In Violet's Wake. Robin Devereaux-Nelson

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       PRESENTING PROBLEM:

      Violet is an intelligent separated thirty-nine-year-old white woman who is self-referred to this practice. She states that she recently acquired a job as an executive’s assistant at a real estate company but also states she does not like the position. Violet is seeking therapy because she is recently separated from her sixth husband, Marshall. She states she is not sleeping well and has been feeling anxious in general “for a long time.” She states she has benefited from talk therapy in the past and wishes to work on, in her words, “identity and abandonment” issues. When asked why she did not return to her former therapist, Violet stated that he did not understand her. She refused to discuss this further.

       HISTORY:

      Prior to the initial intake appointment, Violet signed a waiver releasing her past therapy records to this office. Patient notes from a Dr. Eric Coulter have been received and reviewed, as well as several group therapy notes from the Center for Awakening. Violet was born in Saginaw, Michigan, to working-class parents. She is an only child. She has had significant issues with her mother and her uninvolved, yet present, father. She reported being an awkward, overweight teenager with few friends. Patient notes state Violet was “moody” and taken to bouts of self-centered dreaminess, and was an average, unmotivated student whose greatest interest was theatre and art.

      She first sought therapy while married to her first husband, Winston Montgomery, to “work out childhood issues.” The first husband was an affluent entrepreneur some years her senior. He died three years into the marriage. Violet continued therapy with Dr. Coulter into the second marriage to a restaurateur, Costa Pavlos, until Mr. Pavlos refused to pay for continued therapy, after which Violet attended several group therapy sessions at the Center for Awakening, a new age, self-exploration counseling endeavor.

       MEDICAL PROBLEMS:

      Nothing significant noted.

       CURRENT PRECSRIPTION MEDICATIONS:

      Client states she has previously taken Xanax and Ambien on an as-needed basis, but that her prescription has lapsed.

       MOOD AND AFFECT:

      At first impression, Violet presents as slightly narcissistic, with a need for admiration and inflated self-involvement. There is a sense of a lack of empathy when discussing past relationships (with her six husbands) and parents, whom, she states, “never understood” her. However, there is a sweetness and genuineness about her that is charming, and her lack of empathy does not come off as either cruel or deliberate. She is attractive and carefully (albeit somewhat seductively) dressed, articulate, and seems to be quite intelligent.

       SESSION NOTES:

      Violet and I went over past case notes and talked briefly about her recent separation from her sixth husband, who she describes as sweet but distant and unhappy. She says her decision to leave him is “difficult” but “necessary” due to her “emotional and spiritual growth” and “realizations” about herself and her needs. Our time concluded at this juncture.

       TREATMENT RECOMMENDATIONS:

      Therapy sessions will be set for twice per month, unless circumstances require more (or less) time. Violet has been referred to her medical doctor for prescriptions of anti-anxiety medication and to make a recommendation of whether any other medications are needed to assist her with sleeplessness.

      Yolanda H. Malik, LCSW

      Champoor and Associates

chapter 5

      Marshall’s cell phone rang at 8:00 AM on Sunday morning, jarring him out of a hard sleep. Truth was, he’d slept most of Saturday, nursing his raging hangover. Thank God he’d picked a Friday night to be an asshole. Gave him the weekend to get straight. He pulled the phone off the coffee table and looked at the caller ID. He didn’t recognize the number, so he let it go to voicemail and settled back on the sofa, where he’d been sleeping since Violet had left. He just couldn’t bring himself to lie in the bed they’d shared.

      The phone went off again. Marshall snatched it up and flipped it open.

      “What?” he barked.

      “Sonny boy, it’s Costa.”

      Marshall ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, do you know what time it is? What the hell do you want?”

      “I let you sleep in my place and feed you and drink with you and you godda be an asshole?”

      Marshall swung his legs off the sofa and sat up, disliking the slightly dizzy feeling in his head. “Okay, man,” he said, taking a deep breath. “What’s up? Is that better?”

      “Sure.”

      “So, what do you want?”

      “I have something you godda see.”

      Marshall looked at the mess around him, at his wrinkled clothes, the empties on the coffee table. “I’m . . . busy.”

      “Right.” Marshall heard Costa take a slurp of something. “Look,” the man continued, “I lied to Angelina about why I’m not at church, so don’t bullshit a bullshitter, all right?” Marshall sighed. “I know what you’re going through,” Costa continued. “So, put your fucking coat on and come outside. I’m sitting in your driveway.”

      Marshall was off the sofa like a shot. He pulled the front door open. “What the fuck, man?” he said into the phone. Costa was looking at him through the windshield of his Ford Ranger.

      “I told you. I’m in your driveway.”

      Marshall sputtered. “How did you know where I lived, you fat fuck?”

      Marshall stood shuddering on the front stoop in his stocking feet, glaring at Costa through the windshield. He watched the big man reach down on the seat, then hold up a small rectangle-shaped object so Marshall could see it.

      “Where’s your wallet, huh, sonny boy?” Costa was grinning.

      “Son of a bitch,” Marshall muttered.

      “You’re gonna freeze,” Costa said. “Now, go put on your goddamned coat and shoes and go for a ride with me.”

      “Whatever,” Marshall mumbled. He turned to go in.

      “And, sonny boy?” Costa said into the phone. Marshall turned back and looked at the older man from the doorway. “Comb your hair. You look like shit.”

      When Marshall climbed in the truck a few minutes later, Costa handed him a Styrofoam container of coffee. “Cream. Sugar,” he said.

      “How’d you know?”

      “You look like cream and sugar.”

      “What the fuck does that mean?”

      Costa chuckled. “Don’t get your underpants in a twist, sonny boy. Wasn’t an СКАЧАТЬ