Sipping my coffee, I glanced over my schedule for the day, trying to prepare for the sessions I had. My job was the only thing I still enjoyed. It was an escape from my own sadness in some weird way, and instead, I could help other people hold those feelings and find their way out. It was a bit delusional on my part, but it was working for me at the moment, so I had no desire to change.
I hid behind my mask to shield my pain, to protect me from the prying eyes of the world. It was both a blessing and a hindrance. At some point, I was going to have to drop it in order to heal. Nothing ever grew when contained.
"Knock, knock," Doris, our receptionist, chimed as she stopped in my doorway.
"Hey. How's it going this morning?"
"Not too bad, thanks for the coffee you placed on my desk. I see you have a full day, and a new one. I'll let you know when your client's here."
"Thanks, Doris," I smiled, "and you're welcome."
Doris was my lifesaver. She took care of all the scheduling, billing, and managing the files, leaving the other therapists and me to concentrate only on clients. They should really make therapists take business classes as part of their degree program. It wasn't a skill that came naturally to a lot of us empathetic people. Thankfully, we had Doris to keep our heads straight.
Finishing my responses to all my emails, I scrolled aimlessly on Pinterest, lost in a haze of aesthetically pleasing boards. I mostly pinned things I pretended I would do, but never actually did anything with them. It was a habitual thing, it seemed. Dreaming of a life I could never have, not anymore. At one time, it had been as picture perfect as a Pinterest board.
Shaking away the moroseness, I put my barriers in place to shut everything out of my mind for a few hours. While useful and necessary, it was exhausting by the end of the day, leaving me emotionally and mentally drained. Compassion fatigue was a real thing.
While I liked all my clients, some were always easier to like, making those sessions richer. Therapy was effective even without a natural connection, but when you felt that click, it was magic. The sessions transformed into these places where anything could happen. I lived for those sessions.
My first few clients this morning were long-term ones I'd been working with for a few years. Knowing their histories well, and the goals they were working on, made it less prep work beforehand. It was an incredible experience to maintain some clients long-term because you got to witness different levels of growth from them throughout their lives. When they celebrated, you celebrated with them and watching those clients make positive choices or use their coping skills, it made the fatigue worth it.
And when all you had was your job, it had to be worth it.
* * *
"It soundslike you're at a place in your life where you're ready for some change but unsure what direction to start."
"Yeah… that sounds about right. I just don't know where to start."
"How about this week, you focus on visualizing where you want to be and identify different plans to get there? We can review them together in your next session."
"Yeah, I can do that. Thanks, Loren."
"You're welcome, but you did the work. I just got to witness it. Good job sharing today. I'll see you next week, okay?"
"Yep. Bye."
Walking my fourth client out the door, I hurried back to finish my documentation on the session. A ‘therapist hour' was fifty minutes, leaving you a precious ten to document and do anything else necessary, like pee. It was often a mad dash to do that in an office full of women. Never failed, no matter where you were, there was always a line for the bathroom.
One more client before lunch, and it was my new intake. Reviewing the form, I was able to give myself an idea of what to expect.
Client I.M.:
Teenage girl with a history of trauma.
Suffering from panic attacks, anxiety, depression, and potential PTSD.
Will be accompanied by her father.
Trauma clients were tricky and had to be handled with care. So many clients didn't return after the initial session because of this. Coming to therapy for the first time was difficult enough. Making them feel bad only led them to have a bad association with treatment and never want to try again. I strove to make it as comfortable as possible because I hated losing people who had bravely taken that first step to healing.
Especially, when it was something I currently failed at.
Opening the door to the waiting room, I became momentarily stunned by a man standing against the wall. His head was downcast, hands in his pockets, and one foot crossed over the other. His obsidian hair covered his face hiding his eyes as dark stubble lightly peppered his face. He had a presence about him that drew my attention, and I really wanted to see what he was hiding.
This reaction to him shocked me. I hadn't been affected by a man in years. Regaining my composure, I reminded myself I was in a place of business, my place of business. Pulling my shoulders back, I turned to address the teenage girl, trying to ignore the alluring man in the corner. I hadn't even seen his face, but I couldn't quit staring at him. I wasn't used to feeling this way. It unnerved me, and I didn't like it. Clearing my throat, I hoped I wouldn't sound as wanton as I was feeling.
"Imogen."