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| Painting By: Anastasiya Valiulina |
I also realize its not something I can just pray about and let go. I've tried. Born and raised in church you know "prayer is the cure for everything" Momma always said. Prayer absolutely works but mostly in conjunction with the work you put in.
So I did it. I got a referral for a therapist, booked an appointment, and found myself being buzzed into a row house office space in a zip code close to my home which was important to me. The receptionist greeted me by name. She was a nice woman, all smiles, with a sing-songy voice. Of course like most new patients I had a boat load of paper work to fill out. The form where I had to check off my symptoms was probably my favorite:
Do you dream of Lemon Pepper wings? [CHECK]
Are you in a relationship with Netflix? [CHECK]
Are you a homebody but scared of cats? [CHECK]
I gave my completed forms to the receptionist and she unveiled to me...
THE CANDY BOX!
"You can have anything in here you'd like..." she said. This wasn't your ordinary candy box either I'm talking everything from Sour Patch Kids to Fruities. The comforts of nostalgia will turn any intense moment into high fructose corn syrup bliss. I immediately thought to myself, if the therapist is anything like THE CANDY BOX I'll be able to get through telling a complete stranger my innermost thoughts without a problem. I sat down in the waiting area for a few more minutes admiring the art work of melanin beauties on the wall. One hope I had before visiting my new therapist was that she was a Black woman. There was a painting on the wall of an African woman, Senegalese I think. She looked as if she was headed to the marketplace. While staring at the painting and worrying if my therapist was a white woman like the hypnotherapist from Get Out?
Will I spend the rest of my life in this office smiling with tears running down my face?
Will this white woman try to steal my organs to keep her race "pure"?
My Senegalese sister in the painting whispered, "Jaam liir, she's Black and legit!" I sighed with relief.
Nerves at ease, I didn't have to wait much longer when in walked a woman (not from the painting). She was probably in her mid to late 60's, perhaps even early 70s. Her hair short, seemingly soft and as white as freshly fallen snow. "Ms. Dorsey is it? Please head to the last room down the hall." I walked to the end of the hallway wondering how the room would look? I imagined there would be a huge couch for me to cry-lay on with a bedazzled tissue box on an end table and one of those huge reed diffusers lifting lavender or lemongrass into the air. Of course my imagination often surpasses reality but I found the actual room most charming. There wasn't a large couch for cry-laying like we often see in movies. The furniture reminded me of beach house furniture. It felt like I had lived my life, retired, and was moving into my Ft. Lauderdale, Florida beach house to live out my final days in peace. There wasn't the smell of salt water in the air or lavender or lemongrass. The room smelled neutral.
Untouched.
Unaltered.
I love aromatherapy scents and essential oils so I was a little disappointed.
Of the four areas to sit I chose the one closest to a door that led outside to the alleyway behind the house. Close enough to plan my great escape if the session went left. There was a small table of sorts next to my seat and on it were engraved serenity stones and healing crystals. I didn't see any sage or finger cymbals. I didn't see one of those singing bowls and beads like when Tina Turner (Angela Bassett) was doing her meditation chants in What's Love Got To Do With It. Yet the room still had a zen, nam myoho renge kyo vibe to it but in a retirement village sort of way. On the other side of the room was a bookshelf full of books. Large bookshelves over flowing with books always gives a room the sort of distinguish aura it deserves. That's why I adore the therapist's office in HBO's Insecure because of it's enormous and plentiful bookshelf. Even though Molly (Yvonne Orji) suffers from the Im-Smart-But-My-Vagina-Is-Not Syndrome, when she meets with her therapist the bookshelf sets the atmosphere for intellectual and cultural therapeutic healing so Molly-Moll can get her mind and vagina right together. My nervousness had now turned into excitement. My therapist was Black, female, enjoys candy, beach houses, healing crystals, and is well read! Thank you CareFirst!
A few minutes passed and in she walked, this time her glasses adorned to her face. She introduced herself and sat across from me. She opened a journal and asked, "What brings you in today?" Every random thought racing through my mind froze. I didn't even know what to say. I'm pretty sure I was silent for longer than appropriate because I could see her eyes peak out over the rim of her glasses. "Are you ok" she inquired. I was fine. I just didn't know how to verbalize why I turned to therapy as an option? So I took a deep breath and started talking about peace of mind and clear thoughts. She wrote in her journal as I talked. When I was done she asked me about each member of my family, their names, when they were born, and adjectives or phrases I would use to describe them when I was a little girl. After I went through my entire family she then asked me to go back through each family member and give adjectives or phrases on how I view them now. I feel like my childhood thoughts of family members have only changed within the last few years which she and I both found astonishing.
She ended the session with goal setting and answered questions I had. She said she's been a therapist for over 30 years and loves her job and working with her clients. I found comfort in that information. When you love what you do you tend to operate in love as you are working.
My private thoughts have always been easiest to express when written. With a therapist, I now have to verbally express my introverted thoughts and feelings leaving the comfort I crave when pen meets paper. Though this new endeavor terrifies me I left my first session feeling ready to try.
