“How do you see yourself? “
The first words that came to mind were the words I always
use to describe myself: 6’0’’ without the
heels; an enigma wrapped in a mystery;
big hair, big boobs, big personality…
the words that get a laugh when I’m conversing with strangers.
But his unwavering eye contact told me that my sarcasm wasn’t
going to cut it today. I had to go deeper, to that place beyond my defense
mechanisms and my projection. I had to reach down into the murky waters of my
past and uncover the hurts, rejections and insecurities that were strangling my
future. I had to keep it real.
“I’m a failure.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few months ago, I started experiencing what I call the 3:30
wake-up call. No matter how hard I exercised the night before or how
many pages I wrote in my journal, my eyes would fly open and thoughts of rage,
embarrassment and pessimism would flood my mind:
Rage: What did I do to deserve this?!?!?
Embarrassment: I know everyone is talking about me right
now.
Pessimism: I’m just not good enough and this is never
going to get any better.
The Trauma DJ would take me on a vivid journey through all
of my failures in the past three years, interspersing those memories with
comparisons to others and reminders of every single one of my insecurities. My
body would be covered in sweat and tears would sting my eyes as I sat up on the
side of the bed, crying out to God in the way that you can only cry out to God
in the early morning hours. And still, I struggled.
One day, I was sitting in my office (downing another cup of
strong coffee) when I felt the urge to find a psychiatrist. I nixed the idea
initially, telling myself that therapy should be reserved for people who are really in crisis mode: grieving,
suicidal ideation, stuff like that.
And then I saw my reflection in my cell phone. The bags under
my eyes and the smile that didn’t quite go all the way up were a dead giveaway:
for me, this was a crisis. I started making phone calls immediately.
Therapy has almost always gotten a bad rap, especially in
the African-American community. We are guilty of saying we don’t need help or REAL
Christians don’t get depressed. However,
I think the biggest issue is simply fear of the unknown. People don’t know exactly
what to expect when they meet with a mental health professional.
Let me remove the stigma for you.
1. It’s always a
brown leather couch.
I have visited psychiatrists and psychologists several times
in my life, usually in the aftermath of great personal tragedy. They have been
in different parts of the city; all races and both genders. But one thing
remains the same: they all have a brown leather couch. I’m pretty sure they
receive their couches when they graduate, sort of like when nurses receive
their caps.
There are usually other places to sit, but why break
tradition? The couch is usually the most comfortable anyway.
2. It’s not
expensive.
My payment is the same price I pay for a regular doctor’s
visit. Most mental health professionals will either accept your insurance
(thankfully, mine does), or have a sliding scale based on your financial
situation. Most offices will work with you on the payment—if they won’t, thank
them for their time and keep calling other offices until you find someone who
will.
I suppose some would argue that $60/month is too expensive. But you know what’s more expensive than that? Living a half-assed life full of fear.
3. It’s (sort of)
like talking to a friend.
I know that sounds really cliché, but that is the best way
for me to describe what a typical session feels like.
When I walk in, he asks me about my week—what was good, what
was bad, etc. We discuss the things we
talked about in the last session and whether or not they are still pressing
matters. If they are, we revisit them and explore what can be done to change my
thought process. If not, we celebrate the victory and move on to something
else. We also talk about everything from The
Bachelor to the NCAA tournament….and he laughs at my jokes. That might just
be because I pay him, but whatever.
He listens. I’m not afraid that what I tell him will (accidentally
or intentionally) slip out in future conversations with others; I don’t have to
worry that my issue is somehow overshadowing something that he is dealing with
in his life. I know that for one hour, this is about me. Sometimes, that’s
difficult because…
3a. He does not
give me advice.
My favorite question to ask my best friends is: “if you were
me, what would you do?” I can’t ask that of my psychologist. Well, I suppose I
could, but he won’t answer. Instead, he will ask me how I choose to respond. I’m
forced to say out loud the words I’ve been so afraid of saying for years, because
I thought people would judge me.
It’s infuriating.
I love it.
4. You will probably
cry.
That’s why there’s a box of tissues on the leather couch.
See? There’s another reason why you should sit there!
5. You’ll feel
better.
Make no mistake about it: this isn’t Punky Brewster. Life is just so daily and there will always be
things that make you angry/sad/stressed. But therapy has taught me how to
better cope with all of my emotions, both good and bad.
--I can be upset that someone cut me off on I-35, but that doesn’t
mean today is going to be the WORST DAY EVER.
--I can be sad that a relationship didn’t work out without
assuming it was solely based on my attraction/weight/personality.
--I can say no and mean it. (Chile….this right here was worth
every penny I have spent thus far!)
--Fear looks way bigger on the horizon than it actually is.
--My life isn’t over. In so many ways, it’s just beginning.
By the way, if you call me at 3:30 tomorrow morning, I won’t
be answering.
I’ll be sleeping like a baby.
Encouraged,
K.
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