Page 11 of Mahogany 1

Chanté lightly giggled. “Twenty-four. Twenty-four times I’ve asked you that question.”

I rolled my eyes. “Shit,” I paused. “It feels like you’ve asked a million times and?—”

“I bet it does,” She mumbled.

With a squint, I leaned forward a little. “What does that mean?”

She sighed and relaxed against the back of the high-back suede chair. “It only feels like I’ve asked you a million times because you get uncomfortable whenever I ask.”

“Because,” I paused. “I answered that question already. You keep asking?—”

“I keep asking because the answer isn’t matching your actions. That’s why. Which tells me, Mahogany, that you haven’t been honest. Coupled with the fact that we all are afraid of something other than the mundane.” She ogled me, her brown, doe eyes scrutinizing me. “As appeasing as it may be to be ‘fearless’; fearless is a lie. The people in your personal life might buy this beautiful illusion of perfection but underneath perfection lies a deep-rooted fear that I would like to unveil with you. If you would allow me.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. In response, I interlocked my fingers and rested my hands in my lap. Shifting uncomfortably, I reached for one of the pillows. “I’m not fearless. I told you, spiders mostly and big bodies of water. I have this fear of drowning and?—“

“Mmh, mmh. There you go again,” she interrupted with a light sneer. “That’s surface level, Mahogany. Which seems to be a very comfortable place for you. Fear is the source of suffering. The root of every problem is fear. So, again… what are you afraid of?”

We locked eyes and my heart began to race. We were veering off road. I wanted to stay where we were. I liked safe. Was comfortable there. With the “surface level” things. Talking about motherhood, work, and my marriage were safe places for me. Fears? Not so much. The mention of fear made me uneasy. Sweat emanated from my pores. I could feel the armpit area of my blouse saturating with every tick of the oversized, silver clock sitting on the wall behind her. The question of fear sent me on the brink of a panic attack. Insane.

“What does fear have to do with me asking for a recommendation for marital counseling?” I asked, averting my eyes from hers, back to that big clock behind her. It was massive. The focal point of the room.

“Wouldyou like to hear the story about the clock?” She asked, instead of answering my question.

“Yes, I’d love to. It’s beautiful,” I excitedly responded, happy to at least be off the topic of fears. I’d find a martial therapist on my own.

Chanté lightly smiled and glanced over her shoulder at it. “It is. Thank you. A lot of my clients think I got the clock to keep track of our sessions. Which...” she shrugged. “Is expected. I am a therapist after all, and you do pay me by the hour. But…” she took a deep breath and sat her iPad down. “That isn’t why I got it. Do you know how long we’ve been seeing each other?”

“About two years,” I told her. “Actually... a little over.”

She nodded. “Yes, a little over two years. How many hours is that?” She paused, grabbed her iPad and tapped around a bit before saying, “We’re coming up on one hundred and twenty hours.”

With raised brows, I let out a light breath. “Shit. How much money have I spent with you, Chanté? My God!” I joked.

She laughed. “A nice amount.”

“Mmhmm. A very nice amount,” I added, mentally calculating just how much I’d spent with her after seeing her once a week at two hundred an hour. “Sheesh... over twenty thou.”

Chanté nodded. “That sounds about right. But... let’s not get off track.”

I laughed. “I bet.”

We shared another laugh, and she shook her head. “Like I said, the clock isn’t about tracking sessions. You know... I have a very long list of clients. And although you all are vaguely different, there is one common factor among each and every one of you.”

“What’s that? Overworked? Stressed? With a tinge of anxiety?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Fear.”

I let out a light, annoyed sigh and sat back against the cream couch. Just like that... my mood was dampened. “I thought we were talking about that gorgeous clock, Chanté. How are we back on?—”

“We are, we are. Let me finish. Stop interrupting me,” she casually said with a light giggle.

We had a pretty good relationship. Often times, the conversation would flow so well that it’d be like talking with a good friend, rather than my therapist. It wouldn’t be until she got to tapping on that iPad and snooping around in places, I didn’t want her snooping in, that I’d remember she wasn’t my homegirl, but my damn therapist, looking for a root cause of my shit. Which... was cool. I guess.

Therapy was an outlet for me. Someplace I went to spill all of my shit without the risk of judgement or my people finding out I had shit at all. I guess I could say I went for emotional regulation, too. I had a lot to say. A lot to spill. But because I’m Mahogany—mother, dotting wife, daughter, sister and everything else in between—I suppressed a lot. Here, I released. I didn’t need to be analyzed. I didn’t need to be ‘fixed’. I knew what was wrong with me. I was very self-aware and could figure it out on my own. I just wanted Chanté to let me spill. Stabilizing my mental health was top priority to me. I thought I was handling things very, very well.

“I apologize,” I said before playfully ‘zipping’ my lips closed.

She laughed. “Okay, thank you. Anyway... fear. It’s a common factor between everyone. Not just my clients—period. In life. The one thing we as people have in common is fear. And although the fears might not be the same, the root.... it is. We’re all afraid of something. Some fears miniscule. Some fears crippling. Some fears hard to face. Most buried and misdiagnosed as something else. Anxiety for example.” She paused. “You know... the root ofanxiety is fear? Every hang up... perfectionism, anxiety, caring about the perception of others... it’s linked to fear. Funny, huh?” she didn’t give me a chance to speak before she continued. “Fear... it makes us uncomfortable. Especially those bigger fears. You know... any time I bring that scary word up, everyone looks to that clock? It’s interesting. How at the mention of fear, you want to run. Running... it’s easy, isn’t it?”

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