"Fuck,"I growl, pinching the bridge of my nose. This was not the life I imagined for myself all those years ago when I was younger. Before the reality of life slapped me in the face.
Thinking of all the years of hurt, I place my head into my hand and let out a choked sob at the very real possibility that I'll never have what I want: true love. I cast a look over, seeing the cookies slowly baking, illuminated in the light of the oven.
I shouldn't be having these alone. I should be sharing these with a woman in bed, laughing and making love all night.God, is it too much to ask?
I don't want to, but I embrace the pain, letting myself cry until the oven's timer goes off. Feeling irreparably empty.
Chapter three
Favorite Feminist Therapist
Afteratorturousnightwhere 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 toleave 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'djustfound 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 mypractice. 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 wouldneverin 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,nowwe 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 evenIdon’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, seeinghisname.
Dr. Alexander Richardson.
