Chapter 4
EILEEN
The woman’s mouth keeps moving. I tuned out a while ago... but I can’t stop focusing on how weird her lips smack together. They aren’t paying me enough for this. I’m ready to jump out the damn window into a garbage truck.
I swear, I spend thirty minutes during every session just listening to her rant about one thing or another. Listen, I love my job. It’s just some of the parents of my patients... not so much.
“Working with teens and adults with special needs is rewarding,” they said.
“You’ll love everything about it,” they lied.
No one warned me about the guardians who think they know everything.
“...You’re doing it wrong,” she finally gets to her point. “There’s a better brand of therapeutic tape.”
She walks to her coffee table and returns with the most expensive brand of tape on the market. I sigh.
“They use this in the Olympics,” she explains, shoving the tape in my face. “What you’re using isn’t right and, according to the YouTube channel, you should be applying it from top to bottom.”
I don’t get paid enough to deal with parents like her. How is it that I work for a woman who lives in a high-end neighborhood and can afford to spend more money on magazines than I spend on groceries?
If I wanted to work with assholes like her, I’d be in a private practice.
“Are you listening to me?” she asks, as her flesh turns a red crimson as her anger and frustration grows. The vein on her temple is about to burst. Her green eyes are on me. “I’ll be calling your supervisor about this.”
I roll my eyes before staring her down. I’m ten weeks past done with her bullshit. “It’s not about the tape. It’s all about how you apply it. Let me explain to you again how it’s done.”
She picks up her phone and turns on the camera. “I’ll be recording it. But I think you’re wrong. Are you sure you’re a trained professional?”
No, I just printed the credentials of my fucking hundred-thousand-dollar college degree from some website. I just throw money to a tuition loan company for fun.
Does she honestly think just anyone can get a job as a therapist?
I look around the living room—of the second floor of her fucking mansion—and say, “Are you sure you can’t afford private therapy?”
She scrunches her nose and weirdly looks me over before she says, “I’m ready.”
Well, I’m glad we understand each other, lady.
I begin to apply the tape on her son’s back to retrain his posture. Jim is a sweet guy. He’s almost twenty and is Autistic. I wish there were more resources for him, or that she would spend a little more money helping him.
Regardless, I just hate that she’s always judging me while I work.
Rumor has it that she has run off at least seven therapists. No one wants to deal with her. The only reason I’m here is because I need the money. If I had the luxury of choosing my own hours, I’d be somewhere else.
“This isn’t the way that the guy in the YouTube video does it,” she says as I finish.
“Let’s try this way first and see how that works,” I suggest tightly.
I’m not going to give her my damn credentials. I have a doctorate in physical therapy. I can’t deal with her constant condescension, but I also can’t burn this bridge any time soon, or possibly ever.
“Next week, I think we should go to the park,” I say. “Work on his coordination.”
“You’re an at-home therapist,” she argues.
“I understand that. But unfortunately, you don’t have the equipment that I need. The stuff I have in my car is for small children.”
She rolls her eyes. What is she? Twelve? “Fine, but I’ll be with you. He can’t be alone with a stranger.”
“Of course,” I say, grabbing my tote bag and wave at her son, Jim, waiting for him to wave back. “See you next week, Jimbo.”
He gives me a wide smile and walks toward his room.
“I’m starting a practice with a friend,” one of my classmates says. Presley? Paisley? It’s one of those names. “My father is paying for the initial cost. You know…”
I tune out how her professional and personal career will be more gratifying than mine. I’d like to title this moment as, How to Tell Your Life Sucks.
“Well, I’m still nervous about my future,” says another guy. “My employer promised a raise, but what if he fires me instead?”
“We’re in high demand,” another person says. “Everyone needs a physical therapist, a speech therapist, or a special ed teacher. My sister, who studies psychology, applied for a graduate degree that allows her to work as an applied behavioral therapist.”
Everyone is congratulating each other about their careers and the stacks of money they’ll be making once they graduate. No one’s thinking about their patients.
This is depressing. Why’d I agree to have lunch with these leeches? I’m not a hermit, but let’s be honest, I don't exactly mingle with my cohorts. My schedule is tight. Either I’m at school or working with one of my patients.
My options are to leave my current job and search for a practice that would pay me double or keep giving services to people who depend on the government to provide therapists. I’ll stick to the latter as long as my savings can justify my morals.
My older sister says I’m an idealist, that I should be a lot more practical. I’m twenty-six and still as lost as I was when I started college.
But what’s the alternative?
Am I supposed to be hopping on the capitalistic wheel where everyone is just rushing through some unfulfilled career that pays decent but sucks the life out of them?
In an ideal world, things would be different. I can’t save everyone and can’t do much on my own with the salary I make or could even potentially make. Which is why I do my best by working for low-income people who can’t afford to send their children to therapy.
It’s obvious that my income won’t be high, but I’ll survive.
Hopefully?