Chapter 3
Chapter three
Favorite Feminist Therapist
After a torturous night where I tossed and turned, and dealt with horrible guilt that I came to work and looked my clients in the face as if I was okay, I decided to make a plan to leave and return to my practice the next morning almost an hour earlier than normal.
I'm determined to see my way out of this reality.
Operating on auto-pilot, I turn on the lights and glance around the little area like I always do, checking it to make sure the plants don't need sprucing up before the clients start rolling in.
I'm able to see it better than I was yesterday, that's for sure.
The bright room has delicate crown molding, tasteful art on the walls, and two purple couches that sit perpendicular to two light brown leather chairs.
Next to the seating area is a small stove fireplace, and I can't wait for the weather to start getting colder so I can use it again.
The end tables have picture books to look through, and small plants line the picture window.
I walk to the end table to straighten a small sailboat on top of the stack of books and smile fondly.
I'd just found this unassuming piece at a thrift shop last week and knew I had to have it.
Nothing else needs sprucing up, so I dust my hands off and make my way down the hall that hosts two spacious offices and a small kitchenette. I only use one of the offices, keeping the other one empty just in case I ever move another therapist in here with me.
Unlocking my office door, I walk into the space, place my keys gently in the ceramic bowl on the corner of my desk and turn my purple desk lamp on, not wanting the overhead light on today. I need dimmed lighting and calming music that will hopefully give me the resolve to think clearly. To plan.
Remembering that I should have gotten paid today, I pull out my cell to check my bank account.
At the amount, I feel a frisson of relief that helps to chase away my deep-seated discontent.
I sigh at the number: eleven-hundred dollars from the club.
Not bad for three hours of singing. I'd need to continue to have a steady flow of money coming in to help pay the rent on my practice.
I figure I'll need to at least pay up to two months on our house so that I'd have time to sell it, or to figure out if he will buy it.
Either way, I'm sure I don't want it.
Lowering to my seat, I wince and suck air through my teeth as my sore back presses into the chair.
I shake my head, getting back up again to prop a pillow behind my back and pop a Tylenol to help with the pain.
I'm certain we're going to be okay. Placing my hand on my tummy, I rub in gentle circles, tilting my head back on a relaxing sigh and focus on pushing positive thoughts to my baby.
We're safe in this moment. It's me and you against the world, baby girl. You have one momma who loves you madly.
I work hard to mentally prepare myself for a long day of clients. Knowing a distraction is what's needed, I pull open my personal laptop to look for apartments to rent nearby. Finding two in my preferred price range, I call to set up an appointment to view them.
Quickly overwhelmed, I place my fingers against my jaw and press in hard when my thoughts turn into trying to stay with Brandon, to see if he will change and help with the continued financial burden that just keeps getting heavier and heavier.
They settle as an ache in my neck like all the other ones I'm currently experiencing.
The pain radiates from where my fingers press; a literal reminder that no, the man put his hands on me, and that is unacceptable. Also, I would never in a million years advocate for one of my clients to stay in a domestic violence situation. So why would I?
I swipe open my phone and start a group chat with my college besties: Christopher and Jerome.
Sarah Beara [8:30a]: Hey, guys. Your favorite, friendly female feminist therapist here. I know we haven’t seen each other in weeks (I’m so sorry), but I have a favor to ask of you two.
Placing my phone on its stand, I close my personal laptop, jiggling the mouse to wake up my desktop work computer. Opening my work email, I check for anything important, starting from the oldest email to the most recent.
I respond to a couple clients: one who said they were wanting to refer a friend to me and enquiring if I have space on my caseload, and another who needs to cancel for the next two weeks. It takes all of five minutes to respond to them with twenty minutes left before my first client's session.
My mouth tips up at the corner when my phone lights up with a reply.
Jerome [8:35a]: Sarah, the FFFT. Is this another fancy acronym to go behind that fancy name of yours? M.A, LPC, now we have to add FFFT, too? You’re about to use up the whole alphabet. What's up, baby girl?
His humor reaches through my desolate spirit, and I feel my smile broaden. Jerome can be such an asshole. But he's my asshole.
Sitting back against my pillow I sip more water, and peruse through my email.
I scroll down, narrowing my eyes at an email sent at almost two in the morning.
I twist my mouth in displeasure because even I don’t answer emails at all hours of the night.
And I consider myself extremely on top of my game… just during business hours.
I bristle, seeing his name.
Dr. Alexander Richardson.
I roll my eyes, irritated for probably the tenth time in just a handful of weeks with this man.
Leaning over my keyboard, I ignore the twinge in my back as I tuck a thick lock of hair behind my ear and begin to type furiously.
God. I've been in an aggravating back-and-forth communication with him about this client for three freaking weeks.
I've been killing myself attempting to convince him that our mutual client needs a different diagnosis.
I can't help but feel like he's treating the client for one condition, when I've been been finding through our latest one-on-one sessions that the client is actually suffering from a personality disorder and bipolar. My fingers are stiff with anger as I beat out a quick email; I tell him—yet again—that he needs to push this client’s appointment up so we can review the necessary meds, diagnosis, and make the needed changes.
The more I type, the more I find myself heating in anger.
Though we've shared mutual clients for a couple years now, and he normally goes along with my requests, he is unrelenting on this one for some reason. And I just don't need this right now.
Dr. Richardson responds almost immediately, making me bristle at his short reply. He's not budging. Gleefully informing me he thinks I might be mistaken regarding my thoughts on the client's diagnosis.
"Oh my Goddd," I breathe, pinching the bridge of my nose as I speak to him for the second time today. A record for me. "Please help me, because I can't do this this early in the morning. I just can't."
A scowl breaks over my face because I am not wrong.
I press my lips together in irritation and hit reply harder than necessary before feverishly spelling out my feelings on the matter.
Mr. Richardson,
With all due respect, this method of communication is obviously not working for us. We need to be united on behalf of our client—he is the one who is truly suffering. I do not have time for this power trip.
I would like to see you in person this week.
Friday at the latest, if you can manage to fit me in.
I see our client on Thursday and will have an updated therapy log to add to the ones that I need you to review that show current symptomatology.
I will even bring my personal copy of the latest DSM-V in case you can’t remember how that goes.
Please give me a time you can meet after 3p on Thursday, or anytime on Friday. If this continues to go on much longer, and I feel like my client is being hurt, I will not hesitate to go to the Board of Ethics regarding your lack of attention to the issue at hand.
Unkind Regards,
Sarah B. Johnson, M.A. LPC.
Bright Light Counseling, LLC.
Regret instantly fills me as my mouse hovers over the email, because laying down gauntlets is not my thing. It doesn't feel good. However, right is right.
I take the 'un' off my signoff—because that's unprofessional and petty—and send the email with a deep sigh. Truly ready to go home, I sit back, anxiously rubbing the bridge of my nose. I hate that I had to threaten to do what I didn’t want to ever do to another professional.
But it's crucial in this field that you follow rules, and if I suspect a fellow mental health professional is not engaging in best practices, then I'm obligated to report them.
Regardless of the man's top tier status in the mental health field, I do have a practice of my own to maintain and protect.
No offense, Alexander, but it’s a dog eat dog world out here.
Killing time, I swivel slowly back and forth in my chair.
I shake my head, trying to dispel these feelings of resentment starting to build up against the psychiatrist. I have enough resentment for Brandon to not be adding Dr. Richardson in the mix of it, too.
Thinking of Brandon again, I pick up my phone to respond to Jerome.
Sarah Beara [8:56a]: Jerome, I will not stop until ALL of the alphabet belongs to me.
Anyways, I’m leaving Brandon. I can't really get into it now, but there's a lot of stuff that's been happening, and I need help grabbing my bed from the house. Can you help me? I’m looking at apartments next weekend.
Sarah Beara [8:56a]: I figured since Chris has the truck, we can sneak in there and grab it while he’s at work.
My office door rings, and I glance at the clock, seeing my first client has arrived a couple minutes early and has let themselves into the tiny lobby.
Taking a deep breath, I patiently go over the clients’ last therapy log, preparing myself for our session.
However, my phone dings again, forcing my attention away.
Chris [8:57]: What did that stupid motherfucker do? We don’t even have to wait till he’s gone. I’ll bust through that house with my truck and run him over in the process. I’m not scared of him.
Not wanting to get into it right now, I shake my head, silence my phone, and stand up, opening my office door to usher my client in through the doorway to the seating area by my desk.
“Mrs. McDermont, how’re you doing today?" I say softly. "You look absolutely gorgeous!” I smile at the beautiful redhead fondly as she works to settle herself in the cushy love seat against the far wall.
"Hi, Sarah. I'm doing good. But look at you," she responds brightly, "you're looking very pretty today. I love your dress. That hemline is to die for."
Keeping it simple, I turn to my desk, wishing I felt it.
"Thank you; you're very kind." Grabbing my tablet, I arrange my dress and cardigan before sinking down onto the plush wingback office chair and cross my legs with some effort and work to match her bright smile.
Putting on an act through the pain isn't easy.
She tucks a leg underneath her and pulls a blanket in her lap, hugging the purple throw pillow to her chest.
I love this about her; she really makes herself comfortable and commits herself to the process. I'd never tell her this because it's not ethical to, but she's like the perfect client. She's quite the salacious case, too.
Olivia McDermont is a self-professed masochist who had given up her daughter when she was born.
The poor woman started seeing me four months ago after an unfortunate kidnapping spree that had almost taken her, her husband, her sister, and her brother-in-law’s life.
She's just now starting to come out of fits of depression, finally ready to process the grief of not raising her daughter.
I do all the things. I smile, nod, and listen to her speak. Once I get enough information, I put my head down, writing notes into my tablet. I give Olivia my undivided attention, putting my personal pain to the back of my head.