by Raqiyah Mays
Step #2: therapy.
It’s something looked down upon in the black community, a sign of weakness. Even though we are among the ones who truly need it to heal from hundreds of years of post-traumatic stress disorder, from the beatings of forced servitude, from systematic Jim Crow laws that separated us, kept us down economically, and sabotaged our confidence, making us feel less than because of skin color, hopeless because of a crabs-in-a-barrel mentality. And distrustful of our men who were regularly taken from us, killed in front of us, and forced into leaving families led by women who built up anger and resentment toward the males who couldn’t support them. All of this history weighs on the present. The inability to trust, love, and be vulnerable with our men. Learned from watching mothers. Passed down to unsuspecting daughters. I needed to figure out how to stop repeating my mother’s relationship mistakes, which manifested in my staying too busy to sit still. Too scared to feel, swallow the truth, and deal. Like many perpetually single women, too distracted by work and church and this and that to realize our habit of choosing those who reflect our injured selves: emotionally unavailable men. Prone to eventually leaving us, further injuring the abandoned girl in us.
Although my mother seemed to be seeking self-healing herself. When I visited her one communion Sunday in November, she was dressed in a sharp yellow suit with an off-white purse, pearls, and heels to match; she was glowing. Humming. Stirring the greens on the stove as I grated cheddar cheese.
“So I’ve been reading Iyanla Vanzant,” I said. “In the Meantime. It’s really amazing. It’s about—”
“Finding yourself and the love you want,” Mom said, finishing my sentence. “I like her. Some of the ladies in the women’s ministry were talking about it.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. I joined a few weeks ago,” she said, checking the roasted chicken in the oven. “We read books, pray, meditate, and just talk. Last week they brought in this minister to speak who’s also a psychologist. And I met with her the other day. Actually felt good to talk to somebody who understands and doesn’t judge. I mean, I don’t know if it’ll work. But, we’ll see . . .”
Her words drifted off into a hum. She seemed happy. Felt lighter. And as she stood at the stove checking the Sunday meal, I squinted my lids and side-eyed her. Who was this woman? Who was this grinning imposter in the kitchen skipping around about therapy? Dropping her baggage and letting “it” go and working through the mental mud that keeps us backed up?
“Is Larry coming?” He had to be. This attitude of hers had him all over it.
“Larry? Please. We’re not speaking anymore.”
“Wow,” I said in disbelief. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Since the beginning of the year. I didn’t want to bring the New Year in again with a jerk.”
A month later, after Christmas Eve service, we sat at brunch in a room filled with multiple tables, seated across from a buffet spread of assorted salads, bacon, sausage, eggs, biscuits, and cooks flipping fancy omelets and fluffy pancakes. Another cut thin slices of turkey and ham. My mother happily ate. And again, she was smiling. Bouncing almost. “I went to get a massage the other day, and a mani-pedi, and then I took myself to lunch. I deserve it. An early Christmas present to myself. I work hard. Dr., I mean, Reverend Dennis always says that.” She smiled, digging into scrambled eggs, discussing her newfound self-love. Reverend Dr. Dennis had become a regular part of the conversations lately, as Mom called me more than she ever had, weekly, to check on how I was doing. When I returned the question, she’d always end up talking about her therapist with a sense of upbeat thankfulness. “Meena, I know I haven’t always made the best decisions in the past,” she said out of the blue. “I know I haven’t been the best mom I could be. I really was very unhappy. Very depressed. Selfish. Hurt. Caught up in my own drama. And I’m sorry. That wasn’t your fault. That was mine. I’m going to be a better mom to you. I promise. I love you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Just a grin. Side-eye waiting for the TV camera to jump out. All I could muster up was an awkward “I love you, too.”
At the beginning of January, I called a list of therapists in my area accepting new patients. I was still on COBRA, paying way too much for health insurance, and decided to use it while I could afford to. But a month later, as the February snow slipped into blizzard mode and my 28th birthday passed, multiple rescheduled appointments and fear-driven cancelations characterized my half-ass attempt to seek help. It wasn’t until after still seeing my mother floating high with smiles from her own counseling treatment, that I finally found the courage to trek to an office in downtown Brooklyn. I took an elevator up to the eleventh floor, to sit on a leather couch and wait to be seen.
“So what’s going on?”
Not knowing what to say, I answered this question with a blank stare at a polyester pink blouse buttoned up to the neck. Tiny red polka dots spotted the shirt, tucked into rose-colored linen pants that flared down to flat black shoes. Her hair was shoulder-length, a broccoli-styled bushel of brown that accented age spots and crevices in her skin. Dark bags underlined the wiggly red lines streaking through her eyeballs. Dr. Weisman was my new therapist. Referred by Denise, who’d been going to her for months. When I hinted toward wanting to see someone, she forwarded me the e-mail with the contact information. Meredith, now two years deep into getting her PhD in psychology, looked Dr. Weisman up and found a five-star rating and glowing résumé filled with authored books and countless clinical research studies.
“So what’s going on?” That question lingered. I knew what to say, but not where to begin. When I didn’t immediately answer Dr. Weisman’s question, she sat there silently, half smiling, waiting in her brown leather chair, in a tiny white office decorated with plaques certifying a medical degree in psychology from Stanford University. It was weird. Because the more I searched for the right words, the more things built up in my mind. Do I begin with my father? My mother? The curse? The men? My work? So many topics, issues, baggage, I was ashamed to begin.
“So you’re a writer?” Dr. Weisman asked, saving me. “You mentioned that during our phone consultation. That must be fun.”
“Well, yeah. I guess,” I said, looking down at the rug with dark almond circles. “I’ve been getting a lot of freelance work. It’s nothing big. Just little assignments. But it’s something.”
She was quiet again. Staring, transmitting psychic messages, urging me to fill the silence with words.
“I just want to focus,” I said, looking around for my phone, leaving it glimmering at the bottom of my purse. “But my ex keeps texting me recently. Mercury or Venus must be in retrograde. And I feel like I’m going to make a mistake and reply.”
“Oh, Mercury in retrograde. My computer always breaks,” she answered. I was so relieved she understood. “What was his name again?”
“Sean.”
She began scribbling. I continued sharing.
“He was a cheater. Always working. Only caring about himself. I was sick in the hospital and home for weeks and he never came to see me.” I felt the anger bubbling as the words busted through my lips. “He almost gave me an STD. Gonorrhea. He had a full-blown case, but the doctors said I didn’t, which tells me he was cheating. So fuck him. I finally broke up six months too late. Then I went back like an idiot. And I thought I was over him. But holiday time makes it hard. And he always texts me around the holidays and my birthday, which was a few weeks ago. I mean, I don’t get it. It was over a year ago. I want him to go away. But I’m good.”
“Congratulations,” she said, nodding. Her face serious. Eyes squinting. Jotting something in a notebook. “I bet that took a lot of courage.”
“Yeah. I always break up,” I said, staring at a pigeon flying off the windowsill. “But it takes me so long. Like I do it after being emotionally abused forever. I wish I could see the signs early and leave before my feel
ings get caught up. But it’s hard to let go.”
“Or not pick them at all, right?” I paused before nodding my head in agreement. Tears about to come up. She assessed me for a long minute before saying, “Tell me about your father.”
And it all came out. That crap lodged in my throat threw phlegm-filled issues into the world. The abuse, the abandonment, the search that always took place the same time yearly, around June, when advertisements for Father’s Day began. It started with an internal quest, digging through feelings of fear, resentment, and anger. And then it morphed into maturity and sympathy, understanding that a relationship’s demise took two. Last year, I’d actually e-mailed my mother looking for info on his whereabouts. And after a day or two, she responded with a subject line that made me shudder: INFO ON YOUR FATHER.
I stared at it for a week without opening it, wondering what that e-mail might say. Does she know where he is? Does she have a phone number? Is she mad that I’m looking for him? I hesitantly dragged the cursor, clicked, and read:
Your father was 5'6". He was in the army and went to school for a little while but later dropped out. He has a sister, Nancy, and mother, Gabrielle, who live in Philadelphia. He’s from California, and played trumpet. He seemed to grow sad when thinking of his days in Cali. This is all I can remember about him. And I didn’t think I’d remember this much. It’s all coming back to me as I write this. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this earlier. But I had to leave your father for my own sanity and safety. I never tried to keep you away from him.
I sat in Barnes & Noble reading this e-mail, staring out the window at a couple holding hands under the table. A small, blond baby girl walked over to grab my leg. Seconds later, her male twin, about thirty years older, scooped her up high, hoisting her tiny body around his shoulders. I smiled. Half loving the Hallmark moment, half masking the fear I felt over finding Dad. It plagued my life, prohibiting trust, enabling debilitating cycles of dysfunctional love. Not having a father made me insecure, lacking faith in men, picking the wrong ones, always wondering about the negative end and evil possibilities of love. The feeling of insecurity only lessened when I was inebriated or high, diminishing the fear of repeating past mistakes. It was a terrifying feeling that made me wonder whether I was forever destined to follow in the curse, the painfully accepted path of a daughter born to a family of fatherless, manless women.
Some days I’d sit, imagining the future, hoping to manifest a father-daughter meeting in a diner. We’d talk and laugh for hours. He’d share stories and tips on how to find a man and keep one. He’d walk me to his house, open the door, and a slew of family would fall out the door, dressed in their Sunday best. At dinner’s end, my father and I would head back to the diner for coffee, discussing the past: his, mine, my mother’s.
I’ve always heard Mom’s side—about what happened with their relationship and why she called off the engagement. But in my dream sequence, Dad would divulge all the missing details. We’d cry over the years lost. Hold each other, hug and share stories about our physical similarities. Dry skin. Pimples on the back. Horrible seasonal allergies. And then we’d part with a renewed bond, one that saw us spending holiday dinners, weddings, and reunions together. This was my dream. But looking at that e-mail on the computer screen, the key to my past, to my destiny, to me, shook my mind into unmovable fear. I printed it out, filing evidence away atop disheveled papers I’d hidden behind a corner couch.
As I became emotionally naked for Dr. Weisman, the dime bag of weed in my pocket burned a hole in my denim shorts. I fidgeted on her love seat, anxious to roll a fat cigar full of marijuana so I could forget the tension and pain I was being forced to face.
She scribbled something in her notebook.
“Well, we’re going to have to stop now,” she said, glancing up at the clock. “Same time next week?”
My inner response confused me. Instead of feeling relief, grabbing my bag and running, I wanted to beg for ten more minutes. I wanted to say more. I wanted to open up before the opportunity closed up. I wanted to deal and heal that day, that moment.
I whined on the inside. Pleeease?
But instead I said “Okay,” dejected and flat, like a straight line on a heart monitor. I got up, wanting to reach out and grab her tight. I felt an urge to thank her for the empathic power that magnetically pulled painful hidden truths from my soul. But the emotionally unavailable side took over. The side that took pride in showing little emotion. The side that opened up just enough but never fully enough. The side that held my head high and stoic, staying strong, tucking vulnerability under the skin, drowning it in the blood that circulated through my body. I didn’t trust her yet. I couldn’t show her me. Not yet. So I simply said “Thank you,” shaking her hand hard, nodding with approval, before turning to leave with a smile. I couldn’t wait to see Dr. Weisman next week.
Later that evening . . .
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You home?”
“Yeah.”
“You want some company?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m on my way.”
After I came, riding on top, screaming orgasmic pleasure like someone who hadn’t had sex in months, I slid off Sean and lay next to him, staring up at the ceiling, having a conversation with God. Why am I here? Why did I text him? What am I thinking? What the fuck? And it wasn’t even that good. He couldn’t even keep it up.
Leave.
That was the only answer I got from God. So I rolled out of the bed, slipped on my panties, pants, hoodie, and boots.
“You leaving?”
“Um . . . yeah,” I said, not looking at him. “I’m on deadline, I need to write.”
“Damn. I suddenly feel used,” he said, a smirk on his asshole face. “Well, it was good to see you. That was fun.”
He sat up in the bed to stare at me as I got dressed. I gave him a fake smile and walked out the door. Ignored all of his calls and texts that eventually drifted away after a few weeks. Maybe that was the get-back and closure I needed. Maybe I just wanted to have sex. Maybe I was actually like Mom in not wanting to spend another year with a jerk.
Chapter 28
Six months later . . .
“I went on another date last night.”
“Did you?” Dr. Weisman said, pulling out her notepad, clicking the pen, and writing something down to mark what had become a monumental rare moment. “Was this someone you met online?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“You sound embarrassed.”
“I mean, I kind of want to meet someone the old-fashioned way. Not looking. When you look you don’t find.”
“And you also manifest what you believe. Words are power. So if you think this about looking, then why are you online?”
The truth was that I was still fighting the lonely feelings of wanting company, conversation, and the touch of a man. During the quiet moments alone when work slowed and I didn’t have to transcribe or write, the empty feeling of being still made me want to stay busy. But I tried to fight it. I’d witnessed so many women in my family and professional circle do this. But it was only through therapy, meditation, and some of the self-help books I’d become obsessed with reading that I realized this and tried to do something different. From The Road Less Traveled by M. Scott Peck, and Gary Zukav’s Seat of the Soul, to Conversations with God by Neale Donald Walsch, I found myself in a spiritual zone of searching for something. Myself. Love. Happiness. The power to manifest, which I was dying to believe thanks to reading every Iyanla Vanzant book of affirmations I could find. I tried to sit still and feel. But the loneliness. The pain. The anger and insecurity were too much to feel, I couldn’t take the tears. Didn’t want to feel the anger making me reach for the weed with an addictive need to flee. The horny throb in my vagina made me eventually decide, or somehow convince myself, that after months of therapy, no dating, or
real dick-to-clitoris orgasmic stimulation, I’d punished myself long enough. It was time to break down the man-dar walls, take a risk, and let one in.
So I headed to the Internet.
Write a few words about yourself.
Me? Well, I’m a witty, well read, eloquent, down-to-earth Jersey girl. I enjoy red wine, seafood, movies, CNN, HBO on Sundays. Definitely a no-chaser sort of person.
Delete.
Version 2:
I’m about fun on the weekends. A homebody writer who enjoys an occasional glass of red wine and intellectual company.
Delete.
I just want a man. I deserve to have a healthy relationship. I’m beautiful, honest, hardworking, positive, and optimistic, with loads of talent, no kids, my own money, and lots of love to give.
Delete.
The mini bio was difficult to write for an online dating site. The only reason I’d decided to get on match.com was because of Meredith.
“Yeah, he’s a doctor, a pharmacist,” she said, as she parallel parked. “Just bought his mom a house and he’s buying himself one, too.”
“So, he lives alone?”
“No, he has a roommate.” She paused after mentioning this to smear on lipstick, primping and prepping to walk into a party at the 40/40 Club. “He’s saving up for his own place.”
“So he bought his mom a house,” I said slowly, registering what was just said. “But he doesn’t have one of his own?”
“Yeah,” she answered, looking at me, before patting her lips with a tissue. “I know it sounds weird, Meena. But that’s what he said.”
“You believe him?”
“Well, why not?”
Meredith was naive when it came to the opposite sex, ingraining words, wishes, and promises into binding, unfaltering truth. Believing in blind faith was something I admired to a point of exception when it came to most men. Trust toward testosterone needed to be earned, not given. But ironically, Meredith had never experienced the pain of having a guy cheat on her and had always maintained long relationships. The repercussions of picking properly. The training of a girl with a healthy mom and dad in her life. Months after her last breakup, she’d managed to become friends with her ex, nurturing a new, healthy, platonic path. I rarely spoke to my exes, full of thoughts that turned up my lip like the smell of moldy trash. Over our nearly sixteen-year friendship, the main difference between Meredith and me was that until recently, I’d looked for lies from the opposite sex, instead of living like her and expecting nothing but the truth. She went in with few expectations other than enjoying the moment. Excited to see where things would go. Open to where they might. Acceptant of where they landed. I always had an agenda. But I wanted to be like Meredith. It was just so hard.
