Doctor Chavarría was convinced that his formula worked: “Look, Elena, how his voice has become more masculine,” he pointed out as he handed her the bill.
No one asked me how I felt about the injections.
They would have given them to me until Judgment Day if it weren’t for my premature baldness. What was happening in the mind beneath that hair didn’t matter.
A bald ten-year-old boy made people whisper, and for a narcissistic woman, criticism was an affront.
After being disappointed with Dr Chavarria, she finally went to Doctor Adís Castro, the first psychoa-nalyst graduated in the United States of America, for a “second opinion.” “Now we have great advances like electric shocks and lobotomy, but my specialty is psychoanalysis, and I believe it offers great healing opportunities,” he told us.
Doctor Castro was reserved. I sat in front of his desk, which only had a photo of two children. He asked me a few general questions and then fell silent. I didn’t know what to do or say.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he finally asked me after minutes of silence. “I believe, doctor, it’s because I told my mom that I like men.” I felt a great relief: it had come out of my mouth, and now I just had to wait for the end of the world.
The psychiatrist didn’t react; at least, he didn’t shout at me or tell me that I had ruined his life; I felt bad, unloved.