Thursday, July 18, 2013

SEEKING PROFESSIONAL HELP


    The angry child will grow up to be an angry, dysfunctional adult.  I married at the age of seventeen and seven years later, I had my first child. Still I was held hostage by my grandmother.  She would not leave me alone.  She was dead, yet she still lived inside of me.  I could hear her in my head and feel the pain in my heart.  I knew in my heart that I needed professional help when I felt as though I couldn't breathe, each breath was labored.  I felt like acid flowed through my veins.  However, during my pregnancy, I attended college and I took a health class as an elective and in this class, the instructor had talked about mental
health.  That became my anchor. I looked up the telephone number of the local mental health society.  I was told that I could get an appointment in three weeks.  I yelled in the telephone that I had to see see someone immediately.  I knew that I was walking a new path on the wild side and that path would take me to the very depth of hell and the most frightening things was that I was anticipating going there.  The only hold on my sanity was the love I had for my child.  

     I saw a therapist and I was allowed to talk.  As a child I locked all the pain and anguish inside.  I talked for a while but I really thought I would be given a quick fix, a pill or something to do me up, make me feel better. But, the solution to my problem proved to be so simple.  I needed to talk, really say it the way I felt without retaliation.  I realized  for the first time in my life that some one wanted to listen to me, to hear my side, to hear how I felt.  There was no ridicule, no shock expressions, nothing, just someone who listen like every word was of the utmost importance, and man, I sure had lot to say.

     For the first time, I told someone of the fears I had as a child.  I had a fear of being accused of looking the wrong way.  I had a fear of my very words used against me
  I feared going to bed and waking up with hands running under the sheets to see if I wet the bed and if I had, the sheets would be tossed over my head and that extension cord would cut into my legs.  I never knew if I was good or bad.  I was whipped for about everything.  Then I told of my helplessness.  I had no recourse.  I already knew I wasn't wanted so running away was not an option.  Besides, I knew that if I ran away from home it would make my grandmother happy and her happiness was the lease of my concern.  Besides, I knew that nobody wanted a black bastard.

     I  realized that I really hated my grandmother.  I always thought bout hating her in my subconscious mind.  I figured if I didn't actually say the word out loud, God wouldn't hear me therefore I wouldn't be in danger of hell fire.  So I gave a name to my demon and his name was 'hate'.  I ranted and raged over and over about how I hatd her.  At some point, I even screamed out 'I hate her!  I hate her!'.  Damn  I felt better, not whole but better than I felt at the beginning of the session.  For one thing, the crawling sensation over my flesh ceased and the urge to scratch my arms was not as urgent.

     I felt loose and I dared anyone to sensor me.  It was a wonderful experience to speak openingly about hate. I alternated between talking and crying.  I was encouraged to keep talking to get it all out in the open.  No one was going to whip me with the extension cord.  Finally, that little girl inside of me had a voice.  That's why, years later with my kids, I encouraged them to say what's on their minds I didn't tolerate them using obscene language, but I encouraged them to say what was on their minds for talking about a situation is a pathway to discovering the solution to the problem.

     I was scheduled for therapy once a week.  I had years of stuff to unload.  And, I talked and I talked.  Going to the mental health society was the greatest thing that I've ever done for myself because it enabled me to go full circle and finally take charge of my life.  I no longer was a victim, that helpless child at the mercy of her grandmother.  I was at the helm of my life.  I was in control, not my grandmother, she was dead to the world and she was dead to me, finally.

     I was scheduled to see a psychiatrist.  I guess the therapist recommended that I see one.  That was a defining moment.  I sat at his desk while he acquainted himself with my file.  Then he started talking to me.  He had such a heavy accent that I couldn't understand him and it was evident that he couldn't understand me.  We yelled 'huh' at each other a couple of times and all the while I'm thinking, 'This son of a bitch is crazier than I am'.  He finally gave up the attempt to communicate with me and wrote out a prescription and pushed the slip across the desk to me.  Something snapped in my mind as I walked away from that building on my way to my car.  I started laughing about my session with the psychiatric and as I laughed, a little piece of me began to mend.  I never went back.  I tore up the prescription.
  
     You can say that I got a new attitude.  I stopped looking at my feet when I talked to people.  I released my bottom lip.  I had held it bondage between my teeth, for over twenty years, to make my lip look thinner so my grandmother wouldn't call me liver lip.  The first time I released my bottom lip, I tentatively walked around expecting someone to yell, 'hey liver lip'.  One day I looked myself eyeball to eyeball in the mirror and declared that I liked my big lips, I liked my black skin and I liked my nappy hair.  I liked the total package.  I even began to love myself.  I no longer felt as though I were two personalities.  I WAS READY TO BE WHO  I WAS DESTINED TO BE BEFORE I WAS DERAILED.
  

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