5
IMBIBE
KAT
Thursday evening, I slump into my G class and immediately lock the doors. Working in the field I have for so many years, I did not take my safety for granted. There were too many damaged souls out there; souls that had endured more than any human ever should have to. And many of them took that pain and terror out on others. I had seen inside the darkest and most depraved corners of those human’s minds. Of course it would impact me.
I heave out a deep breath and pluck my cell phone from my bag. Scrolling to my pinned messages, I immediately text Bea. I was the last one out of the shared office space this evening, which isn’t an irregular occurrence, but my overall sense of unease and anxiety, is. I don’t know why I haven’t been able to shake off what happened at Pearson House the other night. I just keep replaying it in my head over and over, searching for an explanation. And having Josh’s session today was the final straw. I feel like I am losing control. About to break. Or disappear completely.
My fingers fly over my cell phone as I type out my text.
Me
Hey, do you have a minute? I just left the weirdest session and could use some consultation.
I tap my finger on the steering wheel, while I debate saying more. Being in treatment with Josh was beginning to weigh on me, and I knew ethically that was a warning sign. I challenged him by sitting in silence today and he had held that silence right back.For forty-nine whole fucking minutes.
My head was everywhere. I could feel the pressure building. Several times, I felt as though I might crack. When I had made eye contact with him, I could sense him undressing me with his eyes. The discomfort was reaching a fever pitch, and I knew I would have to come to a decision about his treatment soon. What’s more, I had found myself thinking about him and worrying about his treatment outside of session time as well, which was a troubling sign, and one I hadn’t really experienced since working for the State.
Twice over the past two weeks, I had even thought that I’d seen Josh out in public. Once, disappearing around an aisle at the grocery store and again, retreating around the corner of my bank. I can’t tell if my lack of sleep and general mental health issues are causing me to become paranoid, or if there is really cause for concern.When my eyes close at night, images of Josh’s face merge with the Demon’s. But then my father’s face drifts to the forefront, and my anxiety and fear are washed away by a now familiar tidal wave of grief.
My phone pings.
Bea
Hey Kitty Kat, so sorry, I’m actually in between family sessions right now. I can call you sometime mid-morning tomorrow if that works for you?
Okay. This was ok, Kat.
I have several other therapist friends and professional colleagues that I can call for clinical consultation if needed. Though, as I think more about it, I realize what I really need right now is not clinical consultation. What I need is something solid and trustworthy to hold onto. Something to stop my freefall.
Me
Heyy. No, that’s ok. Not to worry. I’m in back-to-back sessions tomorrow 9am to 2pm. Thanks anyway.
Bea
You sure?
Me
Yep. I’m ok. Just a long day and could really use a glass of cold Rombauer atm.
Bea
Ok. Take care of yourself, girl. Remember I’ll see you on Saturday. Love you XO.
Me
Yep. Love you too. See you Saturday.
I respond to an email request for clinical records and assessment on another patient, then pocket my phone and head home. I pull into the driveway and peer up at the dark outline of Pearson House through my glasses.I’m home.I remember too little about the drive, which always leaves me feeling ill at ease. It means my head was elsewhere and not on my driving. And it’s happening too often these days.
I kill the engine, grab my things, and quickly walk up to the porch while clicking the small black fob for the Wagon over my shoulder. I feel a thrum of appreciation to past-me for remembering to leave the porch and entryway lights on this morning. I enter the house and am greeted by the clean, familiar smell of the eucalyptus candle I burned the evening before. I set my bag down on the entryway table and kick off my black heels. I march directly back to the walk-in closet for my daily ritual of changing out of my therapist clothes and into my comfy loungewear and slippers.
Five minutes later, hair in a bun, and once again blissfully braless, I emerge and make my way to the kitchen, humming softly as I go. The hum stops abruptly in my throat when my eyes fall on the corner of the glinting granite countertop. There sits a lone, cold glass of white wine. Freshly poured. Waiting.
A little shudder runs down my spine and I don’t breathe for a long minute.
