The Invisible Black Woman

Seems like the more I try to get this writing routine down, the more stuff gets in the way. Or, as I like to say, life be lifin’…

So, last we chatted, I was giving you all the rundown on my first week of IOP. It was a lot. After I got that over with, because that’s really how it felt—like I was trying to get through it as fast as possible—it was time to see my therapist again.

When I had my first assessment (and I was sure they would lock me up and throw away the key), one of the best recommendations they made was for me to get a therapist. So I took a look at the printout they gave me, which really gave me no clear info on who did what, chucked it in the trash, and decided to do my own search. I settled on a Black female therapist that specialized in all of the things I was dealing with in the workplace, especially as a Black woman.

We met via a secure video chat early in the mornings. I did my best to book a time where I could be behind closed doors in the event I had a moment or five. I never quite knew where we’d end up, so I didn’t want to take any chances. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the session given how heavy the previous week had been. But before I could duck out, there she was on screen.

“So, how have you been?”

“I’ve been okay,”

“Okay. So what I wanted to do, while I’m waiting for my system to switch over, I was getting together the request from—let me see if I can just bring this up.”

She clicked through her computer and pulled something up on the screen.

“Is this your job asking for this? Because we’re going to send it directly to the place that offered to pay the invoice.”

Oh, so that’s where we’re headed.

“Yeah, the insurance. They’re not tied to my job.”

“Alright, that’s what I wanted to make sure.”

“I spoke with them today to get a better understanding of what they needed. They indicated they could give an estimated return-to-work date based on when the program ends, and they can process it quicker without needing all the medical records.

I started IOP last week, which will last four to six weeks, depending on how things go. They said if they can get an estimated return-to-work date, they can process it faster. They don’t need all the medical records. I’m trying to cover both bases.

They asked about the December 5th visit with you. I uploaded our initial visit but didn’t see anything for December 5th. They said they reached out and requested it.”

The disability insurance that was handling my claim was asking for a bunch of documents. I guess they needed to make sure everything was on the up and up.

“I’ll forward all the documents, like the treatment plan. Do they want all medical records, including notes?”

“I’m not a hundred percent comfortable with that.”

Even though everything was supposed to remain confidential, I still had a lot of apprehension and doubt around just how much was being shared with my job.

“I told them I’d send whatever you requested.”

“I’m comfortable with them knowing I met with you on the fifth, but maybe just a summary. I wouldn’t be comfortable with full notes.”

“I can give them your intake assessment. I have a special email for medical records, so I’ll send it encrypted. Let me download the form so you can take a look.”

I looked over the form she sent.

“Yeah, this is for my FMLA. It switches to long-term disability on the 20th. My FMLA ends tomorrow, so they would pick up where it ends. I reached out to my job last week, and they’re waiting for this before they can tell me what they’ll do.”

“Alright, I’ll upload this to your system. You should see this in your portal now. There’s an email sent to you, along with the invoice for the session copayment.”

“It says they want all medical records. I’m not comfortable with that.”

“What documents you feel comfortable with me sending? We have your treatment plan, intake assessment, and medication assessment.”

Before I could answer, she had another question for me, “when you do IOP, generally they don’t allow for you to do counseling. Have you checked with your insurance company?”

“I’ll check with my insurance and the IOP. They asked if I have a therapist on file, and I gave them your name. I’ll find out from my insurance just to make sure it’s not an issue. If it is, I can use my FSA.”

As in my flexible spending account that I have had the good sense to max out every year during open enrollment. I’ve never once regretted it.

“In terms of the records, I’m okay with them getting the diagnosis and treatment plan, and intake assessment. I’m not comfortable with the notes. I think the IOP folks would be best to provide what they need since I’ve done an intake and assessment with them.”

“Alright, so you don’t want me to send them anything yet?”

“I uploaded the diagnosis and treatment plan to the portal, so I think that should be enough for now. If they still insist, I’ll cross that bridge then.”

Almost weekly, I was having to upload documents to the disability portal. Every week, there was a new request. I guess they were wanting to make sure I wasn’t just using this to take an extended vacation on their dime. I imagine there are less stressful ways to pull something like that off, but what do I know.

“Alright. Do you need anything else? I’ll be out of the office from Wednesday to the 28th.”

“I should hear from the IOP folks today. I sent them an email this morning. If I can provide a tentative return-to-work date, that should reduce the need for more medical records.”

“Okay, if they need more, we can handle it after the holidays… So, what have you been doing in IOP?”

“Last week was my first week. Group therapy is very disorienting and uncomfortable. Sharing feelings in front of strangers is hard for me.”

“What did you do in the sessions?”

“Tuesday was music therapy and Wednesday was drama therapy. For drama therapy, we had to recreate scenes with a partner. I’m still trying to see how it helps with my anxiety and work stress.”

“Think about what you’ve been going through at work: unrealistic expectations, workload, not feeling valued. Processing these feelings in a group can help.”

Fine, I guess that was something. I just wasn’t ready to cop to her she was right.

“I hear others share similar challenges, and that’s helpful. But being vulnerable at work feels like a weakness.”

“Vulnerability is about letting people know you’re human. It’s about setting boundaries.”

“I worry about everyone’s feelings. I need to be okay with not fixing everything.”

“Allow yourself to be vulnerable. Let people be there for you.”

“It’s hard. I was raised not to talk about my feelings. Therapy itself is foreign to me, let alone group therapy. It took feeling like I had a heart attack to even seek out therapy. I don’t think I would’ve otherwise if I wasn’t told that I should get a behavioral health consult. It’s just not how I grew up. I’m open to changing, but it’s just gonna take me a minute.”

“Okay, so what is something that you would like to not feel anymore? When you think about anxiety, where do you think it’s stemming from?”
“Right now, all of my anxiety is tied to what the hell I’m doing with my work life. It’s 100% tied to that, not knowing where I’m gonna be at the end of this month, next year, six months from now, it’s all tied to that.
I think to your point, the vulnerability of wondering if I’m good enough elsewhere is also generating some anxiety. And I think it’s because nothing’s opening. So it kind of feeds into that narrative that I do believe I’m kind of stuck.”

Btw, if you thought I was sitting around waiting to see what was next and not fast and furiously applying for jobs like my literal life depended on it during this time period, you have not been paying very close attention.

“You started crying right there. Tell me what that’s about.”

“I don’t wanna go back. I don’t wanna go back. But the more time that passes and nothing opens up, the closer the time gets, it feels like I’m not gonna have a choice.”

It was the first time I’d actually said out loud I didn’t want to go back. To the place that made me feel worthless. To the place that saw me as a threat simply because of the color of my skin. To the place that wanted me to do more and talk and be seen less. To the place that told me I should be more like a white female executive in order to get promoted. To the place that took and took and took and gave me so little in return. I didn’t want to go back to a place that required me to sacrifice parts of myself every day just to be palatable and make others comfortable.

Finally admitting that out loud was as terrifying as it was heartbreaking and the only way I could cope in that moment was to let the tears say what my words couldn’t.