Therapy

“Have you ever thought of harming yourself or ending your life?” Ms. Betty asked.

“I was a very happy child or at least I remember I was.

Now, I can’t even say exactly what I am. “I’m not messed up”.

Have you ever thought of harming yourself or ending your life?

Ms. Betty asked again.

I’m totally fine but I need h…

I could never write it…. or say it.

I mean I would never.

I’m not that crazy.

I can’t say I need h…. I can’t type it.

Everyone would know.

I would be open.

I didn’t want pity.

No!

I know it’s there nudging me softly, but I keep shoving it.

Now the nightmares are back. I can feel my fear within.

Is this book making me feel this way?

Why am I reading this book at this moment?

Is the universe indirectly telling me to work on myself now or else…?

I’m not ready to go back into that hole again.

I don’t want the fears — I really don’t. I was doing fine.

Why did I get this book?

Please leave me alone!

-If you won’t answer my first question, then, tell me this-

What are you scared of? What are you running from?

I have been surviving on two hours of sleep or four hours, if I touch myself before sleeping. Deep down, I know it might be it, but I’m looking for something superficial as the cure to my insomnia.

This book is gradually making me dance to its tunes.

I just woke up from sleep and I could recognize that fear. The one where it feels like something is about to envelop me and make me cease to exist.

I was dreaming but I couldn’t remember it. I wish I turned off my phone, but work would say otherwise.

When I met Kevin, I had no idea what the universe had in store for me.

Exactly, six months ago, on a Thursday, I came home really tired. Kevin was home. He had cooked.

He was in a relationship with me, but I wasn’t.

After the welcome kisses and taking my bag, he gestured for me to sit pulling out a chair.

I sat down to eat and I saw what looked like my journal beside him.

It could be any book, I thought to myself, but the fear that enveloped me couldn’t let me just leave it be.

I was about to ask when he cut me off and said- “Yes, it is.”

I was furious, scared, angry, and flushed.

I started having a panic attack, then I started crying uncontrollably. The tears couldn’t stop. Tears kept running down my cheeks for close to three hours. He waited till they stopped.

“I love you regardless Angie, I can be here for you and with you in this relationship but you still need to see a real therapist to really help you.” He said.

I remember every word he said like it was yesterday.

Then, I looked him in the eyes and said, “I never loved you, Kevin, I just wanted sex. Hand it over, my journal”

I left the room, entered my car, and drove off.

I don’t allow people to love me — as if I had the power to make them do so, but I know why I said so.

They love the “me” they can see.

I’m an illusion, and that’s ‘what’ or ‘who’ they fall in love with.

That part of me is selfless, she laughs a lot.

She’s optimistic and she cares much more than required in her actions more often than her words.

And the constant smiling, that shy smile, the one that makes them think you’re madly in love with them.

“Are you addicted to sex?”

I’m not addicted to sex!

I mean, I do love sex, I’m addicted to where it takes me literally.

When I have sex, my mind is blank.

Nobody is wandering anywhere.

It’s just blank, empty, and quiet, and I love to be there.

Oh, I do love to be there.

That’s why I close my eyes every time. When they look into my eyes, and my eyes are not shut, my brain moves to close them immediately like a reflex action. It felt as though they could see me.

The real me, the weak me, the insecure me, the “me” stuck in a cycle of hurts, the broken me, the vulnerable me. My soul, mind, and body, that’s an awful and ugly place to be.

So, I shut it but not immediately so it’s not suspicious. Then, I sip into that fold freeing myself and becoming nothing.

It’s not that I can’t love anyone, I might have said I love you once or twice but always during sex depending on how long I get to be in my haven.

Yes, it may be selfish, but whatever helps you sleep at night.

I drove for about 30 minutes with no destination in mind.

Then, I entered a mall, bought a bag and a month’s supply of toiletries, some clothes, and some more stuff, called my secretary to let her know I was going to be away for a while, and specifically told her not to let anyone know my whereabouts. A month’s leave was necessary at this point.

Breaking down that day was due; it was that time of the year — when I cry for all the things that have hurt me — but I didn’t expect it at that soul-baring moment, I mean, my journal was my pain all in one.

It had been like a year since the last involuntarily crying episode before this particular day. I thought I was finally okay, that I didn’t need these episodes anymore.

No one had ever seen me cry, why in front of Kevin?

How do I get through today, I thought to myself.

I drove to my friend’s apartment; She was at work and I had a key.

I settled down in the guest room. Then, I went to the couch in the room and closed my eyes.

I’m sitting on a couch.

No, I’m lying on a couch in my therapist’s office looking at the dark spot on her ceiling.

Yes, I could see that dark circle but it wasn’t what I was looking at.

I was watching a movie actually, a very familiar one — My Life.

Where would you like to start?

Ms. Betty asked.

I did hear her voice but I wasn’t close, I was far away.

I was sitting on a black bench in a green field, watching people move about their daily lives, couples and singles alike- the wannabes, the various clicks; friends or not,

Those that laughed.

Those that were sad.

Those on their cellphones.

The lights.

It was evening suddenly.

The natural earthly slight darkness.

The birds were still flying in numbers.

I would always count, it made me feel the way I felt when I was a child.

I would always count till they all flew away, then I would check my nails to see if there was a white mark on any fingernail; we always did it as children.

I would always eavesdrop on funny conversations of strangers around and it made me smile, sometimes at their foolishness and sometimes at their courage.

But on my bench, I was alone.

I preferred it that way so much so that I’d always put my bag there to motion to anyone who cared to know that the seat was taken.

This was my safe space.

I could hear my name, which was strange.

That never happened!

Wait, that was Ms. Betty’s voice calling my name again. I came back to the dark dot on the ceiling.

“Our session is over, till next Wednesday”, She said.

I put off my alarm and left the room.

Between the ages 20–24, I have booked this session 14 times with a real therapist and I’ve canceled 14 times.

The first time I came here, I couldn’t answer Ms. Betty. I wanted to; I mean I knew what my problems were.

Asides from having been raped 3 times, or not being able to have an orgasm or feel anything in my Fano, or not having friends because no one could understand me, or the overwhelming love for my family, or doing “cool” things that I never enjoyed, or doing lots of hookups, or having a fear of abandonment, being yelled at, or having miscarried twice.

Oh, I could keep naming but in essence, I knew what my problems were.

My career was great. I was successful, but I knew I had issues to work on.

I wanted love.

I wanted more than love.

I wanted deep connections.

I want someone to love me to my soul, but I wasn’t prepared to give that love back because giving it back meant I was going to destroy myself.

It was overwhelming to care, how much more loving selflessly.

It was bad to the point that I once kissed my friend’s boyfriend when he spent two days at my place.

We never had sex; I couldn’t betray my friend like that.

We didn’t make out, we just kissed.

I wanted to tell him how I felt even having him here.

I didn’t feel guilty, I only felt pity.

How could her all and all be this person beside me?

How?

How could I be — sorry — I meant, how could she love him truly and get back this in return?

I hadn’t done anything wrong, I’m not the culprit here.

Each time I tried to talk; nothing came out. I couldn’t speak.

Why did I care too much for people?

I could have easily said no, I can’t let you stay here and it would have ended there, but there was something. Something that seemed like a connection. Maybe, it was the darkness inside him that lured the one in me.

The kissing wasn’t passionate, I just really liked kissing.

It was the one thing that was mine, no one had taken it away from me, maybe that was why I loved to do it so much.

I’m walking around again hopelessly; the whole house was quiet.

I can’t go back to my room because it’s dark. Apparently, the bulb in the guest room had long needed fixing.

I can’t go to my friend’s room either, her lights are out and it’s fucking 2 AM.

So, I went to the sitting room instead, that way the light would block out all the thoughts and fuggy feelings I had and felt when I was in the room. Then, I lay down on the floor and slept off.

The next morning, I flew home.

My parents were shocked to see me home but welcomed me regardless. I told them I was stressed at work so I decided to take time off, when they asked why.

A week later my mum came to me and said we needed to talk. Nigerian mums never let it be.

I have allowed you to rest as much as I see fit, she started, now it’s time to know why you’re here.

I narrated everything to her leaving nothing out.

We talked for hours and she never judged me for anything, unlike the mother I grew up with. It felt a bit different that I could talk to my mum about these things. What was happening?

After spending quality time with my folks, I left home that weekend and went back to Lagos, but not my house. I was scared that he might be there or something. I wasn’t going to see him again. I booked a hotel suite rather, better safe than sorry, right?

So, on Tuesday after the weekend I left home, I decided to write in my journal. I took it along with my phone and pen to the bed, and that was when a complementary card flew out. It had a note at the back.

“I imagined you would run away again, so I decided to add this here just in case I am right. If you’re reading this hopefully sooner rather than later, it means I was right. -Please heal for us.

-Love Kevin”.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and dialed the number on the card. I booked a session two days after.

This is my 4th month in therapy and I will admit, it was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I feel different, I feel free, I feel alive. I know I still have so much more to go through but I’m willing to continue. It feels like I’ve become someone new. I’m learning to speak up now which is a great achievement.

Ms. Betty — my self-therapist — hasn’t been in my head for a while now.

Kevin is fine, we are not in a relationship, but we’re good friends.

I just hope that by the time I’m done, it won’t be too late to build something with him.