Lundyn Bridges (4 page)

As I had just reached a point of wanting to grow spiritually, his flippant Christian walk became a wedge in our relationship. Bible study became essential to me and Sam refused to go - he said he could read the Bible on his own time. Coupled with this were Sam's sexual proposals. My initial response was flattery; however, it wasn't long before I had to be firm with my ‘no'. When it became clear I had no intention of sleeping with him, I saw him less and less. One day I realized I was always calling him and it sometimes took two or three days for him to return my call. Then Kiarra, as only she could, told me to stop calling Sam and wait for him to call me. I wrote a poem to conclude that chapter of my life.

Seasons

L
ike the autumn wind,
cold and unemotional,
you left me frigid –
yearning for warmth
I still can't forget.

A
nd now with summer
so far out of reach,
like you long gone,
how many seasons has it been?

T
he bitter wind
has yet to pass and snow,
whose beauty eludes me?
and frost bitten hands and lonely people
like me, so cold.

S
pring is approaching
more rapidly
than I allow myself to believe –
it is for lovers
why should we try again?

As much as I wanted Sam to love me, he never did. Breaking up with him was the best thing for me, and I could have kicked myself for all the times I sat waiting for him to call when I knew he wouldn't. I was glad it was over.

Traffic on Ellsworth Avenue was unusually light, and I arrived at work earlier than usual. The empty feeling in the pit of my stomach intensified as I exited the elevator. In addition to the unwelcomed call from Sam, I was not looking forward to my briefing. Dr. Solis, as I anticipated, was concerned about my inability to establish a relationship with Francine, especially since after Friday she would be required to come in to see me. Although she acknowledged I had been assigned the most difficult client, Dr. Solis also indicated her confidence in my ability to handle the formidable task.

“There's something about you,” Dr. Solis smiled. “I'm not sure what it is, but I'm willing to expand your timeline a little.”

Fear of failure wouldn't allow me to admit how inadequate I felt to help Francine, and something in me wouldn't let me give up. Something in me wanted to help her. Something in me wanted her to get better. It would have been novel for her to be motivated by her children, but they were grown and she would have to want to be better for herself. My job would be to help her uncover the motivation to work toward being whole. It was a mammoth task that I felt the need to take on. The answers were going to be in my approach, and instead of quitting I challenged myself to help Francine. Helping her would help me see how different things could have been if someone had helped my mother.

 

 

Francine's door was ajar when I arrived for our scheduled session. She had a smirk on her face, and she sat more erect at the foot of her bed. I anticipated a continuation of the silent game from the previous week and I planned to initiate our dialog. Francine was unpredictable, yet I felt comfortable with the approach I was about to take. Dr. Solis constantly talked about innovation and creativity – if asked to defend my action, I would use innovation as my defense for sharing the Word of God.

“Good morning Francine,” I smiled at her. “Did you have a good weekend?”

She didn't respond.

I continued as if we were in conversation, taking a seat in the chair facing her. “My weekend started out slow, but it got much better on Sunday.”

Francine was taken aback by my sudden openness. She obviously anticipated my reaction to be the same as the first week. She turned to look at me, almost like she wanted to answer.

I kept talking. “The sermon on Sunday was on the internal pain caused by the bondage of guilt. I sat there listening to the preacher and connecting the dots in my life.”

Francine shifted her position so she was facing the window with her back to me.

“Pain and guilt are worse than any chain,” I repeated Rev. Morgan's words. “They can make you think you're crazy. They can make you hate yourself and others.”

“I know about pain and guilt,” Francine interrupted me. “What do you know about pain and guilt?”

I started to answer and then cleared my throat. Francine's role was not to question me. Before I could re-direct the conversation, she continued.

“I hope you know more than what some jack-leg preacher told you.”

Her response insulted and silenced me. Francine repositioned herself on the bed and faced me. Then she sipped her coffee. More silence. This time I waited.

Francine sipped her coffee again, this time with a loud slurp. She had to know, from my expression, that the slurping was irritating. “Why do you care about me?” She asked, quickly looking at me and then rolling her eyes.

“My job is to help you.” I responded before realizing how trite the answer sounded.

“So, I'm just a job to you, and you don't really care about me?” Francine finally stared at me.

Francine was trying to bait me in a discussion to avoid talking about herself. My blank stare let her know I was aware of this tactic which she had perfected in years of prior therapy.

“I'm trying to figure out where you're coming from and exactly why you're here. I need to be able to trust you if you're going to be my therapist.”

I stood and walked toward the door. “Francine, I'm not here to play games with you. My job is to help, and I wouldn't be here if I didn't care. You already know that. We both know it's easier for you if we talk about everything but your issues and getting better. Well, I don't have time for games. I want to help people, and when I come back tomorrow you can let me know if you're going to be one of the people I help.” This confrontation was empowering, and I smiled to myself as I walked out the door.

Francine continued to be very guarded during our sessions that week. She indulged me with minor trivia from her life, but the pieces were fragmented. Questions about her children were dismissed with ‘they're grown' and a sigh. Francine offered no explanation as to where they were or why she did not have contact with them. For the moment, I was content she was talking. I discovered that she believed her mother didn't like her and her older sister was embarrassed by her. Francine actually smiled when talking about her father. She knew for sure that he really loved her and she missed him. When I inquired about the last time she saw him, she shut down and refused to talk. When I inquired about her husband, she laughed. When I asked about her boyfriend, she shook her head and sighed.

Francine didn't report for breakfast or the morning meeting on Friday. On my way to her room, Debbie, the nurse, told me Francine didn't feel well. Then she rolled her eyes up in her head indicating she really didn't believe that.

“Francine's anxiety about leaving the hospital tomorrow is the problem.” Debbie's tone was matter-of-fact.

I knocked on Francine's door. It was not as awkward or intimidating as the first time I approached her. Although she had been unwilling to talk, her affect improved. When I had gone to her room on Thursday, she opened the blinds to let the sun shine in.

“Francine.” I spoke slightly above a whisper.

Francine did not respond.

I walked toward the bed and noticed Francine had the covers pulled up over her head. The room was dark and still. It was a dreary, rainy day, and there was no sunshine to sneak in through the blinds. There was a book on the nightstand. I picked it up, noticing the unique mud cloth print.

“Go ahead, read it,” Francine said as if she could see through the blanket covering her face.

“What's in here?”

“It's just some poems. It's what I do all night because I can't sleep. Read them. You want to know what's in my head? It's on the paper.”

Dr. Solis switched Francine's medication and insomnia was a major side effect of the new anti-depressant. Francine now hated Dr. Solis because she couldn't sleep and sleeping had been her escape. For over a week Francine continued to let me know how she spent each night writing poems while listening to the city sounds, watching the city die and return to life in the morning.

Flipping through the journal, I noticed how meticulously Francine had written each entry. The date, time, weather and her mood were indicated at the top of each page. There were at least twenty finished entries and twice as many partial entries. The mood for most of the finished entries was mad.

“I don't want to read these.” I placed the journal on the table.

“Why not?” Francine asked, still beneath the blanket.

“Because I want you to tell me what's in there.”

Francine hesitated. “You want to know what's in my head so you can pray for me?”

“I want to know what's in your head so I can help you. And, I'd like to pray with you.”

“Were you even born when I graduated from high school?” Francine pulled the blanket from her face and looked at me. “How are you going to help me? I just thought that was so damn funny when Doc had all you kids come in here to help us. I'm probably old enough to be your mother.”

“Well, if you had a heart attack, would you only go to a doctor that had had a heart attack?”

Francine threw the covers off and angrily got out of the bed. She walked to the end of the bed and stood facing the window. Then she turned to face me. Her glare was enough to let me know she was offended by my remark. As she punched her right fist into her left palm, she rolled her eyes, and her neck jerked to the left. Her eyebrows were raised; her left hand rested on her hip and her right index finger was stiffly pointed at me. She snarled, between clenched teeth. “Is that the answer they taught you in college? You should get your money back!”

“Francine I didn't come here to fight with you. We have a lot of paper work to do before your discharge. I had planned to take you over to My Sister's Keeper to see your new apartment. You still need a bus pass and the paperwork to transfer your Public Assistance benefits to your new address isn't completed.
Now do you want to play games or finish your outpatient treatment plan?” My tone was firm, but I never raised my voice.

Francine clenched her teeth so hard that I could see her jaw muscles and the veins over her cheek bones. Her face almost looked like stone. Her eyes were piercing, but she didn't respond. She remained silent as I outlined her goals and asked her to sign documents.

Another week passed, and I was still struggling with my therapeutic approach. Yet, in a strange kind of way, I felt connected with Francine. She enjoyed tormenting me. I found minute successes in pricking the places in her heart she desperately wanted to keep buried, and I understood that about her. I was confident Francine would maintain her regular visits with me as promised, if for no other reason than to irritate me.

Francine's patronizing remarks made it evident she considered me a neophyte at life. She had no idea of the pain I had endured. My college education merely gave me a piece of paper. My childhood educated me in many things that could never be learned in a classroom or from a textbook. My experience with addiction came first hand from living with my biological mother, Barbara. Addiction is always bigger than the addict; it is a family disease which leaves a void in the heart of all who are affected by its rippling current.

Barbara died during the second semester of my freshman year at Chatham College. Although I had not lived with her or seen her for almost ten years, it still hurt. After being released from the psychiatric hospital, Barbara spent the remainder of her life vacillating between drugs, rehab and jail until her body finally succumbed to the Hepatitis she contracted from using
dirty needles. The only thing Barbara ever really loved killed her – drugs. There was no funeral or memorial service, only a letter from my former caseworker. My immature rationale was angry because she should have loved her kids instead of those drugs. My mature heart was torn because all of the would ifs could never be, and I would forever be uncertain if she loved me. I spent that weekend in bed, unable to move, unable to cry and afraid of my feelings. My life, at that time, was cloudy, and my tears fell like rain drops that continued to water my broken heart.

Just thinking about it brought tears to my eyes. I took a deep breath and wiped my face. It was almost six o'clock, and I left my office looking forward to attending the East End Revival. I needed spiritual refueling.

One of my favorite songs came on the radio while I was driving home – “The Battle Is Not Yours”. I sang along with Yolanda Adams, releasing the tension from the day. “Lord,” I said out loud when the song was over, “Francine really is going to drive me crazy.”