I remember meeting you on my second visit to the medical clinic. My doctor was adamant I needed counseling, and he made sure you met me. You came out of your office and held my hands. You were very sweet. You gave me reason to believe that this part of my life, at least, would be alright.
You helped me get a referral for an out of network provider. I appreciated that so much. I know it’s normally not done. And when I called the first time to extend the referral, you were equally supportive. But after that I feel I may have dropped out of your mind.
I called again a second time. It was about two months later. You acted a little surprised. You asked if I thought therapy was useful. “Do you think this is even helping you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m trying to have a child.” I thought you would understand that meant I was scared. Because my first child had died. That was my whole reason for needing therapy.
You put in a much longer referral that time, and it didn’t expire until recently. I called again last month, and this time I almost cried. You remembered my name, made it sound as if you remembered me. So I told you I was pregnant. Then you asked if this was my first child.
I don’t actually fault you for forgetting. I know you see a lot of people. I was a little impressed you remembered my name. But when you present yourself as a safe person, you need to actually be one. Your irresponsibility is triggering. I would have been less hurt if you had said you needed to look at my file.
I hung up from that phone call in a weird kind of mood. I realized I should have said something. You probably still don’t understand.
But sometimes I’m exhausted. And you chose to work in mental health. You’re supposed to be the responsible one. Know better. Do better.
