my best life 07.04.17.1205P

ID hanging from her shirt pocket. Behind her were two
large men with bad haircuts all dressed in white.
“Come with me, please.” she said.
Nervously, I stood up and was escorted down the hall into
an office and was told to wait. After about 10 minutes, a
man entered the room wearing a medical lanyard, a
pocket protector and a pair of thick glasses.
He introduced himself as a social worker and asked, “How
can I help you Mr. Thompson?”
What a relief. Someone to talk to. For the next hour, I
told him the story of how my wife and I left Cleveland, the
struggles with my business, the loss of our home, Cheryl’s
social media rants and my suicide attempt with what
appeared to be a spiritual experience.
He took meticulous notes and barely spoke. It felt good
to have someone to just listen as I bared my soul. I
became emotional at times, but overall felt much better
and was anxious to hear feedback and get some direction.
What I didn’t realize, and would later find out, was the
social worker was writing observation phrases about me
like “paranoia…” referring to my wife’s social media rants
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