The Invisible Black Woman

Petra and I chatted seemingly for hours (it’d been only a mere 20 minutes). The talk suddenly got a bit more pointed.

“Have you ever tried to harm yourself or come up with a plan to harm yourself?”

“No, I haven’t, but—”

She looked at me intently, waiting for me to finish my thought.

I sighed deeply and continued.

“I have never actually tried anything. But a month ago, I was in a dark place. It was so bad. Work was not good and I felt like they didn’t think I was good enough. And I thought maybe I wasn’t good enough. I was just so tired. I thought, maybe… Maybe if I could just go to sleep and not wake up—I was just so tired.”

I felt like she saw right through to my very essence, with nothing but care and compassion.

“Okay,” she said softly, “so you just wanted to go to sleep, maybe not wake up?”

“Yes, but I never took anything or tried to do anything. I just wanted to stop feeling how I was feeling.”

“Okay,” she nodded, and wrote something down.

I wondered what exactly she was writing.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Security was patrolling the premises. But rather than just walk past, the guard peered in from the narrow rectangular window pane at the door. Our eyes never met, but he was clearly trying to make sure everything was copacetic. Having gotten his fill and satisfied with what he saw, he moved on.

I wondered how many times security had to breach the premises because they saw something alarming. At least once, I concluded, based on his lingering, scrutinizing gaze.

Petra’s next question broke the distraction.

“Have you ever been physically, sexually, or emotionally abused by a family member or someone you knew?”

“Yes, by my father—but not sexually, just physically. It was ages ago.”

My father was a mean drunk, and abusive. He beat us almost daily, often dependent on what side of the bed he woke up on, but it was always tied to some shortfall that made it clear it was our fault. Our rooms weren’t clean enough. We ate too much. We ate too little. We watched TV on a school night.

I felt my eyes drift up toward the ceiling as I recalled one particular yet recurring instance. I was mercilessly teased by my father about my big nose that I didn’t quite grow into until I was much older. I remember him saying, in between chuckles, he should take one of the clothespins from the clothesline to put over my nose and see if that would make it smaller.

It’s important to note at this juncture that I get all of my facial features from my father. I wish my 6- and 7-year-old brain comprehended that at the time rather than feeling utter shame and embarrassment that my nose was so big.

Later that same day, I snuck out back, grabbed a clothespin, and darted into the bathroom. Imagine my utter mortification when trying and failing to secure said clothespin over my nose. I stared at myself in the mirror as angry tears fell down my face. He was right: my nose was too big…

“I suppose emotionally, too,” I added.

Petra jotted down some additional notes.

“What about now?”

“Now? Oh, no, not at all. Well, not at home. My husband’s amazing. At work, well, not physical—obviously.”

Not sure why I felt the need to add “obviously,” as if that’s not something that happens at work.

“Not sexual either. Emotional—well, maybe mental? I don’t know, would it be mental abuse rather than emotional?” I asked aloud more so than to Petra.

Petra nodded and wrote some additional notes as well.

“How has your eating been?”

“While working? Ooof, sometimes not great. Hubby often has to ask me if I’ve eaten. Work gets so crazy sometimes. Then, even when it’s not, I feel so bad about the day I don’t even have an appetite.”

“When’s the last time you went to work?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Okay. How has your eating been since being away from work?”

“Now that you mention it, I do feel I’m eating more regularly. I’m even getting my appetite back.”

“Good!”

I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like I’d finally given a right answer.

“Have you used any medications to treat how you’re feeling?”

“No, no, I haven’t. I really would prefer not to. I deal with chronic pain and I have to take a lot of medication for that. I would worry about the effects of adding medications. Plus, I’m really sensitive to side effects.”

Immediately, my mind took me back to several years ago, when I was in bed and almost fell out of it when I came face to face with a gargantuan black widow just hanging out inches from my face.

“Baaaaaaaaaaabe!!!!”

Hubby barged into the bedroom, worry etched all over his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Jesus! The spider. Please get the spider,” I said as I pointed to the wall. By then, I’d wedged myself at the farthest opposite corner of the furry creature I was seeing.

Hubby followed my finger, as I looked at him incredulously for being that close to the 8-legged monstrosity.

“What spider, sweetie?”

“It’s right there. You’re right next to it. Jesus, please be careful!”

“Sweetie, there’s no spider.”

“Can’t you see it? It’s right there,” I continued to point.

Hubby took his hand and waved it over the exact spot where it was. I expected that would be the end of him and suddenly, I’d be a literal Black widow.

Instead, all I saw was his hand over the spot where I swore the spider was. I was so confused. Suddenly I wondered if I was still dreaming.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. See? No spider,” he said as he walked toward me.

I felt so embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry. I swear, it was so real. Gosh, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“We’ll call the doc tomorrow and figure it out, ok?”

I nodded then went back to sleep.

The next day, I called the doctor and told him what happened. He asked me to remind him the medications he had me on. I rattled them off. One was a narcotic.

“Oh. You need to stop taking that. It’s an extremely rare side effect, but that’s what caused the hallucination.”

Great. Just great.

Back in the present, Petra nodded and said, “ok, no problem.”

Petra gave her notes a once-over, then looked up at me and asked, “have you heard of PHP?”

I can’t say I was terribly shocked she recommended it. Honestly, I was half expecting they would admit me shortly after my assessment.

“Do you know what PHP is?” she asked again.

“I’ve heard of it, but I have never gone through it.”

“Okay, let me explain. PHP stands for partial hospitalization program. You come to the center from 9 AM to 3 PM, then you can go home in the afternoons. That’s why it’s called partial hospitalization.”

“Ok.”

She continued. “It’s a combination of group therapy and 1:1 therapy. It usually lasts 2 weeks.”

The idea of being in therapy the entire day wasn’t exactly appealing. Maybe she could tell by the look on my face.

“If PHP is too much—”

Go on, I thought to myself.

“You can do step-down program called IOP: intensive outpatient program.”

This seemed right up my alley.

“You go to treatment 3 days a week, usually in the evenings, for 4 to 6 weeks. It’s 4:30 to 7:30 PM, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.”

I already saw a potential wrinkle with this schedule, but that was a tomorrow problem.

“Do you think you might want to try this?”

“Yes, IOP sounds great. Thank you.”

“Okay, good. Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah…” I hesitated a bit, but pushed myself to ask the question.

“Can I do the program first, then go back to work?”

“Absolutely! If you choose PHP or IOP, first this, then work. You should not be thinking about work when you want to get better.”

I felt a 50-ton weight vanish from my shoulders and I leaned back into the chair in relief.

“Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything else you want to talk about?”

“Well, yeah. Is there something I can do about sleep? I don’t want anything that interferes with my current medications, but I need sleep.”

“Yes, of course. Let me go over some options with you.”

Petra went over four different medications in detail. From how they worked, to what they were used to treat, to what their side effects were.

I settled on amitriptyline. It was used to treat anxiety and depression, and it had the added bonus of having the same sedative effects as Benadryl, as well as pain relief.

The side effects were similar to Benadryl, which felt manageable to me, and it wouldn’t interfere with my current medication. Sold.

“I’ll start you on the lowest dose. Most of my patients, I start them on 25 mg, but I’m going to start you on 10 mg. You do 1 tablet for 3 days, then if you feel okay, you take two tablets for 20 mg. Is this ok?”

I nodded in agreement. Seemed like a solid plan to me.

“If for any reason, you do not like this or it is not working, come back. We can adjust medication or try something different. You can come back anytime, no appointment.”

I nodded and smiled.

“Ok, I am going to write prescription for amitriptyline 10 mg at bedtime. In 3 days, you take two tablets. I also wrote other medications we talked about, so you have this information. I’m going to to refer you to PHP. It says PHP, but it’s the same place for IOP. So they will do another assessment there. Now, your diagnosis…”

I was on pins and needles.

“You have anxiety and depression with adjustment disorder.”

I wanted to ask very much what the heck adjustment disorder was, but I was able to fill in the blanks based on what she was saying.

“You have these symptoms since your new boss, for about 2 years. Now when they do your assessment for PHP, the doctor might write something else. The assessment is much longer, so they might have more to add.”

Who would have thought adjusting poorly to a new supervisor could be boiled down to a disorder? Certainly not me.

“Today is Friday, so if you call them today, they could do your assessment next week. It is much longer—one and a half to two hours.”

Whoa.

“Okay, thank you.”

She handed me my discharge papers and reiterated everything we discussed and her recommendations. I nodded in acknowledgment and thanked her for her help. She asked again if I had any questions, to which I said no. I felt prepared for the next steps.

As she walked me out of her office and back to the exit doors, she turned to me and shared some parting words.

“I hope you feel better. Please, please, take care of yourself. Remember, life is too short to be at a job that makes you sick.”

Truer words have never been spoken.