My white therapist

I was extremely hesitant to begin therapy again.

The last time I went was when I was younger, trying to kill myself and shit.

I’m wasn’t in that place anymore.

I didn’t want to die.

So I got this.

Right?

Therapy would be all the way in the way.

For one, I felt like I had everything under control.

There wasn’t nothing someone with expensive ass initials behind their name could help me with.

And for two, I already knew that agreeing to therapy would probably mean that I would be sitting across from some white man or woman who wouldn’t sure as hell couldn’t tell me nothing.

How can you help me overcome the oppression I feel, if you look like one of my oppressors? 🙄

But I went anyways cus I knew I needed it.

So, I show up for the first appointment.

Late.

(After already missing like two of the appointments

cus I really wasn’t feeling it.)

But I show up this time and wouldn’t you know? …

It’s a white lady.

She’s all thin and perky and shit.

She looks like she could be like my moms age.

And I just KNOW this is about to not work.

So we go back to her office and she gestured for me to hand her my coat so she could hang it on the coat rack.

And that was all it took.

See, I’m easy.

She broke down a wall just like that

and the weight of everything in my head and on my heart plopped me into the seat.

It was something about the seat, or rather that comfy chair, that made me want to tell her all my business.

This lady was smart.

She let me talk and talk and talk; only inserting herself a few times to ask a question, while taking notes.

Don’t be keeping no records of my trauma. Let that shit go.

But I kept going because it felt so good to get all of it out.

And I am glad that I did.

Cus now, I look forward to our weekly meetups.

That time is one of the only moments that I have to focus purely on ME.

I get to unpack all of the boxes of hurt and pain, along with the life struggles that I had stored in the back of my mind.

The storage fees were getting paid in the currency of worry and doubt. And I was in over my head.

Tip: Therapy doesn’t mean something is wrong with you.

It helps you learn how to move on (#heal) and free up that space.

I look at it as a way of getting unbiased input about my concept of life and myself.

When I be on the bullshit, she lets me know.

When I am not giving myself enough credit, she lets me know.

And when I don’t want to cry, she makes me.

Something about it’s healthy or whatever.

But I needed it.

What not to do: Don’t overlook the blessings before you because “they don’t look right”.

I mean, I’m not trying to convince you to go talk to someone, if you aren’t already

but I kinda am.

If you don’t know where to go, this site, 7 Cups offers free emotional support. Not quite therapy but it’s a start.

Sometimes we just need a different set of eyes to read our story …

You know, to help us sort things out.

And for me, therapy is doing that.

So imma stay right where I’m at.

+ Ci Ci +