I look away from the computer screen to the tape recorder sitting on my desk. Ever since I started holding therapy sessions in my home, I have been recording every single one of them. I ask all patients for permission prior to recording the sessions, although even when they tell me no, I still record them.

I find the tape recordings of the therapy sessions to be extremely helpful. Yes, I could take notes as many therapists do, but those could be potentially inaccurate. Tape recordings don’t lie.

Right now, I use the tapes to refresh my memory, but I envision that someday, at the end of my career, I might listen to the tapes and write a memoir of my experiences.

But not now. Not for decades. I have many, many years left in my career.

On the cassette case for each patient, I write the patient’s initials, the number of the session, and the date. The case currently lying next to the tape recorder reads “EJ #136” and then yesterday’s date.

EJ is Susan’s son. She asked me to work with him about two years ago, stating that he had “no direction in life.” Within one session, I had diagnosed EJ with narcissistic personality disorder—the characteristics of this diagnosis include a long-term pattern of exaggerated feelings of self-importance, cravings for admiration, and impaired empathy.

I press play on the tape recorder and listen to the session from yesterday one more time:

“How did your job interview go?”

“Oh, it went great. They loved me. I’m sure they’ll be begging me to come work there. But honestly, I don’t think I could do it. Everyone at the company seems so stupid. I don’t think I could work in a place where I’m surrounded by stupidity all day.”

The moment I first met this man, I immediately disliked him. But I had already met Susan and agreed to see her son. I considered telling her no, but I had given her my word. And I did believe that I could help him.

Unfortunately, I do not believe it any longer. I cannot help this man. He has no insight into his shortcomings and he never will. He has no desire to change. And now that his mother is no longer paying me, I have ample excuse to terminate our sessions.

I will never have to see him again.

Chapter 7

TRICIA

Present Day

A bologna sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise is not exactly the best dinner I’ve ever had in my life, but it fills me up and leaves me feeling only slightly nauseous. Ethan has highbrow taste when it comes to food and always manages to score a table at the trendiest new restaurants, but he demolishes the bologna sandwich without complaint.

“Do you feel better now that you’ve eaten?” he asks me.