Get Me Out of Here by Rachel Reiland

Padgett would have to put me there.

Chapter 5
    I'd been outside the house raking leaves when Tim called out to me from the front porch.
    “Rachel! Telephone!”
    Damnit, I thought. I'll never get these stupid leaves raked up.
    “It's Dr. Padgett.”
    I dropped the rake as my heart raced with excitement. Imagine, Dr. Padgett calling me! Maybe he wanted to tell me how worried sick he was about me. Maybe I'd convinced him to admit me on the psych floor again. I ran as quickly as I could and breathlessly picked up the phone.
    But he spoke neither of worry nor of hospital wards. He was calling to say he wanted Tim to accompany me to my next session. I was confused and disappointed. Why did he want Tim there? As it was, I only had the doctor to myself for three painfully short fifty-minute “hours” a week—not nearly enough. The last thing I wanted was to be forced to share my time with Dr. Padgett with Tim. I was overwhelmed with jealousy until a possibility came to mind. Maybe he wanted Tim there to drive the car home if he chose to admit me as an inpatient.
    I wished Tuesday was now so I could find out.

    Tim pretended to focus on a pamphlet about depression as he fidgeted in the waiting room. I stared at him with burning resentment. This wasn't a trip to the obstetrician. He didn't belong here. It was my place. Tim knew this, as I'd been griping about it since Dr. Padgett's call.
    The doctor appeared with his customary broad smile and gave Tim a firm handshake. He shook Tim's hand! I seethed with envy. Dr. Padgett had never ever so much as touched my hand. He strictly prohibited any physical contact whatsoever (another of his many rules), and here he was shaking Tim's hand.
    The doctor invited both of us into his office. By then I was ready to explode. Dr. Padgett sat behind his immaculate desk instead of his usual chair.
    Then he began speaking to both of us. “As you both know, Rachel has been completely out of control these past few weeks. Losing contact with reality. Losing awareness of her responsibilities. Every act of self-destruction just seems to fuel this; to make it worse …”
    My ears perked up. This had all the earmarks of a preadmission announcement .
    “… I just can't be available all the time, and neither can you, Tim. This is becoming a dangerous situation …”
    I crossed my fingers. This was music to my ears. Please put me back in the ward, Dr. Padgett, please!
    “… which is completely unacceptable. Rachel, you have it within yourself to regain and maintain control. But you aren't doing that. I can't conduct psychoanalysis with a child in tantrum. You have to participate too. You have to be able to find some insights. And you can't do that when you've lost all control. I'm going to have to draw the line here. If you can't get it together, therapy just can't have any benefit. It's accomplishing nothing and costing a lot of money. If you can't bring yourself to at least some degree of rational reality, I see no other choice but to temporarily suspend our therapy.”
    Numb weightlessness and shock consumed me, a knot of nausea balling in my stomach. A stinging sensation as if I had been slapped in the face. Hard. I had really blown it. I'd pushed too far, and now Dr. Padgett was bailing out. How could he? I ought to kill myself , I fumed. It would serve the sonofabitch right for leading me on and then dumping me .
    Tim, meanwhile, was open-jawed in near panic, probably wondering how he could possibly manage my uncontrollable outbursts on his own. He, too, in a short time, had come to rely on Dr. Padgett.
    As if sensing this, Dr. Padgett continued firmly, “I told you, Rachel, that I will not abandon therapy, and I won't. This is a temporary break I'm talking about, just until you can show me you're ready to be an active part of therapy. If you can't manage that and your behavior becomes a threat to your own life or your family, I will commit you. But not to this hospital. If you can't afford