Kulu Don Kolo

In the spirit of putting my business out there, I hereby announce that I have decided to start seeing a psychiatrist. I'm not actually nuts, as the title of this post suggests, but I do have one or two issues that I need help sussing out.

Now, ordinarily, I'd be loathe to admit what I view as a personal weakness in a public space, but I absolutely must talk about my shrink, for whom I have already developed a mild infatuation. He's a little man, short and lean, who wears hunter-green pants and has a hairline which suggests that much of his head is taken up with thinking and not the more mundane task of growing hair. The starkness of the top half of his head is complemented by the graying, dark brush which covers the bottom half almost entirely. This means that I can't actually look at his mouth, which is the area of the face on which I tend to focus most of my attention. Instead, I am drawn to his eyes, two seagreen pools, set close together in his intelligent head, over a nose that resembles a streamlined missile. He's not particularly attractive (not to me, anyway) but his is definitely an interesting face and one that I can get used to staring at once or twice a week.

What I like most about him, however, is the fact that I know he won't coddle me. He's not going to tell me what I want to hear, he's not going to sugarcoat his opinions. And when he tells me this cold, hard truth, he will say it with a sneer. The good doctor is, in a sense, not unlike me. It can't be a good sign that I already look forward to the day that he will provoke me to unleash years of unexpressed wrath into his almond-shaped face. But I must admit that I cannot wait to see this man again. Certainly.

Our first meeting went quite well, better than I expected. I walked into his waiting room, the only person there, and sat in the low, leather seat of the sofa. After I sat down, I noticed the sound of classical music streaming into the room from an unknown location. It wasn't what I would call soothing, but I suppose it was somewhat comforting to have this audible cliche, something I could expect or recognize in this strange arena. As I waited, I flipped through Psychology Today, one of many magazines that rested on the single end table in the corner. The first article I read discussed the overprotecting of teenagers - how parents severely undermined the capabilities of their teens, effectively extending their childhood into their mid-twenties, and how it was ruining their lives. The writer made good points, particularly when one considers that not even 100 years ago, people had already lived two lifetimes by the age of eighteen, where they can't even buy a can of beer today. But that's another story for another time.

I was reading about conquering social anxiety when the doctor walked out to meet me. With careful movements and a low, measured tone of voice, he ushered me into his office. I was inwardly amused to note that he did have a couch, but I chose to sit in one of the two leather chairs he also had. He sat in the other, opposite me.

And we spoke.

Once, he was describing what his role as therapist would be - to my uninitiated self - and I felt, with horror, an unwarranted bubble of laughter rising in my throat. Nothing was funny, especially since I was still squeezing the damp tissue that I had just used to wipe tears and a little snot off my face, but he just looked so serious, this elvish man, with his no-nonsense attitude, yet seemingly genuine concern for my well being. Perhaps I was just relieved. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have an able person in my corner who can help me become the person I know I am (somewhere in there), and it feels...promising. So maybe I will learn to "cool my temper" after all.

Now, my point in sharing this is not to merely to give gist. This is the thing: psychiatry/psychology are virtually taboo in our culture - I get this. Only one Nigerian I know has ever been to see a shrink, and that only because the shrink was a relative (which is, also, another story for another time - a Nigerian psychologist...oh joy!). We abhor revealing our inner selves to strangers, and especially having to pay to do so. Few of us, if any, believe that mind doctors have any special skills that we don't already possess, all of us, on some level. I used to think that also, until I discovered that the majority of my family and friends are not equipped to help me think through some of my issues. Enter my good doctor.

But now, some of my people are not happy with me. I am, among other things, foolish and selfish for having chosen to do this, and I wonder: why? Why is it such a terrible thing to get someone else to listen to me, and then give me strategies for changing the way my mind works? Or is the problem that I would choose to go to someone other than a friend or relative? If it is, then that just makes my friends selfish and a bit egotistical to boot. So this is my point: it is really OK to lie on that couch, and get someone to figure out why you think and act the way you do. It is really OK to have a chat with someone who does this for a living, who can address the ongoing stresses you might have and help you alleviate them. Your priest/pastor doesn't always have the answer, nor does your mama, nor does Ifeoma, your childhood friend. And deciding to do this doesn't mean you love them any less. It just means you recognize their shortcomings (and on some level, aren't afraid to let them know that).

That is all.

(No pity, "we love yous", "go for it!" or other embarrassing comments of that nature allowed. I'm just venting.)