For the past six months, I have been keeping all my sh*t, challenges, and struggles to myself, handling the ones I can, and praying that God handles the rest. Severally, I want to share a few of these difficulties with someone who would at least listen—not even give advice or counsel, but at least LISTEN. But then the fear of having my issue discussed in Bukola’s hair saloon, presented to the panel of Judges at Aminu Maishayi’s buka, or used as the fifth prayer point at Nkasiobi’s women’s house fellowship has kept me cautioned and mute. But then I needed an honest person with whom I could speak, and God was so kind that I got an opportunity to do so last week.





So I came across this sponsored Facebook post from a particular page that claimed to be a ‘Mental Therapy Organization in Lagos, Nigeria. According to what I saw on their page, they said they were a mental health group that was dedicated to helping young people between the ages of 18 and 40 who were dealing with depressing situations, serious life challenges, marital or relationship crises, or were in the incubation stage of a mental illness.

Well, I think the last statement, "mental illness incubation stage," suits my issue, so I sent them a Facebook message. After a few personal questions from the page’s handler and answers from me, I was asked whether I would prefer a virtual (online) therapy session or a physical face-to-face therapy session.

Ah! Online kwa? Like I would use my own data to listen to or stream a therapy session. No! I bind and cast everything that would make MTN, Airtel, and their colleagues rejoice over me. God forbid. Again, I even feel like online therapy would be less effective. It just seems like using a 30-liter bucket of water to bathe the body of a madman that has been roaming around the Ojuelegba/Suruelere axis even before Wizkid got popular. So I opted for a real-life, physical, face-to-face therapy session.

But honestly, maybe I should have just done the online therapy instead. After all, It was through an online Prophetic ministry that Iya Busirat, a 45-year-old single mother of six, claimed and received her miracle husband. All she did to partake in this miraculous wave of husbands outpouring was to lick the screen of her Itel P35 with faith and assurance that the God of Jehovah Sharp Sharp Ministries had answered her.

Back to my story So after opting for a physical session, the page’s handler sent me a list of close-by Venues where their offices were located, and I picked the one closest to me. (I.e., their branch at Iyanu Ipaja, just after an Assemblies of God Church and opposite the shop of an Abakiliki woman that sells charcoal.) The page’s handler then instructed that I inform her before coming so they can make arrangements for a representative that will be there to welcome me as soon as I alight from whatever means of transportation I came with. I said okay, thanked her, negotiated the therapy fee, and we said our goodbyes.

On the day of the therapy session, I dressed up in my best clothes so I didn’t look like I had problems. For the first time in my life, I even booked a ride during this fuel price and high transportation cost pandemic. Getting to my destination, I didn’t find any so-called representatives, so I called the number I was given.

The therapy organization apologized and immediately assured me that they would send one of their staff members in the next five minutes. And, oh yeah, at least they kept to this one. After a few minutes, this very lanky, timid village girl who looks like the second wife of the blind man at the pool of Bethsaida tapped my back and asked "Are you Chukwu Ebuka". I answered "Yes," and with this very awful smile, she asked me to follow her.

Ah! First bad impression. Which kind of reasonable therapy group would employ this kind of face that looks like an expired soured sachet tomato that was mixed with an organic blood tonic in their organization? Mtchweew. Tufia. I just prayed that my journey with her would end at this junction and take me to their office. Because if this one becomes my therapist, I might need extra therapy after that.

I followed and trekked over 3 kilometers with this girl before finally getting to their office. On getting to their office, I met a second bad impression. Come and see the office, Abeg. A very small, confined hut that resembles the shrine of an unorganized, upcoming Nnewi native doctor. Ah! Ebuka the traveler, one day you’ll see this thing you are searching for.

As I entered the office,.................... https://www.arealproblemkid.com/2023/07/mental-health-meme-my-encounter-with.html

U no see grounded therapy practices and pay for their professional services?

Mindlog:
U no see grounded therapy practices and pay for their professional services?

Omoor. Nah emergency therapy center be this?

Ebus12:



Omoor. Nah emergency therapy center be this?

That was no therapy facility nor were any of the persons there trained to work in one.