countertransference is not illegal, i tell myself

Oh boy how time flies when life is happening huh journal hahaahahaa.

Sorry for neglecting you like I always do.

I started working full time roughly a month after my last post and I’ve been too busy evolving into an adult for the past 1.5 years to do much else. But for 2018 I made a list of resolutions and it includes writing entries more often than once a year. So here I am, two months late, but still!

I’ve been working in a mental health crisis facility, which isn’t as intense as you might think but it’s definitely interesting stuff. You meet some real characters. Lots of drug abuse. Everyone’s homeless. No one showers. Personality disorders suck for all involved. Haven’t given myself HIV by poking used needles yet but I’ve touched more syringes and crack pipes than I need to in a lifetime.

Without tying up this post with too much detail, I love my job and the personal development it’s forced me to undergo. Seriously, I feel like I’ve changed and matured so much since starting this job. But I’ll go into that another time — just wanted to check in today and announce that I’m still existing somewhere outside the internet.

I’ll close this entry with this: I may or may not have developed a troublesome crush on one of our frequent flyers and I may or may not have starting writing fic inspired by our interactions. Here, have some samples that are totally entirely definitely fictional scenes. 

She rounds the corner and heads toward the slightly open door of Room 8 to locate her remaining clients. Hearing rustling inside, she pokes her head past the door frame to check on its inhabitants.

“Hello, just doing safety checks—”

The younger of the two is immediately visible, and the skin of his freshly showered torso greets her. He is facing away from her and applying deodorant, with his arm lifted crookedly in the air as if he were a conductor before an invisible orchestra. Damp and bare, the curve of his lower back dips beneath a towel loosely encircling his hips.

“Oh God, um, shit, I’m so sorry.”

She whips around, presses her clipboard against her hot cheeks. A scene is quick to flash through her mind then of her supervisor, both squirming as he speaks to her about sexual misconduct and professional boundaries.

From behind the wall, his voice: assuring, gentle. “It’s okay.”

Cautiously squinting her eyes into the room, she sees he has moved to his bed and sits perched on the edge with his kind eyes on her. “I, um, is your roommate in there?” she asks.

To her horror, a giggle, girlish and shy, bubbles past her lips mid-sentence. Water droplets on his shoulders glisten in the low sunlight filtering through the window. He has yet to put on a shirt. Her flush deepens.

“Yeah, he’s sleeping,” he says. His lips wear a little smile. The corner of his mouth twitches once. He is amused.

She marks the two men safe on her board, hurries her way down the winding stairs.

He waits for her to settle in and chat with her coworkers for a few minutes. Eager for an audience, he then calls her over to the kitchen table where he has been intently scribbling shapes onto paper.

“Look at this. Cool, right?” He gestures at the page with pride, displaying various patterns consisting of perfectly even, round circles.

“Very cool,” she affirms and smiles back. “Did you really freehand all of that?”

He says, “Here, I’ll show you. You just gotta make… small lines… like this.”

She leans in, watches his pen flutter across the page as he fills in the white space with feathery strokes. Then the pen stills. Eyes rise to meet hers. “You smell nice,” he says, brightly, far too suddenly.

It is so unexpected that she can only blink a hundred times and let the words float in the air between them. In the pause, he continues that he likes her perfume, and she is not sure she has control of her mouth when she breathes in a rush, “Oh thank you but I’m not wearing perfume.”

She joins his squeaky laughter when he postulates that huh really, maybe it’s your deodorant, but then she’s already telling an excuse to slip into her office—to retrieve something, to make a phone call, she can’t remember—unable to hear much over her heart’s mad symphony.

He is a man, of course. And she, a woman, just a few years his junior. But she has somehow never noticed this. He has always been her client, and she his worker. At this moment, sitting with him, she notices the springy brunette curl that his hat won’t contain. She notices the tricep bulge under his skin as he twists to show her the tattoo on his shoulder.  She notices the moist tip of his tongue, poking out of the corner of his mouth when he is concentrating all his attention on a drawing, unaware of her glances. She notices when he flashes his wide toothy grin at her and the warmth that spreads within her, a wildfire in her belly, untamed.

She notices these things, individually, all at once, overwhelmingly. She swallows and finds no wetness in her mouth. And she is dizzy from not knowing what to feel.


Dramatizing them in fic is how I cope. I promise I’m professional about this at work.

Until next time,

~ Mimi

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