25 years ago I was in an inpatient treatment program. I was receiving support as I worked on my recovery from abuse , trauma and it’s resulting codependency.

The hospital that housed this program was a few short miles from LA.

Television wasn’t encouraged in the program , yet somehow – everyone quickly found out the verdict of that trial. 

And a ripple rollled through the facility .

I was the only African American patient . The only one. 

When I got word – I prayed that no white person would say , not one word to me. Not. One . Fucking. Word.

I did not for one second want to have to be the token , the mirror that was to be used by any of them to project their drama , conceptions or misconceptions on this verdict .

And I searched within my soul for a place where I could be an authentic black woman in this place, this place which was supposed to be a haven , but was now a jail .

It was with a huge sigh of relief that I soon saw a man I will call Paul , he was the only African American therapist in this program and he has been called in in his day off – for me.

For these therapists assumed rightly so – that I would have need of him. He walked with me and listened to every word, every feeling that I had . He heard me cry, he heard me scream – I cursed, and he encouraged me to- say more about that … say more … say more… and I did until I was exhausted.

And grateful , so damn grateful.

And when I was finished. He assured me that all I had to do was ask for him and that he would return.

I thanked him and felt such peace, some one saw , some one thought of my needs and took specific action to ensure that I’d felt safe.

It was the first time that had ever happened in my life .

And it’s affect was so healing – that I was able to feel safe … even though later that night we could smell the city of Los Angeles as it burned.

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