I called the psychiatrist half an hour ago. Outside on the balcony, so she wouldn’t hear me, holding the phone in one hand and the slip with his number on the other. He had a voice like a classmate of mine, regular, almost boyish, especially careful. I told him about her. He seemed nice, and, though I already knew, I let him tell me what she had.
I feel a little okay now, mostly because I have a job to do. It’s not going to be fine, but I am helping us towards the right direction. Despite what I’ve been living in, I feel like a superhero.