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 forthree 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 isunrelentingon 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 amnotwrong.
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—heis 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 toeverdo 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 absolutelygorgeous!” 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. Butlook 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 theperfectclient. She's quite the salacious case, too.
