The Wake-Up Call
Danielle's last patient was ten minutes late, but being at the end of her long day , a very long week, a longer month, and a too-long life those few minutes gave her a chance to breathe. The never-ending line of patients was crushing her. The sick irony was that her psychology training was throwing her down the chasm while pretending to be the healer who had all the answers.
When she sat with her patient, a middle-aged male, Henry T., she leaned forward and feigned to be concerned, the way she had been taught in her years of her doctorate training. Within the first minute, she had him sized up: avoidant personality, persistent dysthymia, complex post-traumatic stress. The works. But nothing particularly different from the dozen patients before him, nor the ones she would see next week, and forever.
But one moment struck her.
“...and I try and try to be a good husband, but I feel like everything I do is never good enough for her.”
It was not the mere statement - a common one - it was that she had just heard a woman intone the exact same words earlier in the afternoon - Sheila S.
Danielle sent Henry T. home with a Zoloft prescription, doubling the dose of his last one. Before she left her office, she was curious enough to peruse Sheila S.’s chart. Sure enough, she discovered that Sheila and Henry, although different last names, shared the same address.
She returned tp her apartment, poured herself a large glass of Pinot, and pondered the couple who were never good enough for each other. She knew that their mutually self- inflicted wounds would not be healed with Zoloft, nor would her glass of Pinot heal herself. She poured another glass.
If my patients could see me the way I am, they would demand their money back. Wait, no, they have insurance, right? So it’s all good, right?
She finished her second glass, and felt it soothing and settling her. For the moment, right? They think I can help them, but I can’t even help myself. I’m a hoax, But at least a decent actor. That I can be proud of, sipping a little bit of self-congratulation. She opened another bottle, feeling as good as she knew she would ever be. She raised a glass to her ex-husband, a toast to his ghost. “Everything I did was never good enough for you, Frank.” After drinking that one down, “Here’s to you, Frank...everything you did was never good enough for me.”
Yes, the perfect couple.
Sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning, Danielle awoke, head still buzzing and now beginning to ache. She barely made it to the toilet and had to wipe the floor with a mop. She sprayed an air freshener, turned on the fan, and shut the door. She set her head on the kitchen table and wept. I am such a phony.
Danielle counseled so many alcoholics, and she knew that she was at rock bottom. She knew enough to know that rock bottom could be a turning point. Still, she could not make that choice, ashamed to admit who she was. She had to hide, feared to be called out, despite her suffering.
What would my therapist tell me? Talk to someone. Start there. At three o’clock in the morning.
A thought popped up in her mind - go online. Find someone. When you are stuck at the bottom any motion is an upward motion.
Despite her misgivings, Danielle searched online counseling and therapy sites that were anonymous and available 24 hours. While they processed her credit card she kept repeating to herself, something is better than nothing. She had just guzzled $50 of wine. $50 for a therapist might be of better use.
“Hello, this is Sara. Who am I speaking with?”
“I am Danielle.”
“Good to be with you Danielle. How are you doing?”
“Not very well, Sara.” Danielle had a sudden urge to cut off the conversation then and there. Had it not been for the gentle kindness of the faceless voice, she would have easily thrown away the fifty dollars.
“I am so sorry, Danielle. I hear despair in your voice.”
Was it that obvious? A bit of anger flared inside her. This Sara probably has a script in front of her. Or maybe it was all AI-generated. Why could I expect anything for my cheap date with this unknown voice?
“May I ask you a few questions? You are always free to decline.”
“Fine...” Her teenage retort startled Danielle as it fell out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it that way, Sara.”
“Name me his name.” Danielle startled. “Who?”
“The one who hurt you.”
“Do you mean my father?” How would she know that? That voice... “Yes, if you say so.”
Her tears welled on hearing this. There was a long pause on the other side, as her sobbing continued for a long while. Finally, Sara’s voice continued.
“You know what you have to do, don’t you?”
“No.” Her anger sparked but was gone in an instant. “Yes.” She knew what she had to do, but she had not the strength.
“The hardest thing is the most necessary thing. You know what it is.”
Danielle gathered her courage. “Yes. To forgive him.” She knew she had to do it for her sake, not for his.
* * *
She woke up in her bed the following morning. The headache was a memory, but the empty bottles in the trash corroborated the late-night “therapy” session. She searched for her phone and redialed her last call. It rang and rang as if no one was home. She remembered that when she dialed last night it went straight to the online site. That was odd, but she left it at that and decided she would try again later. She wanted to talk with Sara.
Despite many failed efforts, she finally got hold of a man’s voice. She asked for Sara, or anyone else on the online site who knew of her.
“Ma’am, I have no idea of no therapy or no website. I’m sorry.”
“Can you tell me who am I speaking with?”
“Yes ma’am, I’m Ernie Vatter,”
“Where are you located, Mr. Vatter?”
“Metropolitan Mental Health Hospital, Atlanta Georgia. Where you calling from, ma’am?”
* * *
Danielle never found “Sara”, and wondered if she really existed. As blasted as she had been those early hours, her mind could have created the whole story. And perhaps, she conjectured, it could be a troubling sign pointing towards psychosis.
After three attempts at Inpatient Alcohol Rehabilitation, she finally joined Alcoholics Anonymous and has been sober for eight years. She sold her practice and created a non-profit based on her belief that forgiveness is a gift that one gives to oneself. She helped many crime and assault victims to navigate the very difficult task of forgiveness. But she insisted that those who were able to overcome the terrible traumas which they endured through forgiveness was the best, and perhaps only way forward.
Her PhD. Degree certainly counted for something, but living through it herself meant far more. She learned, and then taught, how to forgive oneself... and that made all the difference.
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