Despair, a cold stone pressed tight against the heart, led me to seek counseling. I was at war on my job, facing a protracted battle I didn't have the stomach for. My volatile emotional state kept me on edge. I burst into tears for no apparent reason or became enraged over minor slights. I awakened each morning in a state of high anxiety expecting the worst from life.
In spite of my deep seeded distrust of mental health professionals, I realized I needed help coping with this life crisis. One morning, I summoned the courage to pick up the telephone and make an appointment to be seen at a local behavioral health center.
My therapist was a young Latina working under the supervision of a more experienced female doctor. I told her I came to the center for help because I was having trouble coping with racism at my job and my emotions were in constant flux.
"I'm dealing with a lot of racial stuff," I stated, "That's why I'd prefer to work with a black therapist."
My request was met with an uneasy silence.
""We don't have any African-Americans doctors on staff," the Latina doctor responded.
Her female supervisor sat at the opposite end of the room, intensely dissecting my colored cooties. I laughed. There was a tinge of madness in it. My mind was unraveling. The stuffing was floating feather-like onto the comfortable leather couch where I sat.
"If you'd like, I could still do an in-take interview then give you time to think about whether to move forward with me as your therapist," she said.
She was pregnant and glowed with the natural radiance of a mother-to-be. I felt I could trust her. In retrospect, I realize I also wanted to be freed from the weight of the emotional baggage I was carrying , even if only for a short time. I agreed to her proposal.
"I'm going to ask you a series of questions to help me better understand why you are here today. Thee are no right or wrong answers. Are you ready to proceed?" she asked.
"I'm ready." I answered and the questioning began.
When the session ended, an hour later, the Latina doctor gave me a sympathetic look and said, "Please wait in the lobby while Dr. Cold Eyes (my words not hers!) and I review your case."
I walked to the lobby with every intention of leaving. Although my case was being reviewed by two women doctors, they came across strictly as clinicians rather than compassionate, sister-healers. In the end, I decided to stay because I knew I needed help and I was worried about what might happen to me without some sort of therapeutic intervention. A few minutes later, I was seated once again on the comfortable leather couch facing the Latina doctor.
"You are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder," she announced with a confidence that was reassuring. I was relieved to know there was a name for what ailed me.
"You've had a number of traumatic events in your life. The problems on your job reopened a wound that had never healed," she explained.
"The good news is I can treat this condition and help you feel better but there's just one thing," she paused before continuing,"The racism and discrimination issues you'll have to handle on your own."
I heard a SNAP inside of my head. It was the sound a tightly wound spring makes when its tension absorbing capacity has been exceeded.
"You mean any emotional trauma I'm experiencing because of discrimination or racism won't be addressed?" I asked in disbelief.
"Yes, that's correct. We are not negating or invalidating your emotions around that issue but we think focusing on your other life traumas will be more beneficial," she said with such heartfelt conviction I almost believed her.
In fact, the exact opposite was true. These two doctors had negated and invalidated the significance of the trauma I was experiencing because of racism and discrimination at my job. Moreover, by refusing to acknowledge the tremendous impact of the psychological pain of racism on my mental health, the doctors were also negating part of my "lived" reality as a Black American which is: on an almost daily basis I endure anxieties, hardships, inequities and injustices solely because my skin is black.
I promised to call the doctor back in a few days with my decision on entering therapy but I already knew I would not be returning. The price of therapy would be surrendering to a therapeutic mindset that refused to acknowledge the serious psychological impacts of racism on black minds. A classic devil's bargain that required me to leave my black pain and problems at the front door. I chose instead to seek healing the way the women in my family have stretching back to our beginnings in this country: through prayer, hard-work, music, tears and laughter.
Once I started feeling stronger, I filed a complaint with the mental and behavioral health provider whose staff offered me treatment ONLY if I would leave my issues of racial trauma at the front door. When the response I received from the chief medical doctor proved woefully inadequate, I started an online petition on Moveon.org. The petition combined with the support of a local state representative opened communication channels with the CEO of the hospital in question. Some preliminary meetings and discussion have taken place with key hospital administrators. I remain hopeful these contacts will lead to positive changes in the way African-Americans in my community are treated at this regional behavioral and mental health facility--the largest in Southern Arizona.
I decided to share my story to put a personal face on the problem of racial disparities in the delivery of mental health services and to help raise public awareness about it.
Lastly, as part of my "self-healing" therapy, I started a trauma diary. It is one of the ways I face down the demons in my past. I turned the anguish I felt about the way I was treated at "The Doll Factory" into a video. It's another way to spur discussion about this problem while simultaneously helping me to "get over it (the bad experience) and move on!". You can view the video at this link: http://youtu.be/SZ1ocuBC9jl.