Category: Mental Health

5 Min Read, Mental Health

I love my therapist.

Regina Lynette

I am a black American Christian woman who believes in having a full-on mental health team. I also know that while I am not the only one, I know that it’s not exactly commonplace yet for my demographic. Since I began my mental health journey in college, I have kept my path pretty quiet, sharing information only with people I deemed either safe spaces or emergency contacts. But I think the time has come to say more and say it publicly. This is another reason I decided to do this blog in this manner. Part of who I am includes details about my mental health journey. But you not gonna get the juicy stuff today. Today, I celebrate my current therapist.

I am a black American Christian woman who has a white American woman in charge of her *talk-therapy. And I love my therapist. This year, while watching horrific news about white people killing black people, I found myself in a mental state about racism I’d never been in before. I simply didn’t want to talk to white people about anything and I didn’t want white people to talk to me about anything, simply because they were white people. I didn’t want apologies. I didn’t want questions. I didn’t want greetings or terms of endearment. I turned my nose up at the idea that a white person had words to say. And about a week before my next therapy appointment – the one that came after I realized my sensitivities to white people just because they were white – I needed to decide how I was going to talk to my white therapist. Other than the awareness of her being a white person, I didn’t feel the same animosity or angst about talking to this particular white person and I tried to unpack that some before my session. I didn’t do a great job.

My therapist has an artistic background, has lived in other countries, and has lived in large American cities known for diversity as well as smaller southern cities known for lack of diversity and that was enough to remind me that she was a safe space. During that session I told her that I do not want to talk to white people. She paused the session to make sure she understood what I was saying – because she’s a white person and I was talking to her. Then I tried to say I still felt she was a safe person despite my current feelings about white people and hoped I wasn’t offensive. A few weeks later she reached out to me to ask if I’d heard about a therapeutic product made specifically for people of color designed by an African-American therapist.  I thanked her for seeing my color. This was summer 2020. She is still my therapist and I still love my therapist.

That anecdote says nothing about how I’ve come to love my therapist, nor does it specifically promote therapy. But that anecdote is the demonstration that a therapist to love is a therapist who is right for you and your needs. A therapist to love is one who can handle what life throws you both and can still guide you through those challenging times. A therapist to love is one who sees you clearly and respects you completely. And my therapist is a therapist to love.

When I met this therapist, I was having complications and my chronic mental illness was out of remission leaving me unstable. She was referred to me by my psychiatrist along with a nutritionist. Having had therapy for more than 20 years, I had long developed a process to make sure I got the most out of my sessions. This included self-awareness of issues that surfaced, recognition of things that just weren’t working, and an acknowledgement of the level of disfunction my illness caused versus the level of disfunction my unresolved issues caused (which means I had to accept that sometimes I needed a pill and not only behavior changes).

There were a couple of problems immediately apparent to me in the first few sessions with this therapist. First, I wasn’t going to be in control of this process in the way I had been with previous therapists. Second, I didn’t have the energy, courage, nor foresight to take the reins of this process in the way I had done with previous therapists. Bumping up against that those first few sessions made me reconsider being under her care. I always had an introductory session or consultation before choosing a therapist and could establish my needs at that time. I just made an appointment with this therapist based on my chosen psychiatrist’s referral. But I decided to continue because in this case, my psychiatrist, talk-therapist, and nutritionist – my mental health team – all knew each other and could discuss my progress together and I wanted to see the benefits of that arrangement. So, I decided to “let go” (which ended up being the focus for at least a year) and stopped planning for my sessions. I would just show up and follow her lead. I found that the sessions where I had absolutely nothing planned to discuss were the best sessions. We were still getting to know each other, and I wasn’t really giving her much to work with – I wasn’t showing up and presenting myself to her in the sessions but was open enough to let her sort of rummage around and see what we could work on. And in time, she got to know me. She got to know the characters in my life. She knew when to pause a long time because she could see me thinking. She learned when to either re-direct or end the session because it was just too much to handle. And she learned how to check in with me at the start of each session to see how to best direct our time. Now she has a better handle on me than I have on myself in some ways and I trust her with my everything. That’s a therapist to love. And I love my therapist.

Only you know what you need from a therapist and only you know what’s most important to you in a therapist. However, when I am asked about what I’ve learned I need from a therapist and what’s important to me in a therapist, there is one thing that I consistently note first – the best professionals are artists. Creatives approach medicine with the idea that every human is different and that every human may respond differently to therapy – both techniques and medications. They understand that the patient knows more about their body and mind than anyone else and therefore require that a partnership be forged to determine a treatment plan (you’ll see this in the agreements in your intake paperwork or it will be discussed during your consultation and/or first appointment). Artists use their passionate natures to fuel their progress. And the patients of creative and artistic medical professionals benefit from getting a partner who holds their hand along the very customized treatment plan to reach the pinnacle of the individual’s health. They lay out a plan based on their education and experience and then stand back and look with admiration and pride at the mixed bag of tricks that the plan actually incorporates as it’s executed. My first artistic doctor beamed with pride with every success I had – we had. He fought to the death my insurance companies and got pissed at the pharmaceutical companies when they caused problems with getting my prescriptions filled. He was very invested in me and taught me to be very invested in my health.

I just wanted to tell the world that I love my therapist. And I know that it is critical that African-Americans seek therapy, and that African-American issues can often only be understood well by African-American therapists – so much so that I want to acknowledge it as fact. And I’ve had both black and white therapists and had positive experiences with both. Have the courage to seek the right therapist for you whether it’s gender, race, color, or any other identifiers and experiences.

I love my therapist.

*I use the term talk-therapy to refer to the sessions provided by my medical professional that rely mostly on talking. There are many different kinds of health professionals who take on this role so I use a broader term to focus on the process rather than the person’s credentials. When I use this term, usually I am separating doctors who prescribe medications from other medical health professionals who focus on a myriad of other techniques.

3 Min Read, Mental Health, Parenting, Teaching

It’s Important to Watch Something Grow

Regina Lynette

I taught preschool for ages 3-4 many moons ago and at the school that made me want to quit life altogether I learned an important principle for adulting. As life lessons usually go, it wasn’t clear and direct at the time, but started as a seed.

At this preschool that nearly took my soul, each classroom had an outside garden. There was no schoolwide curriculum assigned so the gardens reflected each teacher’s abilities and creativity. Basically a few looked like gardens that needed some help and a couple looked like abandoned fields. The one I inherited looked like an abandoned field. I am far from a green thumb, but I learned some very basic planting skills as a little girl.

Grandaddy was a sharecropper and did something with sorghum molasses. Daddy worked the fields with him and at least during the last 23 years of his life while he lived in the city, he wanted a little vegetable garden and talked about how different things grew and what they needed to thrive. I was the Daddy’s Girl who toggled between tomboy and princess stereotypical behavior. I watched him do everything outside and begged to help, doing my version of whatever it was right beside him. We mowed the lawn, raked the leaves, trimmed the bushes, and edged the yard – which he hated because that was not work for little girls, but that he loved because he was teaching me, and it was our time alone. And whenever he was able to plant and grow anything, I was right beside him watching and asking questions, not realizing that any of it was really sinking in – I just loved being outside with him in the grass and under the trees.

From spending that time with Daddy, I knew I could at least start by making our garden look like someone cared and figure out any specific curriculum goals for later based in what the kids showed interest. First, we cleared everything out. That was easy to let them do with their little plastic garden tools and I let them have at it with wild abandon. They couldn’t hurt a thing, could release any energy they had from being inside, and could be as involved in the dirty parts as they wanted. I began to get to know my kids quickly – I saw who didn’t like dirt, who loved dirt, and who could manage to turn anything into a weapon. I saw my leaders, my followers, and my bullies. I saw my dreamers, my builders, and my facilitators. I saw who needed more structure and who needed more freedom. It was the best way to get to know my entire class.

Then I moved on to the next phase that I knew – we needed to turn the dirt, break it up so it was soft. I was more directly involved in this phase because plastic hoes and spades can only do so much with hard ground. I wanted to limit the number of small kids with me since I was directly involved and would have a real hoe in my hand, so I split up my class in small groups taking the more energetic types out first. I needed to talk to them and get to know why they behaved the way they did and understand them as individuals. This is how you find out that your bullies are practicing learned behavior from home or are screaming because they don’t feel heard. This is when you find out that the kids who turn toys into weapons are influenced by what they see in their everyday environment or that they are your most resourceful and resilient students. And this is when you find your artists – they make beats or sing while breaking up earth which they notice aloud has many shades and textures and then their garden tools become paintbrushes or imaginary people in what looks like a play. And after some time in the dirt, we all reach a peaceful energy. All of the kids did a part of this, but this first group really did the hard physical work.

The next phase, planting, was designed for the lower-energy kids and those who by now had a lot of interest in the entire project. The ones most interested in the overall process used their tools to make grooves for planting – any tools could be used, even hands, because our ground was soft and tilled. The ones who didn’t like to get dirty were my seed planters. They held a handful of whatever seeds I found in the previous teacher’s stash and dropped them in the grooves. And those who were uninterested but who quietly obey any directive closed it up for us, gently covering the planted seeds with the dirt. Then we watered the garden. When I left work the evening we finished, I was quite proud of the appearance of our garden. It was even brown and smooth, and I couldn’t wait to see what would begin to pop up – my only goal was for something to begin to grow and I believed that we did enough to at least see some tiny sprouts whether they thrived or not.

Once our garden began to sprout, we had a lot of attention. The parents thought it was a good sign of my teaching ability – anything that looks organized or improved upon looks like there is someone in control and providing guidance. The children had varying amounts of pride of our tiny green sprouts based more on their level of interest in the garden than on their perceived levels of contribution to its growth.

But I had an unexpected reaction to that garden. It was the only place I felt any peace on that campus.

The thing that is obvious to me now that I didn’t see then is that it is important to watch something grow. I find planting makes the biggest difference for me, but it doesn’t have to be plants if that’s not your thing. Anything that lives and needs you to care for it to then grow works – puppies, fish, children. Just make sure to watch something grow.

3 Min Read, COVID, grief, Mental Health, Parenting

DIY Stress Kits Are Necessary

Regina Lynette

I’m a crybaby. It’s one identifier that I’ve accepted even though it’s used as an insult. Angry, enraged, pissed off, I cry. Happy, laughing, in awe of something beautiful, I cry. Scared, startled, fearful, I cry. A cold, the flu, allergies, I cry. Depressed, sad, grieving, I cry. I even cry when someone else is crying. Thus, I embrace being a crybaby because my default expression of most emotions is to cry.

Once I went to a professional development conference and attended a session on stress management. At the start of the session the leader asked us to all take a deep breath. I took a deep breath and exhaled in tears, sobbing really. Once I had a confrontation with an abusive supervisor – with HR in attendance but offering no assistance – and was grateful that it was over the phone because I cried, wept really. Once I had an allergy attack during an interview for an internship and had to quickly explain the tears streaming down while answering questions about why I wanted to work with them. And the worst – believe it or not – was when I cried silently during a staff meeting. It was the worst because there was no provocation. My home life was particularly stressful at the time and I was okay as long as I was moving around and working but sitting still for two seconds was too much time with my thoughts. Embracing being a crybaby does not mean I embrace crying at work for any reason at all.

After crying during the stress session and the supervisor confrontation, I quit those jobs. After crying during the interview, I got the job, one of the best I’ve ever had. After crying during the staff meeting, I went to a counselor.

This wasn’t my first time seeking a professional mental health provider. In college I sought help for sexual abuse from a counselor. After college I was diagnosed with a mental health disorder managed by a psychiatrist. I sought grief counseling from a psychotherapist. I recognized that I needed help and had the courage to find it. Thankfully, as part of my benefits at that job, I had access to six free counseling sessions – designed to refer you to more permanent situation – that were located walking distance from my office. I made an appointment that I was able to take on my lunch break.

I had 30 minutes with this counselor, so I took over the session from the start, speaking as quickly as possible, listing all the stressors going on in my life. This guy tightened his face with every situation I mentioned and at the end of my list I thought he was going to crumble. Then I told him that I wasn’t looking to deal with all of those issues right away, but that I just needed not to cry during staff meetings anymore. He audibly sighed his relief and gave me a list of self-soothing activities to try. He told me to keep a container with some tools in my car, at home, and at work, to use whenever the stress proved overwhelming. I called them stress kits.

I read the list on my way back to the office and then thought about the best way to approach this stress kit. Reflecting on the simple moments of bliss in my past, I set out to include items from those moments. I added a mug (for tea), a small jigsaw puzzle, and an Ella Fitzgerald CD. On my two 15-minute breaks and during lunch at work, I hid away in a small conference room that I could lock. I made jasmine green tea, listened to Ella Fitzgerald’s Love Songs: Best of the Song Books, and worked a small Thomas Kinkade puzzle. I kept to an actual schedule for a couple of weeks and it helped significantly. There was no more crying at work. After a couple of weeks, I skipped the lunchtime stress break and soon I didn’t use the kits preemptively but as needed to combat anxiety and stress.

The last year has been taxing for the entire world. Surprisingly, I managed the confinement relatively well. The public displays of the brutal murders of my people, reminding me of just how little our lives mean to some, made things more intense but I was still managing fairly well. The deaths of major civil rights activists were hard, but I was hanging in there. I had to confront the fact that I needed to search for a job – something I knew I should have been doing for a long time but didn’t have the energy nor mental space to start – because I am running out of time to make sure there is no gap in employment, but I have a plan and a backup plan and an emergency plan and some last resort plans. Then the election hit and boom – regular anxiety attacks.

I have prescription meds to help manage my anxiety, but I only have to take half a dose and that rarely. During the election, I found I needed a full dose almost daily. I believe in taking medication to help the body recover whether it’s healing an ailment or managing symptoms. But I also have a subconscious belief in spite of education that all medication is temporary, and I try to avoid taking anything that can be habit forming or that has to be increased over time for effectiveness. My doctors have actually encouraged me to take more anxiety meds than I’m willing to take. After a week of taking pills I remembered my DIY stress kits.

With more education on stress relief and more tools at my disposal, I made a more robust kit. I made sure to pay attention to the senses – sight, taste, touch, sound, and smell. And two more senses I’ve recently learned about – vestibular/movement and proprioceptive/comforting pressure have been addressed in this kit. I still have Ella Fitzgerald as part of the kit because her voice has literally lowered my blood pressure from high to normal within a two-minute period. And I still have tea, but I use my fancy tea kettles and cups instead of a mug. In addition to jigsaw puzzles, I have coloring books. I incorporate incense and candles – usually something spicy. I either take a brief walk or rock in a swing. And I have a weighted blanket that I keep nearby to lay under for up to half an hour.