Free Lundyn Bridges by Patrice Johnson

hear him ring the bell. I was asleep and had turned off the ringer on my phone. When I heard him pounding on the door, I let him in, and he accused me of being there with someone. He went through my apartment like a crazy person, and when I told him to get out, he slapped me.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “He slapped me so hard I hit my head on the wall.” Kiarra took my hand and placed it on the knot on the side of her head.
    I was speechless. I had no idea how to comfort my best friend. I was also angry, and my initial thought was to call her dad.
    Kiarra continued her story. “He sat on my couch all day Saturday and wouldn’t leave. I stayed in my room and pretended to be sleeping. After “Saturday Night Live” went off, he got in the bed with me. I lay as still as I could, but he undressed me and made me have sex with him. He got up on Sunday, told me he loved me and went back to school.”
    Kiarra spoke almost like she was in a daze.
    â€œWe should probably go to the police.” I handed her a box of tissues and studied her blank expression.
    â€œI left a message for him that it’s over and I never want to see him again.”
    I ran a bubble bath for my best friend. While she was in the tub, I made her dinner. We prayed, and then I told her to go to bed. I sat on the couch and cried quietly – I had no idea of how to help her.
    Kiarra stayed with me for two weeks. Xavier made no attempt to contact her, and she felt assured he would not be back. I was unable to convince her to tell her parents, but I made her promise to call me, no matter what time of the day or night, if Xavier showed up.
    It took over a month before Kiarra's effervescence began to return.

    Over the next several weeks I confronted Francine’s reluctance to participate in group therapy. Just as I anticipated, these sessions did not go well. My attempt to help Francine view the women in the group as her friends was not well received.
    â€œI never had no friends,” Francine snapped one day during our session. “I never trusted none of them mutha …”
    â€œNo cussing. We’re communicating on a higher level.”
    â€œIs this social skills or my therapy?” Francine demanded. “You been bugging me about how I feel, and I’m trying to tell you.”
    â€œYou have to tell me without swearing.”
    â€œWhatever!” Francine sucked her teeth and turned the chair to face the window.
    There were twenty minutes left, but her body language let me know the session was over. I let Francine silently stare out window while I did paperwork. After about ten minutes she got up and left without saying a word.
    By the end of October I had become accustomed to Francine’s inconsistencies in our therapeutic relationship. Sometimes Francine hated me, sometimes she liked me – I took her at face value, and her feelings toward me were insignificant. One of the first things I learned in Psychiatric Social Work is that the client, by the time they seek help, is good at playing head games.Mental health clients, especially those with a dual diagnosis of addiction, can be master manipulators. Their inability to get well is often masked by their ability to maintain a deviant control over their therapeutic relationships.
    I made plans to go to Florida for Thanksgiving and tried to convince Kiarra to join me. She gave it some thought but decided she wanted to go home for the holiday. Although she received letters and cards from Xavier, he had not called her. I still didn’t trust him. Kiarra seemed to have rebounded, but there was still an uneasiness about her. She looked over her shoulder whenever we went out, and if it was late, she always spent the night with me or wanted me to stay at her place. I didn’t mind, but I was somewhat put off by her reluctance to discuss the whole story of Xavier. She refused to seek help and remained adamant about not