A Disability

I liked - almost loved - my new counselor. So I was horrified the first time I forgot an appointment. I apologized abjectly, with the usual feelings of shame and impotence. It happened several times. Desperately, I tried different ways of reminding myself. I begged her to show me what I could do differently.
She told me that I subconsciously wanted to miss. How could that be? I couldn't make her understand how longingly I looked forward to each chance to talk to her. If I really wanted to come, obviously I would remember.
"I'll help you by raising the stakes," she said. "The next time you miss, you'll have to pay full price."
I was terrified. How could I remember? What else could I do?
I'll never forget that week. Every day, I jerked, adrenaline flooding my chest. Today? No. The weakness of relief left me shaky. As the day approached, these panics were more frequent. On the day, I had a homeschool meeting, then choir practice. I must leave practice precisely on time.
The appointment was on my wall calendar, in my purse calendar. I told my children, tied a string around my wrist, and told my friends at the meeting. "I must leave immediately after practice! Please don't let me forget!"
All morning I jerked to attention at irregular intervals, fearfully checking the clock.
One of the attacks of adrenaline occurred on the way home. And this time it was too late. I realized, to my horror, I had stood and talked after practice, with never a thought of the appointment, and it was now too late. I can't describe the tears, or the helplessness. What was wrong with me?
At home, hands shaking, I called the counselor's office. Her receptionist answered. I detailed for her, fighting tears, all the steps I had taken to ensure that I would not fail this time. "What," I asked miserably, "could I have done that I didn't do?"
"I don't know," she said, "but I am instructed to bill you for the full $60."
"I'll can only pay $5 a month," I replied dully. "I won't be back until the bill is paid in full."
In truth, I never paid, and I never went back. No one ever contacted me. I am sure this proved to the counselor's satisfaction that I really had not cared.
As for me, it took a long time to get over it, if in fact I am over it, and I realized that I had a genuine disability. Like many others who must cope with disabilities, I was going to require crutches of some sort. Clearly no one was going to help me. Somehow, I must help myself.
To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire