Chapter 1 : Part 2

Farther Than I Meant To Go, Longer Than I Meant To Stay
by Tiffany L. Warren

(Page 2 of 3)

Present

"How did we get here?"

I had no idea how to answer this question from my therapist, Dr. Rayna King. I wasn't exactly sure what she was referring to when she said here. She could have meant how I, Charmayne Ellis, ended up in her office as a patient. Or she could have been asking how I'd arrived at this point in my life. I breathed deeply while I contemplated a response to what seemed to be a simple question.

Dr. King affectionately called her office a sanctuary. From the inside you would never have guessed that the colorful and spacious room resided in a nondescript medical building, surrounded by dental clinics and pediatric offices. The walls were painted an appealing shade of lilac, and the lights were purposely dimmed to provide a backdrop of tranquility.

I was sitting directly across from Dr. King in a cushioned chaise while she rested on the burgundy velvet love seat. Conspicuously missing from this therapist's office was the obligatory couch where the patient spilled his or her guts, and the desk where the doctor silently judged sanity or insanity while madly scribbling on a yellow tablet.

My pastor's wife, First Lady Jenkins, had referred me to Dr. King. When she wasn't running her private practice, Dr. King served as evangelist in one of our sister churches. Her techniques, including praying and reading Bible verses with her patients, were unorthodox to most of her peers, but she received high marks from the church community.

"I don't know," I finally responded. "Honestly, I never expected to find myself in therapy."

Dr. King smiled. "First of all, Charmayne, I want you to stop thinking of our meetings in clinical terms. I'm only here to help you figure out God's purpose for your life."

"I like to think of this in clinical terms, Dr. King. I'm sick, and I need treatment. It's better for me if I don't try to make it sound like something other than what it is," I said flatly.

"I agree. You are sick, but I believe your spirit woman is what needs to be treated."

I looked down at my arms and hands. There were dozens of tiny scars - a constant reminder of my illness. I wished that they were products of a vivid imagination, but no; they were cold, hard evidence that something wasn't right. I shook my head slowly and deliberately.

I asked, "How do you know that I don't just need some medication? Can't you just give me a prescription so I can get back to my normal life?"

Dr. King responded patiently, "I don't think you need meds. They are a last resort anyway. You had an episode that I feel was stress-induced."

An episode. That was a dainty name for something so ugly that it had my arms looking like a briar patch. It would have been nice to go back to what I felt was normal. I would have loved to just take up where I'd left off - in my career and my church duties. But Travis had ruined everything for me.

"So if you won't give me medication, how do you expect me to handle this mess?"

"First, we need to determine the root of your depression."

I sucked my teeth in a ghetto-girl manner. "I know the root. Travis Moon."

"I believe that your relationship with Travis was a symptom of something deeper. Together we're going to try to find out what that is."

I was skeptical of Dr. King's spiritual approach. My life had been fine before I met Travis. I was at the top of my game - spiritually, intellectually, and financially. I had been a bank president, making six figures a year. For ten years I had carefully chosen investments and was able to boast an impressive stock portfolio. But none of that meant anything anymore. I didn't think that my relationship with Travis was a symptom of anything. It was a tragic mistake that I couldn't take back, no matter how badly I wanted to.

I looked at my watch. There were ten minutes left in my session with Dr. King. It was my third visit, and we'd barely gotten past introductions. The whole thing was moving way too slowly for me. I had a life to reclaim, and I wanted to do it sooner rather than later.

Dr. King continued, "Charmayne, I've got some homework for you."

"Homework?"

"Yes. I want you to go home and read the story of Rizpah. It's found in Second Samuel chapter twenty-one, verses eight through fourteen."

"Rizpah," I repeated. "The name doesn't ring a bell, and I used to teach Sunday school. I'm ashamed."

"Don't be. Rizpah is one of the unsung heroines of the Old Testament. I believe that God will speak to you through her story. We'll discuss it at your next visit."

"Okay . . . ," I acquiesced, but I would have rather agreed to discuss me and my issues, and not those of a biblical character.

Dr. King pulled a little bottle of oil from her pocket and rubbed some on her hands. Then she reached out for my hands. I'd seen those saints whom I liked to call "deep" putting oil on their hands and head before they prayed, and sometimes we did it as a church when we were about to begin a fasting period. It felt odd doing it in the context of psychiatric medicine.

Copyright ©l 2006 by Tiffany Warren

About the Author

Tiffany L. Warren lives in suburban Cleveland, Ohio.