The Invisible Black Woman

I thought I would have to wait at least a week before I heard back from Carrie. She emailed me that same evening.

Hi, 

I wanted to provide a brief update to you and send some resources. 

I spoke with the team and reviewed your case. We think IOP would be a good fit for your needs and will be moving on to contact your insurance next. This can at times take up 3 business days so I will reach out to you no later than Monday with an update. Please let me know if you have any questions. 

Also see below/attached for some peer resources as we had briefly discussed today. Both are free to access. 

I stay online, so I responded three minutes later.

Hi, Carrie!

This is such great news. Thank you so very much. I’m looking forward to next steps. Thank you kindly for the resources as well.

So it was official. I was set to start IOP just as soon as my insurance gave the green light. It was getting real. I found it more than a little amusing that I was supposed to hear back about my insurance approval on my birthday. Happy birthday to me, I guess? True to her word, she called on Monday and let me know the insurance approved my treatment and she’d like me to come in the next day to do my intake assessment.

I went solo this time since I wasn’t sure how long the intake would go for. After I filled out my intake form, I met with Carrie and she asked me the standard questions. How I was doing, additional follow up about my history, and then we started talking about my goals for IOP.

I hadn’t really thought about that, but the answer seemed like a no-brainer.

“I’d like to get to a point where I can think or talk about work without experiencing any symptoms.”

“That’s a good goal.”

We talked about a few more things, she asked if I had any questions, which I didn’t, then said, “all right, let’s go ahead and get you into group.”

I’m sorry … WHET?

Group had already been in session for a solid 30 minutes and not for a second did I think she’d have me start that day. In my head, I was heading home then would hit it fresh the next day.

I was sorely mistaken.

Apparently, it showed on my face.

“It’ll be great. In fact, you can have a seat here and just go in when you’re ready.”

I’m never ever going to be ready.

By then, Carrie had escorted me over to a group of chairs directly in front of the door of doom. Yes, I was fully catastrophizing at the moment. I could not believe she fully expected me to just walk in there.

She gave me a final reassuring look then went back to her office. I sat there for a hot second, but I knew that the longer I sat, the less likely that I would want to go in. So I ripped off the Band-Aid and opened the door.

I walked in to room of about 8 strangers who all looked up as they saw the door open. This felt very much like the first day of class at a new school you just transferred into, in the middle of the semester. The person leading group, Becky, asks me to confirm my name, to which I nodded yes. Then I scanned the room for a spot that was somewhat in the corner.

No such luck.

There was only one open seat left and it was in a fairly populated area. I gave a polite smile to the woman next to me, then sat down in the only open seat.

Then I was told the rules.

“Okay, so here are the rules,” Becky said.

“I’m going to call out a letter and you need to write down as many artists, songs, and bands as you can think of that start with that letter. You have 60 seconds.”

I was not feeling this at all, but I gave it my best effort. It’s amazing how surprisingly difficult it is to come up with bands, artists, and songs with the letter C when you’re under the gun. We did a few rounds then music therapy was over. We had a 15-minute break before our next session: processing.

Jesus, give me strength.

As soon as we broke, I made a beeline out of there. I figured if I went outside, away from everyone else, and focused intently on my phone, no one would bother me. It worked.

The break went by entirely too fast. I spent it texting hubby about how absolutely horrid it was and that I didn’t know if I was going to make it. He gave me some encouraging words and told me to at least stick it out until the session was done and then go from there.

Next up was processing. Nathan was leading the session. He was about my age, with silver hair, and an equally silver beard with a few flecks of black. He prided himself in being self-deprecating as long as it got him a laugh and telling dad jokes. He asked the group if anyone needed to process. Several of them did.

That processing session left me very much feeling like I did not belong there. Here I was, having anxiety over the things I was dealing with at work, reaching my breaking point because of the long hours. The stories I heard were much, much worse, by my standards. The more I listened, the more I wanted to run out of there. But I figured I was a grownup and could manage to sit through to the end.

During my break, I checked my text messages.

“Any better, sweetie?”

“NOPE.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

“It’s fine. Just one more round to go.”

The next session was DBT, or dialectical behavioral therapy. DBT was developed in the late 80s by psychologist Marsha M. Lineman as a type of cognitive-behavioral therapy. It was originally designed to treat individuals with personality disorders and chronic suicidal thoughts, but was then adapted for a variety of other mental health issues, including eating disorders, substance use disorders, and depression.

I kept reminding myself that I promised to trust the process. So as much as I wanted to run out and never return, I said I would give it at least until the end of the week.

As soon as the session was over, I sped-walked to the car. On my way home, I decided to debrief with myself by recording how I felt in the immediate moment.

So today I had my first group therapy session ever in life, and I hated everything about it. I had my intake, which was basically just filling out a bunch of forms. After my intake, I was thrown off the deep end. They said, “Okay, great. Your intake is done. Go join the group.” So I got to be the weirdo with one other person walking into the group late, because group therapy was already in progress. I walked in the middle of musical categories; it looked like no one wanted to be there, including myself. But then I wondered if they were looking at me, wondering if I should be there. I certainly did not want to be there.

I’m not looking forward to six weeks of this at all, but I said I would be open, so I’m going to do this program. I’m just not loving any part of it at the moment. At least they didn’t call on me a bunch of times, but they were definitely trying to prod or nod, which I wasn’t too happy with. I went with it, made no eye contact with anyone because I literally don’t want to talk to anybody there.

And I’m being really negative right now, and I’m sure I’m going to get something out of it; I’m just not seeing it right now, and I really want to be like, “No, thank you very much. Let’s just skip all this because this is not it for me.”

We shall see. Supposedly, group therapy is supposed to be super good for you. I’m going to try to believe that and think positively about group therapy and hope that it is in fact good for me, and that I don’t continue to feel what I’m feeling right now, which is absolute horror that I have to do this for another four to six weeks.

Yeah, that’s where I’m at right now. I’m sure Carrie saw it on my face; they probably all saw it on my face. Lots of weird things happening there. Obviously not going to talk about what was shared during group, but yeah, it was definitely different. I think in a lot of ways it put what I’m dealing with in perspective. It also helped me at least realize that we all have things in common.

I was not the only one there on FMLA, which is a common thread. We’re all people; that’s also a common thread. So I’m trying to think of all the commonalities between me and this complete group of strangers, which I’m not thrilled about having to deal with for the next six weeks, and I’m sure they’re perfectly good and lovely people. I am just not in the mood, and maybe “not in the mood” is the wrong term.

This is not how I process, and I know everyone probably says that, and I’m sure everyone’s different, but I do have a good bit of anxiety around this whole notion that I’m going to spill my guts in front of a bunch of strangers. Not something that I think I’m going to be doing.

So yeah. I don’t know. We’ll see. That’s all I got right now.

As I pulled into the garage, I saw a sight for sore eyes: hubby standing by the elevator. It was pretty dark out by the time I got home, and he took issue with me having to go from the parking garage to our place after dark.

He walked up to the car and held the door open as I got out.

“Long day, huh?”

“You have no damn idea.”