The Invisible Black Woman

I finally got the call back I was waiting for. It was time to start IOP. I was grateful they had extended my leave by another two months since it took an additional month for me to hear back from them after the extension. I didn’t have to fully cross that bridge about returning to work just yet. Carrie let me know I’d have to come in for the preliminary assessment. They had availability in 3 days. No time like the present, I suppose. She told me it would take about an hour. If the assessment went well (i.e., they thought I was a good fit), I would then come back for an intake session.

Hubby offered to come with for the prelim, for which I was grateful. We drove up to an office building and parked where we were instructed to. Once we got to the office, we see there’s a camera and a buzzer for them to buzz you in.

That figures, just in case.

I told them who I was and that I was there for my 2 o’clock. When they buzzed us in, we walked into what looked like a waiting area, with a nurse’s station on the side. There were closed doors all along either side of it. I signed myself in, then we parked ourselves on these two cushy rocking chairs that ended up being as comfortable as they looked.

Then Carrie made her way toward me, and I can honestly say she looked nothing like what I pictured in my head. Sometimes a person’s voice can lead you to picture someone you may have known or seen on TV. So I was expecting an older white woman to walk up to me. Instead, she was young, Black, with locs. I was confused, intrigued, and relieved, all at the same time.

She escorted me back to the door she came out of. It was an office with typical fare: a desk with a chair, a computer, and a comfy executive chair on the opposite side. No couch, but at least I’d be comfortable.

“All right. Well, thank you for not giving up. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for, you know, being open to getting started.”

Don’t know in what universe there was any other alternative, but I digress.

Her voice was rich and deep. It conjured images of a deep mahogany color and it put me right at ease. And while it fit her overall persona, the fact that she was my age (I’m lying, younger), threw me. There are certain voices you hear and instinctually you think to yourself that person has lived a whole lifetime. Then you meet then and realize she’s probably got way more left in the tank than you and it throws you for a loop.

“And, how are you doing health-wise? How are you feeling?”

“Um, depends on the day: up and down, I guess, a little bit,” I admitted, trying to sound more confident than I felt. The closer I got to the end of my FMLA leave, the more my anxiety seemed to spike. Based on when I was going to start the program and when my FMLA was slated to run out, I would need an extension.

“Now I have to go to my employer and say, I need more time past my FMLA and hope that they’re open to giving me the additional time I need.”

“Is it possible to—would you have to go back full time, 40 hours, or is there room for some type of accommodation?”

“I don’t know if I’m at a place yet where I can interact with them and not be triggered, if that makes any sense.”

“That does. Was the work a big part of your stress?”

“It was the whole of it.”

As I recounted the events that led to my current state—chest tightness, breathlessness, and a heart racing out of control—it took me right back to when it all started. The night I ended up in the ER, thinking I was having a heart attack, only to be told my heart seemed fine, but the jury was still out on my brain.

I told her what I did for a living. About the impossible hours and the lack of support from management. If I was on the outside looking in, it would’ve been much easier to see that I was a woman pushed to the edge, by a job that demanded everything and offered little in return.

Carrie listened—and typed—as I described the restructuring at work that only added to the chaos, the loss of my staff, and the mounting responsibilities that no one person should have to manage alone.

“I lost all of my staff except one. They all left. They were like, ‘you know what, we can’t do this anymore. This is not sustainable.’”

Can’t say I blame them one bit.

“And when did you have to go to the ER?”

“A few months back. And I think what broke the camel’s back is that I got my review and it was not a good review. I got one step up above remedial and I thought, ‘what in the entire hell is happening, because how?’”

“So, apart from going to the ER and having the issues with your heart, are there any other medical issues that would affect treatment?” she asked.

I shook my head no. I guess all things considered, it could have been worse.

Carrie mentioned that in addition to group sessions, there would be 1:1 sessions I would have with one of the two therapists. She asked if I had any questions about that, then paused.

I did have questions about it. And I am pretty sure she saw it on my face.

“Soooo, are you one of the two therapists?”

“Yep, it’s me and Craig.”

Craig was the guy in the red scrubs I met before we stepped into the office.

“Okay, then I’d like to be paired with you.”

“Excellent!” she said.

Look, I make absolutely no apologies for choosing a Black woman as my therapist. If you have a toothache, you don’t go see a proctologist. And if you are pregnant and need prenatal care, you don’t go see a urologist. If this experience taught me anything, it was to not shortchange myself and my care. And one thing I know for certain is that a fellow Black woman will have insights into my lived experience than someone who wasn’t. Don’t at me about this because—in my strongest Nene Leakes voice—I said what I said.

We were supposed to fill out a formal questionnaire, but it turns out the stuff I shared covered all the questions she was supposed to ask. She said she would input everything into the form and then they’d get back to me in a few days and let me know if I got into the program.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

“Nope. Thank you.”

“All right. You’ll hear back from us in a bit.”

She got up and escorted me to the waiting area, where hubby was, fast asleep.

Those rocking chairs were really comfortable.

I nudged him and let him know it was time to go.

He gets up then leans over to me and says, “remind me to tell you something when we get to the car.”

That is spousal code for, “something happened while you were away and the culprit is still very much in said area, so take a good look around as it’ll play into what I have to tell you.”

I nodded, scanned the room, and took some good mental notes. I thanked those at the desk and we headed out.

Once we were in the car and safely out of earshot, I turned to hubby.

“So what’d I miss.”

“First off, those rocking chairs are damn comfortable.”

“I could tell,” I said between giggles. “You were knocked out in there!”

“Whew! Seriously. Was I snoring?”

Hubby has sleep apnea, so he sleeps with a BiPAP machine.

His recurring fear is that he’ll fall asleep somewhere outside the house and start snoring.

“Nah, you were fine! So what happened!?”

“You saw that older lady that was in the other rocking chair?”

I had. The rocking chairs were not smack dab next to each other. There was a table separating the two, so there was a good 3-4 feet of distance.

“Uh huh. Yeah, I saw her.”

“So when she walks in, she’s looking all around.”

“Oh boy.” I knew in my gut what was coming next.

“Yeah. She looks over at me and scrunches her face. She didn’t know I saw her. So I looked dead at her, then she looks away.”

I sighed a deep sigh. Sometimes I wonder what year it is, as if it really matters at all.

“She keeps looking around, and looking around. She glances at me, looks at the empty chair, then looks around some more. This went on for a good two minutes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. Then she finally lets out a deep breath and plops herself on the empty rocking chair.”

“So did she think you were going to do something? Like, I don’t get it.”

“Not sure what she thought, but I know for certain I wasn’t getting my ass up outta that comfortable ass chair. It’s a good thing too because she had to wait another 15 minutes before they called her. That would have been a long time to be standing up.”

I laughed so hard at the absurdity and ridiculousness of what took place.

“You know what’s gonna be funny?”

“What?”

“If she makes the same mistake I did—with Carrie.”

“Ohhhhhh.”

I’d mentioned to hubby on the way to the car that she didn’t look anything like I’d expected. He, too, didn’t think she’d be Black.

“Well, judging by the scowl on her face, she has never been there before. If she ends up with your therapist, she’s going to be in for a rude awakening.”

“It would serve her right, so here’s hoping!”