The Ann Dawson Case

PART 2- Carla

"Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Templeton, I was held up in traffic. I'll tack on an extra ten minutes, if you can stay, free of charge. Please, take a seat. How are you today?" I asked, grabbing a pen and a clipboard. I don't usually jot down meaningful notes, but it made me look like I was paying attention.

"My husband is cheating on me," she said matter-of-factly.

"Did you catch him or did he tell you?" I asked, writing something on my clipboard. I wrote 'get groceries tomorrow', because I knew I was going to forget. I needed cereal and eggs.

"Neither, but he's been 'working late', and he's been very distant with me. You know, no intimacy and he barely acknowledges me when I'm in the room," Carla sighed, tears forming in her eyes. I passed her a box of tissues, and in return, she gave me a small smile of thanks.

"You should communicate with him. I don't think you should be worried, but you should still tell him about your fears," I told her in my psychiatrist voice, laughing in my head.

Of course he was cheating on her. She was a unique kind of crazy. Sure, she had the confidence problems known to many of my patients, but she was also judgmental and overall rude. Not that I was complaining about the two grand she gave me last month, but she was truly wasting our sessions being mean.

"I think he's cheating on me with Karen. She's the dumb blonde housewife I was telling you about last week, you know, the one who spent her money on breast implants. It was really her husband's money though; I bet she only married that son of a bitch for his money," Carla fixated.

That's the Carla I knew: gossipy, malicious, and far too involved in everyone elses life.

"We've been working on not comparing yourself to other people, Carla," I said.

She really shouldn't; she's right to be solemnly disappointed. At 43 years old with mousy hair and a pale complexion, she was the most basic definition of 'plain'. Combined with her personality, it was amazing she ever had managed to find a husband as great as Mr. Templeton.

"I've been having urges," Carla looked at me solemnly.

"What kinds of 'urges'?" I asked, confused. Did she mean sexual urges?

"Fits of rage, with unawareness of my actions," she told me.

"Could you elaborate?" I was curious now. Usually the problems we discussed involved her debating whether she should get a nose job.

"I've been getting angry at things and letting out my anger, not realizing that I did anything," she tried to explain, using her hands as she talked.

I still needed more information; this was interesting. Prompted by my silent inquisition, she continued, "I punched a wall last week after getting one of these rages. I blamed my husband for the wall damage. I had no idea it was me. If my hand wasn't bloody, I wouldn't have believed him that I did it. I'm worried," she told me, starting to get emotional again. Her eyes glassed over, threatening to overflow.

"Does this happen a lot? Do you remember why you punched the wall? Can you tell me any triggers you might remember for this behavior?" I asked, very curious, jotting down real notes this time. 'Fits of anger, doesn't remember why'.

"I'm not sure. As I said, I don't remember the incidents. The one I just told you is the only one I can recall. If there are more," she said nervously. She didn't finish her thought, but I picked up on the worried tone. Her shaky voice and hands notified me that she was afraid she might have done more than just hurt a wall.

"I want you to record every time you're angry. Say when it is, why you are angry, and what you would like to do with that anger. Hopefully, you'll be in your right mind long enough to think about your actions," I prescribed. This was certainly an odd case. We talked more about her anger episodes, and then she went back to complaining about her life.

I smiled. Twenty more minutes of this crap and I then I was going to see the love of my life. God knows I needed it. After what seemed like hours of Carla's pathetic whining, I bid her a good day with the final advice to talk to her husband and to keep an anger journal. I packed up my purse to go back to my tiny house.