TAIA BOOKS

4/24/2024

I attended a couple of sessions with my therapist from the psychiatry department. The first session felt to me like a complete waste of my time at first. I had to answer many questions to decide how to “graduate” me back. I didn’t like the word graduate from therapy. Maybe I didn’t like it because during that time, I didn’t like many other things in my life, in the city, in the country, and in the world. As I was reflecting on my dislikes, my therapist said that I have moderate depression and praised me for coming to see him earlier than most people. I wanted to ask him how most people come to see him if, even with my moderate depression, I had a hard time deciding what to wear and had no patience to do my hair and makeup my usual way.

In fact, I was so distracted and had a hard time deciding that I had to drive twice the parking lot to find a place part. That’s really out of my character. And I drove twice, not because I couldn’t find a spot to park, but because I didn’t know on which spot to park. There are too many options. That alone was a sign that I really had to see a therapist. I’m glad I did. With the therapist, I was able to discuss things that truly bothered me, and I was afraid to share them with my husband, my family, and friends. I discussed with the therapist what they were doing to me at work and the psychological abuse I had to go through just because I dared to stand up for patients.

I told the therapist about a Dad calling about his son’s leg pain. It’s constantly bothering his son; it’s getting worse. He came every month to show his son to a doctor and told that it was a growing pain. Yes, I could see in his record that he came every month. But the pain got worse. I told Dad there is this excellent doctor I trust to evaluate difficult cases. Dad agreed to come. And the good doctor checked the boy, sent him for blood work, which was never done with other doctors, and said that he suspected cancer. Which was later confirmed by the bloodwork. For six months, Dad brought his son to the clinic, and other doctors did nothing. Then I had a Mom with her son having a fever of 103 for 11 days. And nothing was done for him. Doctors said it was a viral infection and no treatment was needed. When I got to talk to Mom, the boy lost weight, looked pale, and had dark circles around his eyes. I sent her to the good doctor, and sure enough, he placed the boy on the right antibiotic, and he got better fast. Then I told my therapist about another Dad who cried on the phone because he was trying to get an appointment for his sick child, and everyone before me told him no, nothing today, nothing tomorrow, nothing this week, nothing this month. When I started talking to him, he was already sobbing. A man is crying, trying to get help for his child. I helped him to see a good doctor today. I tell the therapist all these bother me so much, including those managers who play their games on me.

My therapist listens, and he says, “I’m sorry you have to go through this.” If I told my husband everything, he would probably say, quit the job now. But I like taking care of patients. Who’s going to help them if I leave?

“What else is bothering you?” My therapist asked. I told him that one of my friends really changed. It scares me. And what scares me the most is that one day, I might see her homeless. I need to help her. I’m trying to see her, but every time I see her, she looks different, and her stories about her life scare me. She gained so much weight. She used to be slender. The other day, she declined to meet with me because she had gained so much weight that she had started to avoid people. She drinks wine and eats bread.

The last time we met, she told me how she met with men she found on the dating app to have sex. Sometimes 2-3 different men in a week. I’m even afraid to ask if she’s paying them or if they are paying her. When I see her, I have to make sure to watch my face and not look too surprised or show her how scared I am by her stories. I asked her if she used protection. She says no. I beg her to check herself for STDs. Good heavens. I ask her to get checked for STDs.

She used to be like me. We became friends because we were similar in our beliefs and understanding. We were both married, had children, were slender, dressed modestly, people called us beautiful, and we attended church. I still was the same. Nothing changed with me. But she divorced her husband because she “didn’t have any urge to have sex with him,” then she started dating because she got tired of being alone. First, she would sleep with her ex-husband’s friends, who, after sex with her, suddenly felt burning loyalty to her husband, like they couldn’t betray him. That made her cry, drink wine, eat her favorite bread, and feel more lonely.

Then, she started meeting men on dating apps. I told her that they were damaged goods with wounded egos who wanted to take advantage of women. She didn’t believe me. She met with them, slept with them, and then found out sooner or later that they were not good men. But the cycle continued. My friend grew bitter and sad. She cried. She sobbed, talking about them, them worthless people. I was in shock. I was shocked that she had changed so much from a happy, bubbly girl with soft features she turned into this heavy-set woman, this weird woman who cried over some damaged goods with lots of baggage. I was shocked at how damaged and vulnerable she became. Then she saw a therapist and a psychiatrist, was diagnosed with some personality disorder, and was put on medications. Those medications didn’t work, so she was switched to others. At some point, she was put on medications that are known to cause hypersexuality.

I can’t tell my husband about my friend who is like this because he would wonder why I see her. But I had my reasons why I was seeing her. My therapist listened and told me that I have to understand the boundaries. My wish and desire to help don’t always bring desirable results. I can only do what I can to help her, no more than allowed by the boundaries. That instant, I felt better. I felt that the burden I had in me fell off not only for my friend but for the patients. I was ready to move on and look for a job elsewhere, but only in non-profit organizations. At this time, I was done working for for-profit healthcare organizations. It’s time to switch back to non-profit healthcare.