The Invisible Black Woman

Since the center I was headed to closed at 4 that afternoon, we decided to head out at 1, so we wouldn’t have to race there. I was still nervous and apprehensive, mostly because I had no idea what to expect.

I’d never been to any form of therapy before. I’d tried TalkSpace for all of 1 session. I gave their chat-only option a try. I’m sure the service is perfectly acceptable, but it wasn’t what I needed at the time. So I got as much out of it as I put into it: absolutely nothing.

We got to the center and after parking, made our way up to the 4th floor. The office itself looked pretty standard. I fully expected it to be very crowded—not sure why—but there were only 3 other individuals there.

I got to the desk and told them I was there to do an assessment. The lady at the desk handed me a clipboard and asked me to fill out my details. Now, I have to go on a very small rant about one of my biggest pet peeves, as someone who formerly worked in the admitting department of a hospital. I will never understand why places have you fill out paperwork with all your details, by hand, when you are already in the system. I was at a facility that was under the same umbrella. Why did I need to fill this out? Of course, I asked that question in my head. I didn’t dare question it.

So off I went, to fill out several pieces of paper. I was asked for my driver’s license and proof of insurance. I provided both, but I let her know that my one insurance was only a digital card, so I’d have to email them my primary insurance card. Do you know what she said? “Oh, that’s ok. We have your details in the system.” I wept internally at the sheer pointlessness of having to fill out forms by hand, when I was already accounted for—but I digress.

Once I finished filling out the forms, I took them to the desk and was given another clipboard with 7 more pages to fill out. True story. Seemed like it would be the most effective way forward to give you all the papers at once, but I reckon that would take away from the hazing experience.

Once I finished filling out the second set of forms, dropped them at the desk, I was told I’d be called shortly. So I sat and waited to be called. Hubby asked if I wanted him to come back with me. He said if I didn’t, he understood. I told him thanks, but I was going to go at it solo. This more so because I wasn’t sure if and for how long I would turn into a blubbering mess.

As I was just beginning to wander off in my mind, the door swung open and I heard my name called. I looked up to see a woman who looked about my age in scrubs waiting for me to meet her. Hubby whispered, “good luck,” then squeezed my hand.

I walked toward her and when I got closer, she said hello and introduced herself: Petra. She asked me if I wanted hubby to come with. I said I wanted to do it alone. Petra said no problem and escorted me to a room in the back.

As she led the way and made a bit of small talk, I felt myself relax more. I attribute almost 100% of that to her accent. Okay, maybe 99.2%. It was European, possibly Russian. Her enunciations were thick, but warm, and maybe it was just what I needed to focus on to calm my nerves. She was warm, kept eye contact and motioned for me to take a seat at the leather chair in front of her desk.

I was only slightly disappointed there was no couch for me to lie on.

After I took a seat, she asked what brought me there. I told her I was seen in the ER, what my diagnosis was, and what they’d recommended. Then she began to prod a bit more.

The words poured out like a waterfall. Maybe it was because she was a complete stranger and her job was to help not judge. Maybe because I didn’t have to be strong. But I told her everything.

How I’d worked at the same company for 10 years. It hadn’t always been perfect, but I loved my job. Then 2 years ago, things shifted. A new boss, which wouldn’t be the first time. In fact, if I’m counting, this would be my 7th boss in my 10-year stretch—and no, not always because I transferred. In fact, my last 4 bosses were in the past 5 years, in the same department. So I wasn’t the one moving, if you catch my drift.

I told her how I was working 120 hours on average, and doing the work of 5 or more people on any given day. I told her how I took a 3-day of a 14-day vacation only to come back to a chastisement and more pressure put on by my boss. I told her how I was told it was my responsibility to train another department because they simply didn’t have the resources there, so it was my job to teach them. In short, I had an unpaid, mandatory side hustle at my day job.

And as I poured out everything I was feeling, not really expecting anything in return, she said three words as she looked directly into my eyes that broke the levees wide open.

“I’m so sorry.”

What? No, “that’s just how things are. Chin up, there there, move on”?

The tears spilled down my face just as easily as the words poured out of my lips. If she had said nothing else, I’d have felt I got my money’s worth.

She wasn’t done.

“I can’t imagine how hard it is to be in a place where you don’t feel appreciated. That must be so tough for you.”

I nodded in between silent sobs.

When I told her about the hours I worked on any average week, she looked at me and said, “Have you heard of Karoshi?”

I didn’t even pretend to know what that word meant.

“Karoshi,” she said in her melodious accent, “is Japanese for death by overworking. About 100 people die each year in Japan from Karoshi.”

I have to admit I wasn’t immediately impressed by the number—until I looked it up and learned that the number worldwide of “Karoshi” deaths in 2021 was 745,000.

That gave me pause.

I spent a lot of time talking to her about my boss, and she asked me if I had support anywhere else. Could I go to their boss, maybe?

Nope. That wasn’t an option, thanks to a very long story I’ll get into another time.

I told her how early that year my team was slashed by more than half—and the workload only exploded. Suddenly, I was responsible for a role that was neither in my job description, bucket list, nor vision board. Not only was I the president and the client, I was the receptionist, security, and the valet. And when I asked for help, I got lots of hand gestures and facial expressions meant to make me believe that help was coming, only for the can to get getting kicked further and further down the road.

And the more I managed to take on superhuman, octopus-like abilities and keep everything operational, the less likely or interested they were in getting me any real help.

Petra, my God-sent therapist, said some truly life-affirming, game-changing things in my session. Not because I hadn’t heard them before from hubby, my best friend, family, or the countless of former colleagues my job had chewed up and spit out. But because she was a complete stranger, looking in from the outside…

“Your job sounds very toxic.”

Preach.

“You should know that if that many people left, it’s not you, it’s your job.”

Amen.

“You should look for another job. You spend way too many hours at work for your job to be miserable.”

Hallelu.

“You need to know there is nothing wrong with you. It is your environment. You do not work at a place for as long as you did with all your good work if it was you.”

Whew. I’m not crying, you’re crying!

So my advice for anyone who may be in a similar situation as I found myself is pretty simple: get a Petra.