True Story: Jan, Supervisor from Hell #55

It was early in my psychological training and I worked in the outpatient department of a children's hospital, but also worked part-time consulting to the medical units under the supervision of Jan. She was an overweight, pock-marked, greasy-haired, depressed-looking Texan who despised me. She looked very serious and concerned when I presented my cases, acting constantly alarmed at all the mistakes I'd made. "I have issues with you," she finally admitted. "I finally figured out what they are." Whatever they were, she didn't share them with me and her insights if anything intensified her cruelty. So here I am working with a ton of abused children, being abused by my sadistic boss. I eventually realized she was actually homicidal.

"I'm sending you down to do a consult on the medical unit. There's a very sick teen-ager who is very depressed and I want you to assess his depression. Oh, and they don't know what's wrong with him."

Down I went, into an environment that spelled danger. The kid was extremely feverish and could barely speak above a whisper in a hushed and darkened room. Family members milled around him sobbing. He had fallen ill so quickly. Some of the doctors and nurses were wearing face masks and looked frightened.  He looked so sick I hated myself for doing a psychological assessment on a mysterious medical diagnosis. No one knew what he had or whether it was contagious. Jan, who usually looked over my shoulder for exams, was nowhere to be seen.  Jan had deliberately sent me to my death.

I interviewed him quickly and superficially. Who wouldn't be depressed feeling like that? I tried to keep my distance and not breath too much. When I returned, Jan said my evaluation was completely inadequate. A couple of hours later she told me he'd died. Like it was my fault. Like if I'd done a good evaluation he would have lived.

This woman continues to practice as a professional psychologist in private practice, in a town of a zillion therapists, where unsuspecting affluent parents bring their children to her house for treatment. I couldn't hate her more if I tried. Odd that I can't even remember her last name. Oh, wait, I do remember it. But writing it down would bring her on her broomstick right back into my life. I prefer the power of both our anonymities to keep her out.