lifted his shirt, revealin’ his massive belly. “Need somebody to look at it.”
   “Sir, this is a therapy office—”
     “Ehh, He’s projectin’,” Hawk interrupted. “He feels threatened by my emotional depth.”
   Gutglor squinted at him. “Hawk? You gettin’ your head checked?”
     “I’m in session. Processin’ generational trauma.”
   “Huh.” Gutglor looked at Hawk’s Coke bottles. “You drinkin’ those or they for show?”
     “They’re TOTEMS! Symbolic representations of my fractured—”
   Gutglor picked up the 1985 New Coke bottle. “This’n’s worth somethin’. New Coke. Ehh, Everybody hated it.”
     “PUT THAT DOWN! That bottle represents corporate betrayal and maternal abandonment!”
   “Looks like a Coke bottle to me.” Gutglor set it down and left, mutterin’ about findin’ the dentist.
     Hawk sat back down, rattled. “See? This is what I deal with. People who can’t appreciate depth.”

Waylon Intermission: “Y’all, I gotta stop right here and tell you that Gutglor touchin’ those bottles was like pokin’ a bear with a stick, except the bear thinks it’s a spiritual guru and the stick is a vintage soda container. What I’m sayin’ is, it only got worse from here.”

   Dr. Finch made a note. “Let’s start with your history. Tell me about your childhood.”
     “Finally. Someone willin’ to excavate my origin story.”
   Hawk pulled out his framed photo and set it on the table between ’em.
     “Why are you—”
   “Ehh, Visual aid. So you remember who you’re dealin’ with.” He pointed at his photo-self. “This man has suffered.”
     “I can put that away if—”
   “No. He stays. He witnesses my healin’.”
     Dr. Finch wrote somethin’ down. Probably “delusional narcissist” but Hawk read it as “powerful therapeutic technique.”
   “I grew up in Crooked Oak, Alabamastan. My mother left when I was young—not because she wanted to, but because she was emotionally fragile. I don’t blame her. Not everyone can handle depth.”
     “That must have been painful.”
   “Painful? Ehh… Pain is what shapes visionaries, Dr. Finch. Beethoven was deaf. Van Gogh cut off his ear. Ehh, I was emotionally abandoned. We’re basically the same.”
     His phone buzzed. WDAR was callin’.
   “Ehh… I should take this. It might be important.”
     “We’re in a session—”
   Hawk answered. “Ehh, Hawk speakin’.”
     “Hawk, it’s Possum. Stop callin’ the station.”
   “Ehh… I ain’t called in three days.”
     “You called seventeen times yesterday.”
   “That was pre-healin’ Hawk. I’m in therapy now. Ehh… Evolved Hawk.”
     “You’re still banned.”
   “Banned’s such a ehh… harsh word. I prefer ‘on sabbatical.’”
     “You’re banned.”
   “Can I at least do ehh… call-in segment about my therapeutic journey?”
     “No.”
   “What if ehh… sing?”
     Click.
   Hawk looked at Dr. Finch. “Ehh, he’s workin’ through some things.”
     “Can we continue?”
   “Actually, I didn’t hang up.” Hawk set the phone on speaker and placed it next to his photo. “This way Possum can learn from my session. Free ehh, education.”
   “Hawk, that’s—”
     “He’s probably listenin’ right now, takin’ notes.”
   Dr. Finch reached over and hung up his phone.
     “Ehh… That felt aggressive,” Hawk said.

Waylon Intermission: “Now folks, what Hawk didn’t know was that the call actually reconnected somehow—one of them digital mysteries that happens when technology decides to punish you specifically. But we’ll get to that later. Right now, Dr. Finch was learnin’ what everyone in Buzzard Roost already knew: Lonnie “Hawk” Dawson don’t need a therapist, he needs an exorcist.”

   “Let’s talk about your relationships. Are you currently seein’ anyone?”
     “Ehh… I’m single by choice. I’m in my healin’ era. Focusin’ on self-growth and possibly a podcast.”
   “Tell me about past relationships.”
     “I been married twice. Both marriages failed for the same reason—ehh… emotionally unavailable women who chose their hobbies over me.”
   “What kind of hobbies?”
     “Ehh, my first wife was an artist. Painted constantly. Do you know what it’s like to be ehh… cuckolded by creativity?”
   Dr. Finch blinked. “Cuckolded by… creativity?”
     “She cheated on me with paint. And brushes. And ehh… artistic independence. I’d come home and she’d be in her ehh…  studio, emotionally intimate with a canvas.” Hawk’s voice rose. “Meanwhile, I was right there. Available. Superior.”
   “Did you ever consider joinin’ her? Learnin’ about art?”
     “Join her escape from me, ehh? That defeats the purpose. She should wanna escape TO me, not FROM me.”
   The door opened again.
     Reedus walked in, carryin’ a toolbox and lookin’ confused.
   “Y’all got a squeaky hinge?” he asked.
     “No,” Dr. Finch said firmly.
   “Somebody called about a squeaky hinge.”
     “That wasn’t us.”
   Reedus spotted Hawk. “Hawk! Hell, I didn’t know you was seein’ a doctor. What’s wrong with you?”
     “Ain’t ehh… nothin’ wrong with me. I’m actualizin’.”
   “That contagious?”
      “It’s ehh, therapeutic—”
   Reedus walked over and knocked on Hawk’s skull. “Sounds hollow. You got loose head bolts?”
     “Please don’t touch my client,” Dr. Finch said.
   “I’m just checkin’. My cousin had loose head bolts and started talkin’ about his feelin’s all the time. Had to tighten ’em with a socket wrench.”
   “That’s not how therapy works.”
     “Worked for my cousin. He shut right the fu…., up.”
   Hawk stood. “Reedus, I’m in the middle of ehh… excavatin’ my trauma—”
     “That sounds messy. You need a Shop-Vac?”
   “It’s ehh… METAPHOR—”
     “I got one in the truck. Sucks up anything.”
   Dr. Finch stood. “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
     Reedus shrugged. “A’ight. But if you change your mind about that hinge, I’m at the shop.” He looked at Hawk. “And Hawk? Drink some water. You look dehydrated.”
   He left.

Waylon Intermission: “Now see, this is why Dr. Finch moved to Buzzard Roost in the first place—she wanted a quiet small-town practice where she could help folks work through their problems in peace. What she didn’t count on was that in Buzzard Roost, ‘workin’ through problems’ means two different mechanics wanderin’ into your office lookin’ for various services while a delusional man arranges Coca-Cola bottles like they’re the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

   Dr. Finch sat back down and took a deep breath.
     “Does this happen often?” Hawk asked. “People ehh… just wanderin’ in?”
   “Only since I moved to Buzzard Roost.”
     “It’s ehh tight-knit community. Very supportive. That’s why I’m thrivin’ here.”
   “You were tellin’ me about your marriages.”
     “Right. So ehh… my first wife abandoned me for art. My second wife was even worse—she was ehh, quilter.”
   “A quilter.”
     “She made blankets, Dr. Finch. For FUN. While I sat ehh… home, emotionally available, she was at quiltin’ group with other women, laughin’ about ehh… fabric.” Hawk was pacin’ now. “Do you know what it’s like to be ehh… abandoned for FABRIC?”
   “Did you communicate your feelin’s to her?”
     “Of course! I told her she should wanna spend every ehh… free moment with me. That ehh… wife’s primary passion should be her husband. She called me controllin’.”
   “Were you controllin’?”
     “I was COMMUNICATIN’ MY NEEDS.” Hawk knocked over one of his Coke bottles. “See? This is what she done to me. Made me ehh… defensive.”
   Dr. Finch picked up the bottle. “Hawk, both your marriages ended. Did you… did you play any role in those endin’s?”
     “Ehh, absolutely. I take full responsibility.”
   “That’s good—”
     “I take full responsibility for all the ways ehh… women have failed me.”
   Dr. Finch set down her pen. “That’s not what accountability means.”
     “I got ehh… psychology background, Dr. Finch. I took almost two full semesters—”
   “Two semesters doesn’t—”
      “At ehh… community college before the professors felt threatened by my natural aptitude—”
   “Hawk—”
     “So I understand therapeutic dynamics. What happened in both marriages was ehh… textbook narcissistic abuse. They was the narcissists. Both of ’em.”
   “Did you cheat in these marriages?”
     Hawk froze. “That’s ehh… loaded question.”
   “It’s a yes or no question.”
     “Emotionally? No. Ehh… Physically? Constantly. But that’s because I’m loyal.”
   Dr. Finch stared at him. “How is that loyal?”
     “I was loyal to my needs. Self-loyalty. It’s ehh… new therapeutic framework I’m developin’.”

Waylon Intermission: “Y’all, there are moments in life when you witness somethin’ so magnificently stupid that you have to just sit back and appreciate the artistry of it. Hawk had just invented ‘self-loyalty’ as a justification for adultery, and he said it with the confidence of someone announcin’ a cure for cancer. Dr. Finch’s face at that moment could’ve been in a museum under the title ‘Professional Regret.’”

   “That’s not—”
     “And the women I had affairs with? They was ehh… married too. So really, I was providin’ ehh community service. Emotional CPR.”
   “Hawk, do you hear yourself?”
     “I hear ehh… man who loves too deeply for this world to handle.”
   The door swung open again.
     This time it was Miss Jolene, holdin’ a covered dish.
   “I brought ham,” she announced.
     “Ma’am, this is a therapy office—”
   “I know. Reedus said somebody was actualizin’ and might need sustenance.” She set the dish on Dr. Finch’s desk. “It’s got pineapple on it. Very therapeutic.”
     “I’m not hungry—” Dr. Finch started.
   “I’ll take some,” Hawk said. “Emotional labor makes me ehh … hungry.”
   Miss Jolene smiled and uncovered the ham. The smell filled the office.
     “Y’all doin’ okay in here?” she asked, lookin’ around. “Lot of bottles.”
   “Those are my ehh … healin’ totems—”
     “Oh, you collect bottles? My nephew collects bottle caps. Y’all should meet.”
   “These ain’t just bottles, they’re ehh… cultural artifacts representin’ my grandfather’s love—”
     “He’s real sensitive about bottles,” Miss Jolene said to Dr. Finch. “Got kicked out of ehh… grief group over it.”
   “You heard about that?”
     “Honey, everybody heard about that. You talked about bottles for forty-five minutes while Sandra was cryin’ about her dead husband.”
   “It was ehh… forty minutes—”
     “And then you told her his death was a growth opportunity.”
   “Growth-oriented reframin’—”
     “Sandra threw a chair.”
   “She was ehh…. dysregulated—”
     “Karen had to call the police.”
   “Karen has control issues stemmin’ from ehh… unresolved father trauma—”
     Miss Jolene patted Hawk’s shoulder. “You just eat some ham, baby. Ham fixes most things.” She looked at Dr. Finch. “Good luck with this one.” Then she left.

Waylon Intermission: “Now see, Miss Jolene bringin’ ham to a therapy session is exactly the kind of Buzzard Roost logic that makes perfect sense to us but sounds insane to outsiders. You got a problem? Have some ham. Your therapy session gettin’ interrupted by mechanics and delusional men? Ham’ll fix it. It’s Southern medicine, and it ain’t never been wrong.”

   Dr. Finch and Hawk sat in silence.
     “So,” Hawk said, eatin’ ham directly off the plate with his fingers, “where was we, ehh?”
   “The grief group,” Dr. Finch said slowly. “You were asked to leave.”
     “They wasn’t ready for my level of insight. I ehh… was offerin’ free psychological services—”
   “Why did Sandra throw a chair, Hawk?”
     “Because she couldn’t handle truth. I explained that her codependency with her ehh … late husband probably stunted her personal growth—”
   “Her husband had just died.”
     “Six months prior. That’s basically ehh… lifetime in grief years.”
   Dr. Finch closed her notebook. “Hawk, I need to be honest with you.”
     “Finally. Honesty. That’s all I ehh, ever wanted.”
   “You have a pattern. In relationships, in groups, even here today—you center yourself. You can’t let anyone else have space.”
     “I give people space—”
   “Your wives wanted hobbies, and you saw it as abandonment. Sandra wanted to grieve her husband, and you made it about your bottles. Even now, you’ve interrupted me four times.”
     “That’s ehh… because you ain’t understandin’—”
   “Five times.”
     Hawk stood up, knockin’ over another Coke bottle. “This is exactly what my ex-wives done. Gaslit me into ehh… thinkin’ I was the problem.”
   “Hawk—”
     “And now you’re doin’ it too! This feels hostile. Are you ehh… gaslightin’ me?”
   “I’m tryin’ to help you develop accountability—”
     “I’m the MOST accountable person I know, ehh…! I take FULL responsibility for bein’ too good for ehh… everyone!”
   The door opened.
     Possum stood there with a microphone.
   “Are y’all broadcastin’?” he asked.
     “What?”
   “Somebody called and said Hawk’s therapy session was live on 96.6 … Been on for twenty minutes.”
   Hawk looked at his phone. Still on speaker. The call had reconnected somehow.
     “Oh no,” Dr. Finch whispered.
   “Oh no?” Hawk said. “This is Ehhhh… AMAZIN’. Free therapy for the entire county!”
     “Hawk, you just confessed to adultery on public radio—”
   “Ehh… Emotional CPR—”
     “And you called Sandra’s dead husband a codependency issue—”
   “Ehh… growth-oriented reframin’—”
     “And you said your wives were narcissists for havin’ hobbies—”
   “Which they was!”

Waylon Intermission: “Now folks, this is what we call a Buzzard Roost Moment of Truth—when a man realizes his entire therapy session, includin’ his detailed confession of bein’ a terrible husband and an even worse grief group member, has been broadcast live to every person within twenty miles who listens to WDAR. Most men would feel shame. Hawk felt famous.”

   Possum shook his head. “Hawk, you’re banned from radio. Permanently.”
     “You can’t ban ehh… me from somethin’ I wasn’t even tryin’ to do!”
   “Watch me.” Possum turned to Dr. Finch. “Ma’am, for what it’s worth, you handled that real well. Most therapists quit after meetin’ him.”
     “This is my first session in Buzzard Roost.”
   “Welcome to town.” Possum left.
     Hawk gathered his Coke bottles, his photo, and his dignity.
   “I think ehh… we’re done here,” he said.
     “Hawk, please sit down. We still have—”
   “No. This ain’t workin’. You’re supposed to ehh… VALIDATE my experience, not attack it.”
   “I’m not attackin’ you—”
     “And honestly? I think YOU need to ehh… examine why you’re so THREATENED by ehh… client who actually UNDERSTANDS psychology.”
   Hawk moved toward the door, bottles clinkin’ in his bag.
     “Hawk—”
   “I’ll be FINE. I survived WORSE than this, ehh. I’ll process this abandonment—because that’s what this IS—and ehh… I’ll GROW from it.”
     “I’m not abandonin’ you. You’re choosin’ to leave.”
   “Tomato, tomahto.”
     Hawk stepped into the waitin’ room. Gutglor was back, now holdin’ a different car part.
   “Did they fix your head bolts?” he asked.
     “I ain’t ehh… got loose head bolts!”
   “That’s what my cousin said too.”

Waylon Intermission: “And that, folks, is where I’m gonna leave this tale for now. Hawk walked out of that office convinced he’d survived emotional abuse, while Dr. Finch sat there wonderin’ if her medical license covered what she’d just witnessed. The whole town had heard every word on WDAR, Karen from the grief group was already consultin’ a lawyer, and somewhere in the distance, you could hear the sound of Hawk’s dignity drivin’ away in a truck with loose head bolts.”

   Outside, the Alabama sun hit Hawk like vindication. He pulled out his phone and opened Notes.
     New document: “The Therapeutic Relationship: Where Dr. Finch Failed Me.”
   He’d send it to her later. That was the compassionate thing to do.
     After all, he was a healer.
   That’s what healers do.
     They help people see their flaws while demonstratin’ the perfection of their own journey.

Waylon, Outro: “Now that there, folks, is what happens when a man with the self-awareness of a brick wall meets a trained professional. Later that evenin’, Hawk would call WDAR nine more times. He’d complete his 3,000-word email to Dr. Finch and CC the entire town’s email list. He’d create a detailed PowerPoint presentation for the grief group with 47 slides, includin’ one titled ‘Common Narcissistic Behaviors in Facilitators: A Case Study on Karen.’

   Dr. Finch would write in her notes: ‘Client demonstrates significant resistance to insight. Terminated session early when confronted with accountability. Session was accidentally broadcast on local radio. Poor prognosis for therapeutic alliance. Will not be booking follow-up. Considering move back to Auburn.’
     Reedus would fix the squeaky hinge at the Primitive Baptist church instead, which is what he’d been lookin’ for all along.
   Gutglor would pass the spark plug naturally two days later. It would join his collection of ‘things I swallowed.’
     Miss Jolene’s ham would be completely gone by the time Dr. Finch noticed. Hawk had eaten all of it durin’ the session.
   And Hawk? Hawk didn’t need nobody’s notes.
     He had his own truth.
   His four Coca-Cola bottles.
     And the knowledge that everyone else was the problem.
   This has been Hawks Nest, where the most self-aware man in Buzzard Roost has absolutely no self-awareness at all, and where every attempt at growth is actually just fertilizer for delusion. If you ever meet a man who thinks he’s an empath because he can sense when people are ‘threatened’ by him, well, you’ve met Hawk. And if you’re real unlucky, he’ll try to help you process your trauma with a PowerPoint presentation.”

✍️ Author’s Note:
   Hawk’s story might be funny, but the psychology behind it is real—and worth understanding.
     When someone weaponizes therapy language (“gaslighting,” “narcissistic abuse,” “triggered”) to avoid accountability, they’re not healing—they’re building armor against self-reflection. Real growth requires the humility to sit with uncomfortable truths about yourself. If every criticism becomes proof that others are “threatened” by you, you’ve created a closed loop where you can never be wrong, which means you can never grow.
   Hawk genuinely believes his feelings prove his reality. He feels abandoned when his wives pursue hobbies, so in his mind, they are abandoning him. This is emotional reasoning—letting feelings dictate facts. The truth? A partner’s independence isn’t rejection. It’s health. When you need someone to orbit entirely around you to feel secure, the problem isn’t their autonomy—it’s your anxiety.
     Cheating because a partner has hobbies isn’t romantic, justified, or even logical—it’s the desperate act of someone who can’t tolerate not being the center of attention. When you reframe betrayal as “meeting your needs” or “self-care,” you’re not being authentic; you’re performing moral gymnastics to avoid shame. Real self-loyalty means holding yourself to standards that let you sleep at night without mental acrobatics.
   These patterns don’t just damage relationships—they corrode the person living them. Constant deflection, blame-shifting, and self-deception create a prison where you’re simultaneously the hero of every story and the victim of every outcome. You lose the ability to connect authentically because authentic connection requires vulnerability, and vulnerability requires admitting you might be wrong.
     If you see yourself in Hawk—even a little—the path out starts with one uncomfortable question: “What if I’m wrong?” Not as self-flagellation, but as genuine curiosity. Real empaths listen more than they talk. Real accountability means examining your role without immediately justifying it. Real love celebrates when someone you care about thrives—even when it has nothing to do with you.
   Your partner’s joy isn’t a threat to your worth. It’s proof they’re whole.
     And whole people make better partners than broken ones who need you to stay small so they can feel big.
Love isn’t ownership. It’s witnessing someone’s full humanity and saying, “I’m honored to be part of your story—not the whole thing, just a part.”
     If you can’t clap for your partner’s happiness, don’t be surprised when they build a life that doesn’t include you.