Page 2 of Smoke N' Stroke

His palm covered my mouth right at the moment of my release and as my breaths collapsed into each other before eventually slowing, I had the distinct thought that he did know what he was talking about. He took damn good care of me.

1

ZAIRE

A MONTH LATER…

“Would it be correct to say that the micro-dosing has been helping with some of the anxiety, Monique?”

“Just a bit, Dr. Booker. Not enough for me to want anyone to touch me, you know, touch me on my body. Just my hands for now. But I do like the feeling it gives me with I take one hit before leaving for work. I feel freer and less paranoid about the people on the bus sitting next to me.”

I nodded to reassure her that I was listening and added her update to her clinical notes. “That’s an improvement.”

Not hearing a response, I looked from my notebook and found her frowning down at her clasped hands. I’d been treating Monique for her anxiety related to human interaction and touch for over a year and while we’d made great strides, her tell-tell sign was hand clutching. When she was uncomfortable it became her crutch.

“You don’t see that as an improvement?”

“I don’t know how it can be. I want more and I want to be able to handle the touch of someone my heart wants.”

Touch was a vital part of human existence. Studies have been conducted on brain development rates in children based on the amount of physical contact made with them beyond necessary care. The babies held the most, tickled for play, and received any positive touch, showed signs of better social skills and self-soothing behaviors. The need for touch didn’t stop at infancy, however, and many thought that. Adults needed hugs just as much. The lack of healthy touch was one of the reasons I had a job.

“Have you considered something else is behind you not wanting the touch of the men you’re dating?”

There were still some things in Monique’shistory that she hadn’t been willing to broach and I refused to rush her to it. She would get there in time.

“Like what?”

I shrugged. The possibilities were endless. It wasn’t my job to tell her what I suspected; not now anyway. There were aspects of her healing that had to come through self-discovery and rushing that process would make her more reliant on me. It was my job to guide her to her own answers so that she could rely on herself for them in the future.

“You always do this Dr. Booker. You never tell me what I want to know.”

I could hear the frustration in her soft voice. It was a frustration I was accustomed to when it came to this part of therapy. Often patients sought treatment for answers and my philosophy was that they would get them, but not from me.

“You know the answers, Monique. They are inside of you. My job is to help you discover them not just in session but inlife.”

She nodded, seemingly to acquiesce because I had affirmed this many times before, and the proof of my method working is that when we started treatment she didn’t want to shake hands or hug, she was afraid of treatment being conducted in a closed-off room. We’d evolved from that because whatever she neededme to comply with to feel safe and secure, I honored her with, and in turn, she learned she could trust me as her therapist. Now, I had to get her to trust herself.

Her jumbo braids she wore fell in a cascade over her small brown face. “I suppose you’re right. I need to stop being so afraid of myself because I’m in charge of my own experience. You taught me that.”

“See, I do guide you, Monique…”

She cracked her first smile of this session. “Yeah, but I have to fight for it.”

“No one ever said it would be easy but I’m proud of you for fighting for you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Booker.”

“Anytime.”

The timer sitting on my desk sounded and I walked her to the door after she gathered her bookbag and purse off the couch beside her. Monique was a grad student at the local University and her sessions often fell in between her getting off work and heading to her evening classes.

“Remember what I told you earlier. Release the control you know you don’t have.”

I watched her until she rounded the corner to check out at the front desk and began to turn back into my office to complete my notes when a sassyvoice said, “Finally someone who doesn’t reek of weed.”

A good percentage of my patients did consume weed. Some carried medical cards permitting them to purchase medical cannabis due to their anxiety, depression, or PTSD, but instead of following the letter of the law, they burned one before coming into session. It never bothered me. I was a professional but no stranger to lighting one up, especially in college. I only enforced the no smoking in the clinic policy. Monique was one of the few to vape or infuse her cannabis into oils and even her wine and never entered the building smelling like bud.

“I’m surprised you noticed with your nose so high up in the air, Nala.”

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