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Authors: Rachel Reiland
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Padgett came on the line. My Pavlovian wilting response to his voice made me even angrier.
“You sonofabitch!” I was screaming in tears, and the woman at the information desk in the lobby was staring at me through the glass double doors. “What is this bullshit? Huh? These fucking lies. Why didn't you just have her write ‘asshole’ and be done with it?”
“Rachel,” he replied calmly, seemingly having ignored the outburst, “it's a report compiled from questions you answered. It doesn't fully define you.”
“Then you admit it's a pack of lies? Huh? Will you admit it?”
“I didn't say it was inaccurate. I said it was incomplete.”
“Did you read it?” I was whining now, pleading for sympathy. “Did you? My God—the words. ‘Manipulative.’ ‘Psychotic.’ ‘Dependent.’ Goddamnit, Dr. Padgett, do you really hate me that much?”
“You know I don't hate you, Rachel. You have serious problems, but I don't hate you, and you aren't an asshole. We'll work on it together. Obviously we're going to need to discuss this report in much further detail.”
His voice was a soothing tonic again, almost hypnotic, entrancing. I needed him. Right then. I needed him to bump his other patient and talk to me, soothe me with his healing words for hours as he had the first day we'd met.
“Could we meet right now?” I begged him.
“I have appointments the rest of today and a full day tomorrow. Maybe Regina could set something up for you on Thursday.”
“Not Thursday,” I demanded, my hysterical tears peaked to crescendo. “Now, goddamnit. Now! I've gotta see you now! ”
“I'm sorry. That just isn't possible. We can discuss this at our next session.”
“I've got news for you, asshole. There's not gonna be a next session. How dare you hand me a piece of shit report like that and then just turn your back on me? You knew it would kill me. Well, fuck you and your Freudian bullshit. I quit!”
In a firm tone of finality, he simply replied, “What you do is up to you. I hope you stay. I think I can help you, but it's your choice to decide if you can trust me or not. I really can't discuss this now. We can explore it more in our next session. Good-bye, Rachel.”
The phone clicked back to the receptionist, and I promptly slammed down the receiver, and the sound echoed through the foyer. He may as well have just plunged a knife through my heart. My head was spinning. Had I been too out of line, or had I not told him off nearly enough? Did I hate his guts and not care if he dropped off the face of the earth, or did I need him more than anyone I had ever known?
Dropping down to my hands and knees, I slowly gathered the contents of my purse, remaining frozen there for a while in uncontrollable tears, shrieking and shaking wildly like a rabid animal. The information desk clerk, clearly disturbed by this sight, got up and approached the double doors to further investigate. Humiliated, I pulled myself together and somehow, miraculously, managed to start driving myself home.
The hysterics and profane epithets of betrayal, the alternating pains of righteous indignation and acute embarrassment and shame nearly drove me over the edge. Goddamnit. I was crazy. Totally crazy. The hospital and Dr. Padgett had made me worse, cut me loose. I'd snapped.
At home Tim was on my side, listening to my account of the story. He, too, thought Weebles had engaged in outrageous character assassination. Yet that was small consolation. Dr. Padgett sided with her. Dr. Padgett was the one who counted. Already I was addicted to the man, and I hated myself for it.
Early the next morning, I called his office and sheepishly asked Regina to go ahead and schedule me the Thursday appointment, if it were still available. It was. Dr. Padgett had left it open.
Chapter 4
The two days between Tuesday's turbulent phone call and Thursday's session seemed like an eternity. I was despondent at the contents of the report, whose labels were beginning
“You sonofabitch!” I was screaming in tears, and the woman at the information desk in the lobby was staring at me through the glass double doors. “What is this bullshit? Huh? These fucking lies. Why didn't you just have her write ‘asshole’ and be done with it?”
“Rachel,” he replied calmly, seemingly having ignored the outburst, “it's a report compiled from questions you answered. It doesn't fully define you.”
“Then you admit it's a pack of lies? Huh? Will you admit it?”
“I didn't say it was inaccurate. I said it was incomplete.”
“Did you read it?” I was whining now, pleading for sympathy. “Did you? My God—the words. ‘Manipulative.’ ‘Psychotic.’ ‘Dependent.’ Goddamnit, Dr. Padgett, do you really hate me that much?”
“You know I don't hate you, Rachel. You have serious problems, but I don't hate you, and you aren't an asshole. We'll work on it together. Obviously we're going to need to discuss this report in much further detail.”
His voice was a soothing tonic again, almost hypnotic, entrancing. I needed him. Right then. I needed him to bump his other patient and talk to me, soothe me with his healing words for hours as he had the first day we'd met.
“Could we meet right now?” I begged him.
“I have appointments the rest of today and a full day tomorrow. Maybe Regina could set something up for you on Thursday.”
“Not Thursday,” I demanded, my hysterical tears peaked to crescendo. “Now, goddamnit. Now! I've gotta see you now! ”
“I'm sorry. That just isn't possible. We can discuss this at our next session.”
“I've got news for you, asshole. There's not gonna be a next session. How dare you hand me a piece of shit report like that and then just turn your back on me? You knew it would kill me. Well, fuck you and your Freudian bullshit. I quit!”
In a firm tone of finality, he simply replied, “What you do is up to you. I hope you stay. I think I can help you, but it's your choice to decide if you can trust me or not. I really can't discuss this now. We can explore it more in our next session. Good-bye, Rachel.”
The phone clicked back to the receptionist, and I promptly slammed down the receiver, and the sound echoed through the foyer. He may as well have just plunged a knife through my heart. My head was spinning. Had I been too out of line, or had I not told him off nearly enough? Did I hate his guts and not care if he dropped off the face of the earth, or did I need him more than anyone I had ever known?
Dropping down to my hands and knees, I slowly gathered the contents of my purse, remaining frozen there for a while in uncontrollable tears, shrieking and shaking wildly like a rabid animal. The information desk clerk, clearly disturbed by this sight, got up and approached the double doors to further investigate. Humiliated, I pulled myself together and somehow, miraculously, managed to start driving myself home.
The hysterics and profane epithets of betrayal, the alternating pains of righteous indignation and acute embarrassment and shame nearly drove me over the edge. Goddamnit. I was crazy. Totally crazy. The hospital and Dr. Padgett had made me worse, cut me loose. I'd snapped.
At home Tim was on my side, listening to my account of the story. He, too, thought Weebles had engaged in outrageous character assassination. Yet that was small consolation. Dr. Padgett sided with her. Dr. Padgett was the one who counted. Already I was addicted to the man, and I hated myself for it.
Early the next morning, I called his office and sheepishly asked Regina to go ahead and schedule me the Thursday appointment, if it were still available. It was. Dr. Padgett had left it open.
Chapter 4
The two days between Tuesday's turbulent phone call and Thursday's session seemed like an eternity. I was despondent at the contents of the report, whose labels were beginning
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