The problem is, I’m not sure I know whatrealis anymore?
“I guess some people are determined to make the same mistake twice.”
katrina
The followingdays are a blur of empty conversations and mundane tasks, the bitter sting of the misunderstanding with Dak and his spiteful words an undercurrent to everything I do. I yearn for the once comforting silence of my Well Minds office, which echoed with our shared laughter, whispered promises, and stolen moments.
But I don’t work there anymore.
Not after my confrontation with John.
“What have you done, John? Did you actually write an evaluation as if it were from me and sign my name to it?”
“You’re not an independent contractor. You work for me. Therefore, I can sign anything with Well Minds letterhead. And technically, I used your signature, because I used your signature stamp.”
“You should have used your own. I could sue you.”
“If I were you, I’d do your homework on that. You’d never win.”
“What happened to us taking a week to think about things?”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“I’m not even sure if that man got actual talk therapy with you as a clinician. You seemed to be more interested in exploring other things with him. He needs to start over with someone else and get a fair assessment. Someone who actually wants to do the work. There is no way in good conscience I could allow you to recommend him to play, Kat.”
My eyes widen as I’m hit with what feels like a stunning revelation.
Dr. John was never anything like my father. I was projecting those feelings onto him because that’s what I wanted him to be, who I needed him to be when I moved here and found my life spiraling out of control. But my father was a kind and gentle man who could have never thrown somebody he cared about under the bus like this.
“My name is not Kat, you pretentious ass. It’s Katrina. And by the way, I quit.”
For two weeks I laid like broccoli.
And cried like a baby.
I watched bad television and would drunk text my sister at night. It was all pretty pathetic until I got an unexpected call from a woman named Ruth I’d met at a psychoanalytic institute further uptown from our Well Minds.
“Hey, Katrina, there’s an opening in our practice and wondered if there was any way I could drag you from Well Minds. We’re looking to diversify the practice and I think you’d be a great fit. You’d be an independent contractor, so you could charge whatever you wanted and just pay us a rental fee. Another great thing is if you ever decided to leave, you could take your clients with you. I already know that you can’t do that with John.”
“Well, this call came at a convenient time. I don’t work there anymore, and what you’re proposing sounds enticing.”
“Oh really? Let’s meet for coffee next week and talk particulars.”
“I’d love that, Ruth.”
“I’ll finalize my availability next week and send you over potential dates we can meet.”
“Perfect.”
Weeks without hearing from Dak turned into a month. The ache of his loss dulled to a throbbing pain, no longer paralyzing but constantly present. My professional life was back on track and I had quickly gained clients at the institute, but the ghost of Dak’s lack of faith in me lingered like an unwanted shadow.
I clutch a photograph of Dak on my cell phone to my chest, feeling the sharp pang of loss twist inside me. The moonlight slanting in through the open window of my apartment paints a phantom paleness over his glossy image, making him seem as distant and cold as he is now. His words, “I guess some people are determined to make the same mistake twice,” echo in my mind, a haunting refrain that won’t cease.
Dak can be cruel when he’s hurting.
A lump forms in my throat as memories flood through me, a relentless wave of nostalgia and regret. During our time together, Dak made me fall in love with the cold and lonely New York City.
