I had a tree-house built in my backyard shortly after my divorce with Wallace.
The hardest part of the divorce, at least short term, was him being out of the house. It was hard on my daughter Shantelle.
She didn't know how to take it. Didn't understand why he was leaving. Why it was just me and her in a home that used to be full. I think she took her confusion out on the person that was still there, me.
She withdrew emotionally for awhile. Went into her shell and wouldn't talk to me about the things that were bothering her. I cried so many nights alone in my bed, wishing I could have been a better wife, if just for the fact that I could have kept her daddy in the home with her. I was willing to do anything to bring happiness back to my daughters life. Subsequently, I'd be bringing back happiness to my own life.
Rihanna suggested post-divorce therapy with Wallace and Shan. But Wallace had moved away already to be with Natalie. I could have asked him, and I'm sure he would have came down for the sessions, but my pride wouldn't allow me to do it. I was so angry at him for crawling into her arms so soon after our breakup. I was angry that my child felt anger towards me but longing towards him.
My life turned singular in focus. All of my energy was directed towards my daughter. My love life would have to wait until my relationship with her was repaired completely.
Rihanna kept telling me therapy was the way to go. Jordan, Solange's partner, would often echo the same sentiments. I decided to look up therapist in the area. The first one I met with was a black woman in her 30's. I figured she would be the perfect person to talk to because of the things we had in common, as I looked through her bio on her website.
But our first meeting was unbelievably uncomfortable and banal. She was too homey, girly, for me to take her serious. I would have never been able to talk to someone like her about my deep rooted issues.
I met another counselor a week later, a white woman in her 60's. That meeting didn't go well either. She was pushy. Cold. Mean. I'd feel too judged talking to someone as clinical and narrow faced as her.
I asked Rihanna what I should look for in a therapist. She thought for awhile and then laughed when she had a reply.
"A perfect therapist is someone you'd feel comfortable farting in front of."
That was her advice to me. I continued looking, though I avoided any male therapist, figuring I'd be more comfortable with a woman. By chance, I ran into a male therapist, Dr. Danielson, while waiting to meet with a different counselor. I didn't even know he was a therapist at first. He came in the office, sat down, and was reading a newspaper in the lobby.
He said something out loud about the front page article and then asked if I'd read it. He'd mentioned the budget crises for the school board of Houston. It was a topic I'd been discussing with my coworkers at Booker T, the high school where I taught freshman English.
Before I knew it, me and this guy, who told me to call him Dan, were talking about all of the ills of the school board. I mentioned that I wanted to eventually find my way on there, to help make a change. We both agreed that new leadership was needed in the public school system.
Only when the secretary told Dr. Danielson that he had a phone call did I realize I had been talking to a therapist for half an hour about something so passionate to me. He shook my hand before leaving, and I canceled my appointment with whoever I had booked, and scheduled one with Dan.
He was a funny looking guy. Not bad looking, just funny. He was in his 50's. White guy, with a full white beard, like he was a skinny Santa Clause. And he was so eccentric. Wearing a long sleeve shirt and tie, but with slacks that didn't match, or wearing slippers or house shoes. And when we talked, he'd usually have his shoes and socks off.
