Day 1: Diagnosis

I started the day by preparing his usual breakfast: eggs-scrambled, bacon, a steaming cup of English breakfast tea and a banana on the side. I set the table as I always do - the fork half an inch away from the right side of the plate and the knife half an inch away on the left side. When it is ready, I stand on the right side of the table with my hands crossed in front of my apron and smile as he enters the dining room. “You almost had it perfect today, you forgot the napkin, but no worries I’ll go easy on you this time. But don’t forget it tomorrow,” he warned. I nodded, relieved that no punishment would be given for my incredibly stupid mistake. “I don’t want you coming home late again either. I expect you to be home when I get off work and when you aren’t here I get angry and I don’t like punishing you baby, I love you, but I have to do what I have to do so you can learn,” he explained. “I..I..I understand completely honey, it won’t happen again, I learned my lesson last night.” “Good.” Like clockwork he finished his breakfast by 8am and quietly got up, kissed my cheek, and went off to work. I stared out the window blankly, dreading the day, hoping that my client wouldn’t hold me up tonight like the one last night did. My right cheek stung at the thought of his palm. I suppressed the memory of it.

…

I got to the office around 9:30 AM, my first client already waiting for me in the parking lot. She is a tall, decently attractive, 35-year-old woman who goes by the name of Lisa. Once a week, every Monday, at 9:45 AM we meet and discuss how her husband cheats on her with the same woman he met at a work conference 3 years ago. “I just don’t understand why he keeps going after her. I do everything I can. I cook all his favorite things. I changed my hair. I lost weight. I redecorated the house. I just don’t know what to do. I love him so much!” she weeped. I ramble with the same advice I give her any other Monday morning that she never listens to. My next client however is one that slowly is progressing and makes me thrilled to see. He is a short, lanky, 16 year old boy who goes by the name of Tyler. Tyler has survived 12 suicide attempts in the span of 12 months. If you can do the math, that means that he has attempted to take his life once each month. Was only hospitalized the last time he attempted because that was the only time someone found him. His parents are drug addicts and the only income that comes in is from his mom, who prostitutes herself. 11 out of the 12 times he attempted he simply woke up from being unconscious for 5 hours or more because his overdose/asphyxiation didn’t succeed and he never told anyone about it. The 12^th time he was found in the tub and only because his dad went in there to use the restroom. “How are you doing today Tyler?” I asked with a warm smile. “My foster mom found out I was suicidal and wants to trade me in. She promised me I would become a part of the family. She said I was too damaged and she doesn’t know how to raise a kid with so much baggage. I guess that makes me feel like a worthless piece of trash to put it plainly. That’s all drug addict kids are, trash that would have been more appreciated in a condom than a human being.” My heart broke into a thousand pieces like it does every week. I was interrupted when my phone suddenly started ringing. “I am so sorry Tyler, do you mind if I get this, it’s one of my other clients?” I asked. “Yeah sure, I guess.” “It’ll be just a moment”. As I walked out the door my phone stopped ringing. Damnit I missed it, but they did leave a voicemail. “Hey Uh, I just, I have to cancel my appointment today. I can’t talk about this again. I just can’t. I’ll see you next week.” *click*. I sighed with relief at the thought of not having the risk of being home late again tonight. “Sorry about that Tyler, now where were we?” “I am drug addict trash”. “Ah yes, I mean, no, no you are not Tyler, you are a bright young man who I know will achieve much in life. You have been played a rough card but we will figure this out together. Now where to start…hmm…why don’t you start by telling me why you have convinced yourself of this fact that being offspring of drug addicts makes you “trash?” ” He replied, “well gee I don’t know, that’s why I’m here. To understand why I’m all messed up and why I’d rather take my life than fix my life. I mean you’re the doctor, why don’t you tell me?” …And that’s when it hit me…Am I his doctor, or is he mine?

To be continued