Blind Rage by Terri Persons

periodicals littering the table. The only magazines that were current were the ones about golf.
    Bored, she glanced through the window framing the man. He had his head down now and was pecking at a computer. Dressed in a polo shirt with a subtle designer logo embroidered on the sleeve, he appeared to be the type who would read golf magazines cover to cover. He looked like a younger version of that famous golf pro. What was his name? Jack something. Her eyes went to the cover of one of the golf magazines. No help. Everything was about Tiger Woods. She missed the grandmotherly receptionist who used to greet her with a sympathetic smile and offers of hot tea with sugar. This guy offered bad black coffee. At least he tried. He had a nice smile. A golf pro smile. Bright white.
    He glanced up from his typing and caught her staring at him. “You could reschedule, Kyra,” he offered.
    She dropped her eyes and picked up a decorating magazine. “I wouldn’t get to see him for weeks, and I need to talk now. You know what I mean?”
    The golf pro head bobbed up and down in affirmation. “I understand completely. It shouldn’t be that much longer. He just got your file and took it back with him.”
    Her file. Her masterpiece. Her version of Enough Rope. It was cleverly titled Klein, Kyra A. , and it started something like this:
     
Patient’s biological mother, diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder in early adulthood, committed suicide when the patient was ten years of age, leaving the juvenile in the care of her biological father…Father died of acute alcoholic hepatitis when the patient was twenty…Shortly afterward, the patient was diagnosed with depression, and was prescribed antidepressants.
     
    That diagnosis turned out to be dead wrong and led to a really juicy plot twist in her opus.
     
On the patient’s twenty-first birthday, she was hospitalized after ingesting a full bottle of an over-the-counter pain reliever/sleep aid…During hospitalization, her mental status was reassessed and she was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder.
     
    She had to credit her current psychiatrist with that bull’s-eye. The chapters that followed were downright mundane, thank God.
     
Patient has one sibling, a married older brother employed as a software designer in Seattle…Brother is assisting the patient financially so she can complete her studies. He communicates with her sporadically via phone and e-mail…Patient is currently taking undergraduate courses at the University of Minnesota–Twin Cities; she has not yet declared a field of study, but enjoys reading the American classics and writing poetry.
     
    She was just another unemployed English major in the making, she thought as she flipped through the pages of an article giving tips on easy bathroom makeovers.
     
Patient is single and reports no steady “boyfriend,” but has engaged in unprotected sex with multiple partners since the onset of puberty…Sexual activity increases during her manic episodes, as does her reckless driving and her excessive clothing purchases.
     
    She’d once blown an entire paycheck on a pair of Manolo Blahniks and defiantly worn the stilettos to one of her appointments. Her psychiatrist had trouble taking his eyes off those heels, and she didn’t blame him: black satin with crystal-studded ankle straps. Very expensive come-fuck-me shoes.
     
Patient works during the week as a part-time cashier at a grocery store near the Minneapolis campus and on weekends is employed selling hand lotion at kiosk located in the Mall of America…Has stated that she enjoys her jobs and has twice received raises in her hourly pay as a cashier.
    Patient is seeing a therapist, but reports that she is unhappy with this particular health professional…On more than one occasion, she has referred to the therapist as “the bullshit artist.”
    Patient states that the therapist “talks to hear himself talk” and “doesn’t listen to a damn thing anyone else has to say.”