October: Where Do I Start?

Painting by Hannah Whitman

October is off to an interesting start ain't she?

The elected good ole boys and girls just confirmed and swore in the second sexual predator (that we know of) to the highest court in the land. That "and girls" part of the statement adds even more infuriation into the mix.

Political party outweighs humanity year 242. 

And still we have to gather and rally to encourage folks to vote? After the incredulous 1 year and 261 days we've had under this current administration? No one should have to beg anyone who can vote to vote. PERIOD.

Though I love a good opinion piece, this disease of ataxia that continues to permeate the nation isn't my idea of my personal literary worth. Therefore I will conclude my brief rant with the age old adage, "you reap what you sow." Be ye prepared dear geriatric purebreds.



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October also brings a day off with free time to write on this rightfully warm Indigenous Peoples' Day. I know this could easily transition into another well-deserved rant but I will not succumb.

In the first week of October I've also had the opportunity to meet with my new therapist. Now, if you've been following my blog you know that I really liked my previous therapist. That's rare for me because even though I can write down my feelings generally well, talking about them with other people is always a struggle. I decided to transition to another therapist because I felt a shift in my goals for therapy and felt I needed a therapist who used different holistic approaches to their therapeutic practice. To make it plain and simple I'm changing and so are my needs. I have to admit it does feel like a break up.

Apprehensively, I sought out a new therapist which believe it or not isn't an easy feat. This particular therapist was referred to me by my insurance care coordinator and she is apart of the Therapy for Black Girls network. I felt like it was meant to be. Before the confidentiality speech she started our session by saying, "you have to excuse me, but I have adult acne..." I wanted to plug the dry lotion by Mario Badescu but the last thing I wanted to do was project my non esthetician product junkie habits on to her so I just smiled. Real human interaction is always great right? So often talking to a therapist can feel like talking to a robot.

Prior to our appointment she had me complete several intake forms to see if we'd be a good fit. Imagine if we did this in our romantic relationships too? During the visit she went back over the form and asked me to elaborate on each question. My one word/one sentence answers were no longer acceptable.

I was in the trenches.

The battleground of personal thoughts and life events.

Forced to regurgitate feelings and shit.

Cue the eye sweat amidst looking for the nearest exit.

She listened, looked, and occasionally took notes. Towards the end of the session she had organized my thoughts into categories and said, "here are 5 categories we are going to work on but we can only work on one at a time. Which one would you like to start with first?"

I couldn't answer.

I knew why I sought therapy.

I knew what I hoped to gain by seeking therapy.

I thought my start was having the courage to walk into her office.

I thought that if I made it to her office she'd handle the rest.

"You are in the driver's seat of your life, Cynthia. I'm just a passenger. You tell me where you want to go and I will go with you as you drive us there."

Where should I drive first?