When I was first officially diagnosed with anxiety, I could only afford a certain doctor for medicine management. He was a tall Nigerian man with a big build, thick glasses, and a bald head.
Before he would prescribe me meds, this doctor asked me if I prayed, went to church, and was good to my parents. I told him yes, but wondered where he was going with this. He said we “need God and our parents” and then proceeded to ask me if I had plans to be married. I was a 27-year-old single Black American woman and very depressed. Still, this doctor didn’t want to prescribe me meds and urged me to lean on God instead.
The meds he finally gave me didn’t work; I suspect that he hoped this would happen, so he could get me to do exactly what he wanted without direct medical malpractice. Again, at our follow-up, he asked me what church I went to. Again, I told him I prayed every day. This went on for an entire summer. My prayers were finally answered when my therapist found me a new doctor.
Written by Carma Anderson who is an actress, writer, storyteller, and improviser.
Illustrated by Mads Horwath who is a regular cartoonist for the New Yorker.