The Skeleton Cupboard by Tanya Byron Read Free Book Online Page A

shock.”
    I couldn’t stop crying. I wanted to apologize to her, ask for another chance. I couldn’t get the words out.
    â€œThis sort of thing happens. Generally not so early on, though, so I’m sorry that it happened to you.”
    I smiled and shook my head.
    â€œTell me as much as you can remember about the session.” She handed me a glass of water.
    As I took it, I could see my hand shaking. I took a deep breath and tried to describe as much as I could remember: estranged from three children; obsessional love for youngest child, only son; ability to cry at will; my eyes; his knife; Freud and the penis. Shock does odd things to memory and I’m not sure how much she’d have understood. It all sounded bizarre.
    I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
    She raised her eyebrows.
    â€œI know I have messed up big-time. It won’t happen again.”
    â€œHow did you mess up?”
    I took a deep breath. “I should have seen it coming. I know this looks bad.” Chris opened her mouth to speak, but I had to keep talking: I just couldn’t bear to hear what she was going to say. I kept saying sorry.
    She handed me another tissue. “Your nose is running.”
    Embarrassed, I blew my nose.
    â€œI am not clear why you are apologizing.”
    This was torture.
    â€œFor messing up with the patient, for causing a scene in the department, for potentially compromising your reputation and the reputation of the clinical course, for…”
    She raised her hand to silence me. “Did you know he had sociopathic tendencies?”
    â€œNo. Sorry.”
    â€œDid you know he was armed with a knife?”
    Again I shook my head. “No.”
    â€œWhat’s with all the mea culpa? When I interviewed you, I thought you were more confident.” Chris sat back in her chair, took a gulp of coffee. “Please don’t do a Mother Teresa on me, and please, please don’t next pull out your sword and fall on it. OK?”
    I took a deep breath. “I just want you to see that I am worth another chance.”
    Chris pushed a critical incident form across the desk toward me and handed me a pen. “Let’s start with you filling this out.”
    I did. My hand was shaking.
    Chris leaned over to look. “You need to write that bit out again—you’ve joined the ‘l’ and ‘i’ together so they look like a ‘u.’ He didn’t attack you with a ‘fuck knife,’ did he?”
    I looked up at her and saw a deadpan face. Her mouth twitched and we both started laughing.
    â€œOK, I don’t expect you to speak, but just try to listen. Mistake number one: They don’t have to cry in the first session for you to be doing your job well. Leave that to the social workers.
    â€œMistake number two: Think about where you put the chairs and where you sit. If you need to ask them to excuse you as you make your way past them to push the panic button, then you are screwed.
    â€œMistake number three: If you ever feel out of your depth, then find a reason to leave and leave. This is a job, not a calling. If you want to save with self-sacrifice, then find a nunnery.
    â€œMistake number four: If they want to show you something, do not take your eyes off them as they reach for it. We do telling in our profession, not showing. Leave that to the drama therapists.
    â€œMistake number five: This was mine. I should have made sure that the department had screened this sociopath before you got him.
    â€œMistake number six: Don’t discount Sigmund, because it seems you pulled him out in your hour of need and he came through for you. You crudely emasculated your patient and then cleverly rejoiced in his switchblade penis.
    â€œOverall, well done. You did better than I would have expected from someone so inexperienced. Take a long weekend off and I’ll see you next Wednesday.”
    So she made one mistake and I made five,