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.