Countertransference: How Are We Doing?

The subject of countertransference, or the sum total of our conscious and unconscious emotional responses to our clients, has fascinated me since I first learned about it in graduate school. Our instructors repeatedly emphasized the importance of self-care, but their focus was more on burnout and compassion fatigue than active engagement with our countertransference.

Most clinicians have some way that they unwind after a day of intense sessions. Perhaps they get some exercise, read a book, binge watch their favorite show, or spend time with loved ones. All these activities feel good, help us to rest and stay connected to our sense of peace or calm, and keep us stable enough to continue to do the hard work of being a therapist. For many practitioners, this will be enough to sustain them for many years in the field.

But how do we therapists continually manage our own emotional responses to the myriad of clients and stories we hear day in and day out? Should we have better systems in place specifically for the management of countertransference? “Traditional self-care activities, which are usually focused on relaxing, reducing stress, and increasing our joy, may be inadequate in and of themselves for managing countertransference”.

That we would have emotional responses at all to our clients is natural. Human beings are social and relational animals, and when we work in such proximity to one another, dealing with such intensely personal subject matter, countertransference is inevitable. These responses in clinicians can be constructive when they are recognized and contextualized, but they can become obstacles to good treatment when they are ignored, devalued, or isolated in our psyches. Countertransference has valuable lessons to teach us if we pay attention. The question is… are we?

Unrecognized Countertransference

Unrecognized countertransference may not be just a barrier to doing great clinical work; perhaps it is the barrier. I should ask myself: Who am I attending to? When I do or say anything in session, For whose benefit is it? I have found that when I can quickly answer, “For the client,” I am generally on the right track. If that answer comes more slowly or with more hesitation, it usually cues me to look inward at my own feelings and motivations.

We have all had clients who trigger an emotional response in us. If I am working with someone who is intimidating to me, I may be more hesitant to challenge that person or hold professional boundaries when appropriate. If I am working with someone who is experiencing something similar to what I have gone through, I may suggest that they do what I did, or do the thing that I failed to do. This is one of the most classic examples of countertransference, wherein I attempt to resolve conflicts in myself via my work with the client. In another example, when I am more interested in a particular aspect of the client’s story, I will probably focus on it more, and when I am less interested, that experience will receive less focus. In all these instances, the direction I take is informed by my own feelings rather than the client’s needs.

To use a real example from my own practice, some months back I found myself feeling impatient with one client in particular and was frustrated that he was not applying the skills and concepts we were practicing in session. I had a very difficult time getting him to engage with nearly anything I thought was indicated. He would almost exclusively recount stories in which he was the hero. In his narratives, he always did the right thing, made the hard choice, and overcame the villains. I was aware of my impatience and frustration, but at the time I still attributed my feelings to his lack of engagement and insecurity. In other words, with all my education, training and experience, I was inwardly blaming the client for my emotional state. “I began to dread sessions with him” and engaged in avoidant behaviors while working with him. I fell into a pattern of offering tepid, half-hearted validation instead of addressing his avoidance and hesitation. My approach served more to make the sessions bearable to me by reducing my frustration, and less to help him reduce his chronic PTSD symptoms. He didn’t seem to be making progress, so what did that say about me? Sound familiar?

Is Self-Care Enough?

At around this time, I attended a workshop on trauma treatment. I asked the facilitator how he stayed calm and well-adjusted while doing so much trauma work. He responded that positive self-care was critical to this process; he did not elaborate further. He clearly knew something, because he has been doing trauma treatment for decades. He was a wonderful clinician and trainer and I suspect that at that moment, he just did not want to get sidetracked on that issue. But I found the response for my own training and understanding to be inadequate. You might be surprised to hear how many times I have received this response from the numerous professionals I have asked. As clinicians, I think we need to have a collective strategy for countertransference, and one that has an active dialogue around it.

There are many skilled clinicians who specialize in working with countertransference issues; the problem for me is that they are not getting much notice or airtime in the profession. When I have spoken about this issue with colleagues, I have encountered a wide range of responses. Usually, what I find is that they have a basic familiarity with the concept of countertransference but no actual working tools for recognizing, addressing, and resolving it. We teach our clients that we are emotional beings, and that we are experiencing some level of affective response throughout the day. Is it possible that countertransference is taking place with our clients all or much of the time, whether we notice it or not? The critical aspect of this is how and when we begin to notice that it is occurring.

In Ernest Hemingway’s novel The Sun Also Rises, the character Mike Campbell is asked, “How did you go bankrupt?"

“Two ways,” he replies. “Gradually, and then suddenly.”

So, “it is in that way countertransference starts to impair our clinical work: gradually, and then suddenly”. Like any problem, it is always best to catch it early, when it is a small and manageable issue.

The Solution Must Be Social

Experienced clinicians can teach and model that self-care is not the miracle cure that will resolve countertransference. Taking a bath or watching Netflix will not resolve countertransference, because these activities do not address some of the underlying mechanisms through which it takes place. Stress and fatigue are important factors, but they are not always the principal engines that drive our experience of countertransference. It arises from a very complex set of interpersonal and neurobiological factors. As such, simply relaxing more often or more effectively is not always an appropriate solution by itself. A close friend and colleague of mine once said to me that “social problems require social solutions.” Much of my self-care is not sufficiently social in nature; being in such a social job, my reset button often involves solitary pursuits like playing music, writing, and woodworking — all things that I do by myself. Perhaps a social phenomenon like countertransference can only be resolved in a social situation. We need other people to help us get through it.

Given the appropriate limitations of confidentiality in our profession, this leaves the earnest clinician with a few viable options. Much has been written about the benefits of social relationships, personal therapy, supervision, and consultation, and I agree with many of these points. All of these provide a social experience to solve a social problem. There are, however, some limitations to regular socializing, supervision, and therapy for resolving countertransference.

Social Relationships

Our social relationships with friends and family should provide us with outlets to find support, reduce our stress, and feel a sense of community. Sometimes our friends and family are not as equipped to hold the enormity of what we might have to share. Therapists tend to develop a fairly thick skin for hearing about truly awful human experiences. It is not that we are numb to them, it is probably more the case that experience in the profession has allowed us to develop the proper cognitive and emotional mechanisms to deal with them on a daily basis — just as the trauma surgeon is not probably too distressed by what she sees on a regular day, but her neighbor might not be able to handle the details of what her job requires her to see and experience. This leaves us with the option to share some feelings, perhaps, but not the intimate aspects of our experience with our friends and families.

Supervision

A supervisory relationship offers support, is social in nature, and is often accepted as the place for clinicians to deal with countertransference. Numerous therapists receive effective support and leadership from very capable and experienced supervisors. For everyone to work through countertransference in this way presumes every therapist’s having access to a very competent supervisor. For my colleagues who place their trust in statistics, an analysis of any bell curve should suggest that supervisor competency follows the same statistical rules as nearly anything else in the natural world. There will be exceptional supervisors who can hold and handle anything, and there will be supervisors who are not equipped for the challenge of addressing therapist countertransference effectively. In many situations, the supervisee often does not feel free to authentically share an experience of countertransference, and for good reason: it could easily be perceived as a limitation, and therefore hinder advancement opportunities. It can result in very real consequences.

Imagine a supervisee reporting experiencing a romantic attraction to the client. The supervisee finds her or himself trying to impress the client, or to be seen as funny. He or she notices that being liked has suddenly become a distraction and wants to work through this. In clinical work, scenarios like these happen from time to time. In the best-case scenario, the supervisor would help the supervisee address this countertransference, work through it, and hopefully resolve it. It is possible that they would agree that referring the client out to another therapist is necessary; it is also possible that they would not come to this conclusion, if the supervisee can effectively work through their emotional responses to the client. But what if the supervisor is incredibly stressed out because his agency is currently being sued for malpractice? What if the supervisor is dealing with the same issue with one of her clients? What if her name is on the building? A supervisor, by definition, is in a position of power which is greater relative to that of the supervisee. It is not hard to imagine scenarios where a supervisee could be negatively affected by sincerely trying to seek out help in resolving countertransference, which is an ethical thing to do.

There is a time in most clinicians’ development where supervision often sounds like, “Have you tried this intervention? Have you tried that technique?” As clinicians progress in their skill development, if and when they get stuck, supervisors can assume that they have tried their usual go-to stock of interventions and tools. While training therapists in new techniques and interventions has a large role to play, they may also search for emotional barriers in their supervisees to carrying out good clinical work. The Discrimination Model of supervision in particular allows that sometimes, the supervisor will act as your counselor in the process. As stated above, many experienced and skilled supervisors can expertly help their supervisees navigate countertransference issues. The problem is that supervisees will not know who can and cannot do this until they have truly put ourselves out there. “Revealing our struggles with countertransference can be a deeply vulnerable experience”. It must be held in a safe and supportive environment. While supervision is enormously helpful, it has limitations for addressing countertransference. I write this as a supervisor myself, and someone who has had some truly phenomenal supervisors.

Personal Therapy

Doing our own personal therapy will certainly help us recognize our patterns of relating and certain triggers that may set us off. It is invaluable for our overall health and well-being. It seems fair to say that anything I do in my own personal therapy is about me, and therefore when I bring things from that personal therapy into my working sessions with clients, I will at least sometimes be dealing with my own issues. This is not black and white; some countertransference is diagnostic in the sense that I may infer that if I feel a certain way around the client, then others likely feel the same. From there, I can make educated guesses about the client’s social world and ways of relating. I may gather additional psychosocial information based on this. And then there is the kind of countertransference that has little or nothing to do with the client but is based on my own history and experiences. In short, just because I am frustrated in session with a client does not mean that everyone gets frustrated when interacting with this person. It is critical that we are able to separate these two ideas.

A psychologist whom I greatly admire once told me that he works through countertransference in his own personal therapy. While I do not begrudge him that preference and have done so myself, there is potential for us to muddy the personal and professional waters there. I may end up setting goals in my own personal therapy, such as being more assertive or holding better boundaries, and I may then bring those ideas into the professional session with my clients. These are fine things to work on and have obvious application in therapy. But there will be times when those pursuits have absolutely nothing to do with my clients. I will refer to earlier questions I asked in this article: Who am I attending to? For whose benefit is this? In my previous example about the client who only wanted to tell stories that bolstered his sense of personal power, suppose my well-meaning therapist encourages me to name this behavior and challenge it, even if gently. Perhaps I will return and in the next session challenge the client on his avoidance. In response, he stops showing up to sessions with me. On one hand, I overcame my own hesitance and mustered the courage to challenge him. On the other hand, a traumatized client who was in therapy is now not in therapy. Have I, in a stroke of clinical genius, revealed the client’s lack of readiness for treatment? Is it possible that if I were simply more patient, this client would come around in time, even absent any challenge or confrontation from me?

Consultation

Consultation, in my opinion, holds more promise than supervision or personal therapy for addressing countertransference, for several reasons. These groups can be set up so there are not marked power differentials. Given the reduction in power dynamics in a consultation group, it follows that each attendee incurs less risk by sharing authentically. In addition, the group’s diversity of experience, perspectives and opinions can offer any therapist increased response flexibility for countertransference when compared with the judgement of almost any lone supervisor or therapist. A consultation group of peers can be more objective, explorative, and therefore helpful, given that they also do not incur any personal risk based on what they hear. I should note the exception, of course, is when unethical or negligent behaviors are revealed in a consultation group. Then the members of that group will need to decide if they should report that behavior to their state licensing board, just as a supervisor or therapist might.

Returning to the example discussed earlier, simply experiencing a romantic attraction to a client is not in and of itself unethical. Whereas a lone supervisor with a large personal stake in the clinician’s performance may have a disproportionate reaction to that, a consultation group made up of peers is less likely to have the same response. They are more likely to consider the times they may have experienced this and what might have been helpful to them at the time. “The consultation group format also provides a social solution to the social problem”.

As part of this exploration, some colleagues of mine formed a consultation group that was focused on countertransference. I have found it enormously helpful to share my own internal conflicts in the profession with a group of trusted professionals. They help to normalize and contextualize my experience, while showing me where my blind spots are and where there is room for growth and development. Because these clinicians are not signing my paychecks, I feel a certain freedom to share openly. And in doing so, I have found that countertransference really can be addressed, processed, and resolved.

Regarding the client I was working with, the consultation group helped me to recognize that my impatience had more to do with my own desire to be competent and achieve some specific result. I needed to solve the client’s problem to end my frustration and thereby feel effective. How much more cliché could I get? My peers helped me to see that this client has lacked safety most of his life. As a result, he has crafted an internal narrative where he occupies a position of power and influence. I can reduce my frustration outside of session and work to increase my sense of competence on my own time. I now have more confidence that I can thread the needle by being patient and allowing him to establish safety and comfort with me, while also moving in the direction of gently prompting him to engage more with working to reduce his symptoms. My personal feelings are not all tied up in this client’s progress now. I was lucky to have a community of knowledgeable and supportive clinicians with whom I could consult. These friends and colleagues were able to create a helpful container in which I could safely discuss this issue and ultimately resolve it.

Flexibility is Key

Examining our own countertransference regularly and often is an important part of being an effective clinician.

I wholeheartedly believe that self-care is a critical aspect in maintaining one’s own wellness and longevity in the profession. We all encourage our clients to reduce their stress and to engage in hobbies and activities that bring them peace or joy, and we should absolutely walk the talk. When we are calm, healthy, and centered, we can do our very best work. As countertransference is a social and relational issue, the more solitary pursuits involved in self-care may not be of much help in recognizing and resolving it. This was true in my case.

“Friends and family can be an outlet for support, although we may feel limited in what we can share” by their lack of familiarity with the profession’s norms and difficulties. Capable and experienced supervisors can provide a wonderful space for working on countertransference. But there is usually a power differential, and with natural variability in supervisor’s competence, these factors can become limits. For those of us who examine countertransference in our personal therapy sessions, I hope we can recognize our patterns and responses, and apply those lessons to our work somewhat dispassionately. Otherwise we run the risk of inadvertently playing out our own therapeutic goals with our clients and will continue to experience unresolved countertransference. Consultation would seem to offer positive support in addressing countertransference, both in the variety of opinions that can be expressed and the potential for reducing or removing power differentials among the participants. I would recommend doing all the above. The important thing is that we keep looking at our countertransference and keep paying attention to what it is telling us.
 

Finding the Perch: Psychotherapy During Mutual Uncertainty and Grief

As we know, the creation of a ritualized space between two human beings is often a challenging and intimate endeavor. As an experienced child and adult psychologist, I have learned how to sit with people through excruciating times of suffering, fear, longing and grief. Whether it involves hearing about a difficult relationship or about an acute or chronic trauma, my most important task is to try to feel or imagine what a patient feels or felt at a particular time.

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This will involve an understanding of the patient’s psychological strengths and weaknesses, their biology and temperament, their inner conflicts and how they came to be the person they are. Just as important, it is about feeling their disappointments and their delights. My hope is that the patient will be able to discover and embrace something yet unknown. Perhaps there will be a glimmer of freedom or authenticity, or maybe of something frightening or deeply buried. It will be raw, fresh and unmetabolized at first. What is crucial is that this process begins with my commitment to trying to feel what the patient feels.

The nuances of what heals varies tremendously. Maybe it is significant that I am bearing witness to something being remembered or processed, or maybe I offer a different perspective or silent wisdom. However, it is essential that I can also step outside the patient’s feelings to be able to help spark something new. I am not completely in the telling nor in the immediate experience with them. For example, if a patient is talking about a painful experience of being shamed as a child, I am right there, feeling the shame inside myself as I imagine what they may have felt. But I also keep a tiny piece of myself outside the experience to guide the process of meaning-making or to watch it unfold. This is the crack, the perch, where I can live.

But now during the pandemic, it is harder to find that opening. Practicing psychotherapy as of March 2020 has necessitated that I pay attention with a new kind of vigilance. You see, sometimes there is not a time lag between what my patient brings and my own feelings. We may be breathing in the same grief. I am now experiencing fear and uncertainty at the exact moment in history as my patients are. Yes, we both arrive with different vulnerabilities and histories, (although probably with a similar longing for a pretend mother to help us make sense of it all), but the overwhelming shattering of life as we knew it is happening at the same time.

In our meetings, I often hear my own concerns expressed through the filter of who my patients are. “Why is no one taking care of our country or planet?” “Where is a Goddess or an omnipotent ruler to lead us forward?” “Who will rescue us and what do we do with our longings to be loved so we can strengthen our humanity?” “Will I watch my children die?” Sometimes I am suddenly aware that I am sitting with someone who might be articulating my pain in words that I have not yet found.

The pandemic has equalized our “playing field” or our perceptions of the field we share. We are now all “in this together.” A patient may feel permission to step outside themselves and ask, “How are you, and your ‘loved ones’?” The patient’s need to check in with me and ask how I am feeling is much more natural now, and when I answer, I don’t want to be dismissive of their interest in me nor disingenuous with a quick response. As of March 2020, we are more intimate. I will end up saying something like, “I am as well as can be during these difficult times,” or “So much is swirling inside me, I am not sure how to put it into words yet,” or “Thank you for your care. I am sad and scared but finding ways to keep myself buoyant and in the present moment.”

How can I continue to hold myself outside of what we are experiencing to be of best service to my patient? Where can I perch and settle, if only for a moment? How will this mutual uncertainty, while often unspoken, affect our ongoing relationship? These are the questions that my colleagues and I ponder, even in our dreams. Despite my own fear, I know that my experience and kindness will prevail. I am certain that my commitment and love for this work will continue. I just hope that soon the perch will be easier to find.

Marching On

COVID-19 has changed all our lives… our freedoms, our habits, how we spend our free time and how we interact with our clients. As therapists, we always discuss change with our clients. It is one of things that is constant and predictable. As my (non-clinical but very wise) mother-in-law often reminds me, “Time marches on and change happens.” To be sure, social distancing has contributed to our need, or perhaps mandate, to adapt and exercise creativity as we figure ways to work around the newly imposed restrictions.

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One of the most dramatic and life-changing adaptations many of us have had to embrace is the transition towards telehealth. Some important professional standards of care must continue as each of us “marches on” with our new telehealth practitioner label.

Professional boundaries must be adhered to. While these may have been firmly established in your “on-ground” practices, it becomes equally, if not more important, to create your own time/space boundaries when you are connecting with your client by telephone or over the internet. Recreating this within your remote office will be a valuable tool prior to stepping into this realm. It is important that you be aware of seeing what your client will see, which includes what you are wearing, what is in your background, where your children are as you speak with your clients. We are, in a sense, inviting our clients into our personal space, especially if you don’t have the luxury of a dedicated office space within your home.

Just yesterday, as I was walking a client through our final session, this came up from my client: “Can I ask if you’re willing to send me a pic of you in your backyard so I can remember you with a photo?” For some reason this surprised me. The fact is we did have a live video session while I was outside. I thought little of this fact at the time. It got me thinking about boundaries and what I was willing to share. Was this a boundary crossing? Allowing a window into my private beautiful garden… well, after some thought, I decided that sending a photo of a lovely Heliconia Rostrata would be acceptably within my professional comfort zone, and hopefully useful to my client, for whom our relationship and this small glimpse into my world was important.

Know your limitations with the technology that you are using or planning to use. Maybe it’s time to get back to role-playing; first practice your technology with a non-client. You may become aware of small, seemingly inconsequential mannerisms or facial expressions that you use when communicating with someone remotely. If you initiated counseling with a particular client in person, it may take some getting used to on their (and your) part as you transition to a small screen. Your clients may feel more or less open to sharing as the relationship transitions to the virtual space. Expect that you might feel a bit “off balance” with this remote therapeutic work. Be aware and adjust/adapt as needed. If you need more knowledge and training, there are many webinars (both free and not) and certifications available to help you in the transition. Chatting, commiserating, and practicing with colleagues may be another asset to help support you through this time.

Prior to each video session I check out the view as I would in the mirror prior to leaving the house in the morning. Lipstick is a must for me. I also check out the view of me that the client will see. Being aware of my professional dress (of course I want to stay in my workout clothes), is respectful.

Time and energy during the transition is another important consideration. That this “new” way of working may take a bit more time and energy than you initially imagined is inescapable. Creating clear personal boundaries around what schedule is best for you as well as for your family and friends will help you to arrive at a new balance between work and play/family/health. Flexibility, planning and self-care are critical.

With telehealth, the flow of sessions is different. Last week, a client and I were on a scheduled live video session. I say scheduled because I prepare by reading the entire case, which allows me to be in my “work mode.” Time invested prior to the session is considerably different than for on-ground office sessions. This client must not have informed their housemates about the anticipated need for privacy. Six times different people interrupted, and that drastically interrupted the flow. Monitoring and adapting the progression of my thoughts was a challenge and frustrating. It took more energy than usual to pause and return to the flow of my ideas and our conversation. It is important to be mindful of balancing expectations and reality as sessions like this unfold.

Documentation and record-keeping are going to be different as you make the transition to telehealth. In the on-ground therapy office, notes are taken and stored… left behind when you close the door. Certainly, we internalize some of the impressions and thoughts evoked during therapy, but for the most part, they remain safely behind. But once we transition to emailing, texting, and video or voice recording, all information is “out there” forever. Be aware, perhaps even doubly so, about how and what you write and say. Checking in and returning to clarify your message before pushing “send” is extremely important with remote therapy.

A client recently messaged me, “You know everything.” I worried that I was creating the wrong impression with this client… something I said or something I didn’t. And I wrote that in the next message, noting how I had years of experience but by no means knew everything. My message continued with questions around what I could do to ensure a more helpful experience for this client. The client wrote back to let me know that this wasn’t directed at me but was based upon what friends had told her and what she heard on a TED talk. We both got a good laugh out of that one. As you march on, be keenly aware of clarifying, validating and helping clients to identify feelings… since it may be more of a challenge to see and feel these in your virtual office.

All of us feel the impact of the stay-at-home order. While this pandemic has the potential to connect us, it can and will invariably throw us all off balance. And for me the key word is and has been balance, both professionally and personally. As I say to my clients, good, healthy food, adequate rest, movement and fresh air are essentials for positive health, both mental and physical. As clinicians we should adhere to the same need for a new equilibrium as we march on.
 

Stuck In a Cold Shower

Every time I opened the door to Jane, I instantly recognized her odour. This used to rattle me at the very beginning of our work together, but after a few months I barely noticed it and simply opened the window to air the room after her departure, almost automatically as part of a familiar routine. She smelled of a neglected child, of sad days spent in unwashed pajamas and binge-eaten lonely meals. Jane was in her late 30s, and the main reason for her being in treatment was her feelings of shame. This is what I, as a therapist, thought, but if Jane were to explain it herself, she would have probably mentioned her anxiety and the emotional disappointments of being single and lonely in a foreign city. At least, this is what she had told me a few years ago as we first met. We had been working together for a few years, and I had grown to like her a lot. She was a bubbly, intelligent woman with an acute sense of humour. We would often laugh together at one of her jokes, and her face would lighten up in a beautiful transformation. Despite these qualities and her professional achievements as an international school teacher, Jane thought less of herself and battled with a feeling of deep inadequacy. In the first months of therapy, we explored her early history at length, to realize that her two parents had never been able to attune emotionally to her. Jane felt constantly unsafe around them, as they would suddenly explode in unhinged fights, often in public spaces such as a restaurant. This would leave their daughter paralyzed with embarrassment. For years, she had hoped that somehow her parents would get out of their bubbles, entirely occupied as they were by their respective work and their arguments, and that they would notice her presence and her suffering. Jane was an only child, and she could acutely remember her constant feeling of loneliness and despair. She would also be constantly torn between feelings of hurt and anger. Her parents would hardly notice, and when they occasionally did, the response was frustration from her mother and indifference from her father. “I feel like I am stuck in a cold shower.” Hearing her murmuring that, I tried to imagine myself naked and exposed to freezing water, unable to escape and paralyzed with confusion. Jane had been living in this frozen state, her development seemed to have been stopped by the cold shower of her parents’ emotional misattunement, their indifference to her childhood needs. I am horrified by accounts of adults who stop their child’s tantrums by placing them under cold water. Not only does it dismiss the child’s anger, but the wet, shivering child is made to feel shame as a result of this treatment. When parents are unable to cope with the overwhelming emotions that their child cannot yet process, it eventually pushes shame onto the child about this powerlessness. This is probably where Jane was stuck — swollen with indignation and overwhelmed by shame. No wonder she had been avoiding showers. Despite some steady friendships, Jane felt lonely and often dismissed or rejected by others. More than once, we reflected on which of her behaviors allowed or invited other people to push her away. Jane was starting to realize that her constant readiness to get angry and to lash out was not helping her interactions with others. She also knew that her stubbornness about not wanting “to make [herself] pretty” for men had trapped her in a place where she felt unattractive. She avoided all forms of exercise and was putting on weight. But what about the smell? Was it some unconscious strategy to put off others, especially potential intimate partners? Not unlike some insects, which have evolved to develop the capacity to produce a very unpleasant smell when threatened, Jane had learned how to keep others at arm’s length. Her conscious desire for a romantic relationship had not outplayed the unconscious fear of being pushed back under the cold shower by somebody unable or unwilling to give her what she needed. At the end of every session, as I would be opening the window, I was wondering whether I should finally tell her about the smell. This risk-taking on my side could open a royal road for exploration of her shame; or at the very least it would push her to change her hygiene routine for the better. But how could I? Pointing out something so potentially shameful could make her flee the therapy room and undo the work we had been doing. Jane was mostly avoiding any situation that would expose her — such as taking on more rewarding projects at work, or physical intimacy. This constant avoidance had saved her a lot of embarrassment but had also contributed to her feeling stuck. I hoped that by facing her shame together, we could help her to develop resilience. In order to get out of the cold shower, she had to take action and change things that had made her feel bad about herself — exercise more, take better care of herself. Jane had been an unhappy but steady user of online dating apps. The rare times she had made it out with a man had ended up with the same scenario: the man either fled after the initial drinks, or they both got drunk and had sex in her messy studio. In the latter scenario, the denouement would always be the same — she would never hear from the man again. This had been the worst and most hurtful part of it all. To be ghosted by these individuals that Jane actually despised served as a constant reminder of her unworthiness — sending her back to the cold shower. She would get out of each dating experience wounded, and it would take her a few months to recover enough strength to give it another chance and take the risk again. No matter how many hours we spent analysing and unpacking her experience, no amount of awareness or insight seemed to help her change the flow of her lonely and unsatisfying existence. I was still pondering about the whole body odor dilemma when Jane came to a session more deflated than usual. She crumbled into the armchair and stayed silent. I recognised her “cold shower” look. She confirmed: she had just gone through another failed attempt at dating. “This was horrible, absolutely horrible,” she cried. My heart sunk. I felt hopeless myself and probably as defeated as her. “What happened?” “This… jerk told me that he was turned off by my smell.” My first reaction was to console her, to hug her, to reassure… but I resisted the temptation. Not now. Not yet. “This is very hurtful. I am sorry this has happened.” Was I? Not really, as this insensitive and probably drunk stranger had done what I was unable to do. He had liberated me from this burden. Was this a therapeutic opportunity? “Do you think this might be true?” “What? That I was stinking?” “Yes, that you had not showered that day?” Jane kept silent for a while. I could see that she was divided between her childish desire to get angry and storm out of the room and the trust that we have built over the years. “I actually had not. My shower is broken… it has been for a while. I cannot get myself to call the landlord, he hates me… I cannot deal with the plumber in French…” Jane’s defenses crumbled all at once; her anger, her intellectual polish, and her sense of humour, everything disappeared, and what was left was the little girl struggling with shame. This feeling was terrifying but somehow, we stayed with it for the rest of the session. We sat with her humiliation together, and Jane had an opportunity to learn that I still liked her despite her body odour, that her shower could be repaired, and that we actually all smell. We were even able to finish with a laugh about us smelly creatures. This incident became a turning point in Jane’s therapy. The insensitive but honest feedback from a failed date turned out to be an unexpected therapy gift. We recovered slowly; after a few weeks, Jane could talk more openly about her body shame. Then, she was finally able to get jogging shoes and try to run her first mile. Eventually she started feeling better about herself and her sense of self-worth became less dependent on others. Jane seemed a little more content with her Parisian life. I felt sad the day we said goodbye. As she had left, I automatically started opening the window… before realizing that the only smell she had left behind was one of a very light, citrusy perfume.

The Puzzle of Therapy

Over the course of my 28 years as a therapist, I have told many patients that therapy is like putting puzzle pieces together. It was a metaphor that most of my patients seemed to like and accept. Like most of us these days, I have extra time due to living with the stay-at-home orders, so I recently purchased a jigsaw puzzle to help manage my anxiety and to enjoy my new-found leisure time. As soon as I began to solve the puzzle, I realized that the metaphor was much more nuanced and complex than I had considered when offering it to my patients. I will elaborate. Seeing What’s There When it was delivered, I first looked at the final product on the box cover. I immediately wanted to solve the puzzle, so eagerly opened the box to see the pieces all jumbled together. I instinctively dumped them scattershot onto the table and turned them all face up. Therapeutically, this represents the jumble of loss, confusion and pain that brings patients into therapy and the awareness that something needs to change. Although we are careful not to dump all the pieces out at once, it is important to help patients take these jumbled pieces of their lives, turn them face up and begin to sort them out. With awareness, patients can better their situations, improve their relationships and lead more satisfying lives. For example, for your patients who have found themselves in a series of unsatisfying relationships, the assemblage is asking questions like: “Is it the people out there that are the problem, or is there a common denominator?” “Do your partners possess negative traits?” “Or perhaps do you bring out those qualities in your partners?” If not clarity, then at least direction may begin to emerge at this point in treatment. Identifying the Borders Next, I had to find the pieces that made up the edges of the picture. What are your patients’ edges, and how do the contours of their lives impact them and others? Here, we can use the term coined by Heidegger (which Binswanger introduced into psychology) called Dasein: Each individual’s being-ness in the world. The three types of being-ness are umwelt (interpersonal relationships), mitwelt (engagement with the immediate environment) and eigenwelt (relationship to the self). The three types of engagement constitute all our thoughts, feelings, attitudes, mental images and more. Where your uncompleted puzzle sits is where their physical, emotional, and psychological boundaries intersect with others, consisting of their connection to the world (welt). Identify and Group the Colors I next had to identify the various colors and textures as I grouped them together. I organized the green-yellows into one section and separated the purples, reds, and blues into others. After the colors and textures had been grouped, continued refinement occurred. I next noticed pieces that composed new colors and textures that I hadn’t seen before. Lighter brown pieces constituted a tree, whereas darker brown ones were the roof of the house. In therapy, this is the process of identifying your patients’ feelings, thoughts, attitudes and overall behavior, as well as clarifying the expectations, patterns, and challenges in their relationships. In fact, discovering existing and previously unseen colors may be likened to recognizing your patients’ ways of being in their relationships. There are aspects of their personalities and ways of thinking and feeling that we can help them to identify. How do they treat their spouses within various contexts, such as when they’re stressed out or in a bad mood, and how does their partner’s behavior impact their emotions and self-image? What is the degree of honesty, rivalry and satisfaction with their friends? What is their attitude about their jobs? Conversely, what is the impact of their attitude (sense of safety, optimism, and fulfillment) and self-image (pride, shame, love, or indifference) on others? Consider the following examples of discovering new colors vis-à-vis interpretations: “I see that you became angry, but I’m wondering if you also felt hurt.” “Is that vulnerability you’re experiencing?” “You felt abandoned when your partner walked out and you followed him from room to room. Was it a response to panic?” As another example, we might help them learn that they are actually not afraid of conflict when all this time they thought they had been. That’s because conflict exists before the first word is spoken. If a patient’s spouse wants their child to have a play date, but your patient is concerned about her not feeling well and would rather she stay at home, that’s the conflict. What they are actually afraid of are the consequences of bringing up the pre-existing conflict. Do they expect (and receive) anger, the “silent treatment,” or rocking an already rocky boat? Another example of further clarification and nuance is when patients tell us they’re shy. “Is that always or in certain contexts – parties, public speaking, or on a first date?” This process can help them reduce their blanket “I am” statements and add new facets to their self-image. Find the Adjacent Issues As I continued with my puzzle, I recognized which sections were next to one another. The corollary to therapy is illustrated in the continuing example about conflict. When patients don’t bring up conflict with their partners, they “hold” the conflict 100%. In fact, their partners may not even know there’s a problem. Therefore, a risk of not acknowledging the conflict is the possible adjacent issue of harboring resentment and living with continuing victimization (which can be very powerful). “I never get what I want.” “I can’t believe how selfish she is.” There is almost always a previously unrecognized issue that lays next to one that they are aware of. The challenge is to recognize what they are and how these adjacent sections fit together. Tolerate and Accept Emotions There were times when I felt overwhelmed when doing my jigsaw puzzle: “This is too hard.” I was also hopeful — “I can do this”; frustrated — “Did they include all of the pieces?”; uncertain — “Will I finish it?”; and accomplished — “I did it!” We are, in a sense, emotional managers for our patients, helping them to self-regulate as they piece together the often difficult experiences of their lives and the underlying feelings. It is important for our patients to tolerate and ultimately accept a wide range of feelings. The goal is not to “get rid of” anxiety, for example, but to reduce its duration, intensity and frequency (the “DIF”) as they increase their emotional tolerance. Consider Process What are you and your patients thinking, feeling, and imagining as your patients figuratively put the pieces of their lives together? The how of therapy is the therapeutic process — everything from the relationship, the way therapy is experienced, what happens within the sessions and the acknowledgment that there are two points of view in the room. The process also incorporates the tribulations, joys, sorrows, frustrations, and hopefulness that we each bring into every encounter. And then there is the possibility that the final product of our therapeutic work may not resemble the image or may vary considerably from their expectation of the goals they brought into treatment. The act of working out their puzzle might have altered the final product. The Full Picture While working on my own jigsaw puzzle, I realized that the metaphor of therapy as a jigsaw puzzle is not as simple as I used to suggest to my patients or even realized myself. To help them solve their puzzles, we (and they) must look at the many aspects of their lives; to sort out the jumble into a coherent picture. As we help them through the process of laying out the pieces, finding their edges, sorting and organizing by color and content, they hopefully will learn to look for and at the bigger picture — how they developed certain patterns of behavior, coping strategies and ways of relating to others. They will come to see themselves more clearly and accept themselves more unconditionally, develop and refine facets of their identity and gain insight into who they are. In these ways, effective therapy — like solving a puzzle — is both a demanding and rewarding experience. But unlike the static and store-bought jigsaw that comes in a box, the puzzle of therapy is fluid, and the final product not always available on the box top.

What Happens to the Path Not Taken?

When a patient reports their history, we listen for content as well as the emotions associated with their recollections. With a discerning ear, we also consider the reliability of their narrative. Even if a patient is not a good historian, it does not mean they’ve lied. There are many reasons patients don’t report an accurate history.

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One reason that I find particularly interesting, which you’ve likely encountered if you’ve worked with long-term psychotherapy patients, is the shifting of narratives, stories that change over time. This is not necessarily unreliable reporting. Emotions associated with narratives change with life experience and with that so does the recollection of the events.
Memories, then, are as much a representation of the present as they are of the past. What we hear when we listen to patients’ reports of their past experiences not only gives us history but also offers a window into present emotional states.

For example, my patient Beth reports depressed mood, anxiety and feeling that her life is harder than everyone else’s. In the difficulties of her present life, she remembers a man from her past who she dated on-and-off for a couple of years. This is a good example, because I was seeing Beth in therapy while they dated, so I’ve been privy to her emotions while she experienced the relationship as well as her retrospective examination.

At the time, she had described constant frustration and upset at his lack of emotional availability. Her sessions were filled with lamentations about him and about the relationship. I had the sense that she was cornering him and being overly demanding, because I also experienced that in our therapeutic relationship. But she was unable to withstand any relational analysis at the time. It was too soon in our therapy, and she did not yet have the self-esteem and emotional resilience to tolerate that level of painful introspection.

But years after their breakup and with continued therapy, looking back, she remembered a different man, one who was kind and generous, and who wasn’t unavailable, but rather one who was focused on building his career. She longed to go back to that man – the one she didn’t date. She believed that man would reduce her life difficulties. The sessions over the last couple of years have been dripping with nostalgia for the life she didn’t lead.

If memories change, then perhaps nostalgia is a longing for the life we only see in retrospect. If so, how do we help patients let go of regrets for things they couldn’t have understood at the time they happened? How do we help them understand the role of the life they didn’t lead? And even deeper, how do the unlived lives of people close to us influence our own journey?

I’d been tossing these ideas around for a long time, especially after working with patients who presented with trauma symptoms who had not experienced any clear traumatic event but whose parents did. Listening to their narratives, I heard a similar theme: they absorbed their parents’ trauma when they were young children, mostly when it was communicated without words, when the heaviness was felt but not discussed.

I decided to write a novel exploring these psychological and philosophical questions using characters to gain insight so as not to be limited by the frame of psychological constructs. The book, called Before the Footprints Fade, explores how our memories change with life experience, how we often long for the life we can only see in retrospect, and how we sometimes want to go back to things that had remained unrealized. It also delves into how the unlived potentials of our loved ones can become part of our own struggles and journeys.

How are we influenced by the roads not taken?

In each of us and all the people we know, there are an infinite number of unlived lives; each choice opens some doors and closes others. I wanted to show how this translates intergenerationally, because sometimes patients’ distress begins with the unprocessed feelings of the previous generation.

So, for one of the characters in my book, the father’s choice to give up the saxophone and take a more reliable career path to raise the family became something he felt responsible for. His father’s unlived life becomes part of his journey. It’s greater than just the unspoken expectations from his parents, too. He then struggled in his personal life to shed what others wanted from him, so he could become who he truly was.

Another example is my patient Damon, whose parents’ implicit statements about his success led him to be an overachiever. When he began therapy, despite his tremendous ambition, he had little emotional connection to his pursuits. “It all felt empty,” he had told me.

Eventually, he was able to recognize that his relentless motivation was fueled by a need for validation and the label of “success” rather than any meaningful connection to the work itself. It became an unconscious quest to live out what was expected of him, rather than what he might have wanted had he felt the emotional freedom to choose. Complicating this was the fact that expectations were not obviously stated, making it hard to separate his unprocessed emotions from those of his parents.

Exploring the unlived lives of our patients’ parents and the implicit communications of these unlived aspirations can be very helpful when stuck with a patient, particularly when there is a lack of vitality connected to how they are living or pressure surrounding imagined expectations.

And as I learned from writing Before the Footprints Fade, “You never go back the way you came.” Once we’ve learned, once we’ve grown through life experience, the road back looks different. We are different.

We spend time with our patients exploring their past in an effort to help them better understand themselves in the present. With insight and ego strength, with psychological growth, the emotions associated with memories change. Therefore, we can also understand present emotions by listening to stories about the past.

Perhaps it’s not quite accurate to say that youth is wasted on the young. Wisdom can only come from making footprints, not from following them. We can only be where we are because of where we have been. We can only see our youth through the eyes of nostalgia. If we want to help patients live fulfilling lives, with meaningful and integrated intentions, with emotional freedom, then we must consider the influence of the roads not taken. We want to explore and understand them, realizing that though they may never have actually happened they still – like footprints – can leave a deep impression.

*Beth and Damon’s names were changed to protect their anonymity.
 

Blind Side

Empathy Creates a Blind Side

“Empathic personality style” has a nice ring to it. In counseling classes and practicums, we are taught the importance of empathy and how to convey it to our patients. Empathy is part of every counseling skills curriculum, yet much of its application, the post-coursework expression of empathy, emanates from one’s persona, not from a professor or a textbook. We know empathetic traits when we see them. A smile and a thumbs up gesture, a phone call to a friend after a major event, a pep talk during a rough patch at work are all perfect examples, worthy of Hallmark commercials. If such gestures are second nature, then this is a good thing — right? Many therapists were first prompted by a strong innate level of empathy to become interested in psychology. A curiosity about others, a sense of what it may feel like to be them, and a motivation to help them with improvement are all essential traits for therapists.

Empathy Without Caution

There isn’t a paint by numbers pathway to success in any one profession, but there seem to be similarities in the backgrounds of those who enter the helping professions. Often, the adage about circumstances not making a person but revealing them applies. Is it that the sensitive person meets emotionally charged circumstances or that such circumstances bring out one’s capacity for sensitivity? We all know correlation does not prove causality, but correlation is not to be dismissed. As I reflect on my own peer supervision groups, early counseling classes and colleagues, so many of our histories seem like chapters in an open book, clear as day in my memory. The caring guy who returned to grad school to build a new career after a bitter divorce from a woman with untreated alcoholism. The A-student who began to address unresolved issues with her critical father. And there was Lisabeth, my former supervisor and mentor, who grew up in an emotionally abusive family where her parents were charming to the outside world and could teeter on being just healthy enough when on display. Their personas had so much flip-flopping that the dichotomy drove her nuts at times. Finally, my own abandonment by my father and the ripple effect of his abusive behaviors that predated his leaving. Therapists tend to have emotionally rich histories and a capacity for a rich emotional awareness. But are these histories and qualities enough to ensure future success as a clinician?

Just as it is physically impossible to be in two places at the same time, it is impossible to fully operate from more than one emotional state of being. Often, therapists don’t shift easily from the mode of helping a patient in the professional realm to the mode of self-protection in the private or social realm. Factor in the dynamic of therapists’ innately having sensitivity towards the point of view of others, and it is easy to understand why therapists often have a blind side when it comes to looking out for themselves.

Mary’s Story

Mary was the picture of the YAVIS patient as she sat on the couch across from me, smiled politely and asked if I was ready. She was new to working on her own therapy but had been a therapist working with veterans and their families for about seven years. She had graduated from a prestigious university and had a quality of poise and presence.

After polite pleasantries, Mary’s face suddenly seemed to fall into her hands. She was talking in fragments, hands now molded to her face, and I had to fight the urge to ask her to speak louder.

“He told me I was making him crazy. He said I had no right to hate his family.” She became silent, as if she were digesting what she had just said. Therapeutic silence seems to move five times slower than real time. She then smiled and her voice became stronger.

“Don’t you just love recent history? Such a tricky phrase that takes you into two different directions at the same time. If it were so recent, it wouldn’t really be history, now would it? And is history ever really history? There is no such thing in the Land of Oz and certainly not in therapy. But I guess that is where we start, of course. How in God’s name one Ken doll protégée could morph into…”

“She started laughing to the point that any more would have been like a Bette Davis scene from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane“.

We were close to ending the session and Mary sounded close to ending her marriage, citing endless criticisms she had endured. The criticism and “picking,” as she called it, typically happened when they were alone, but had recently expanded to being played out in front of others. Often, their audience was his children. Steve had two grade school age daughters from his first marriage. Mary described Steve as being fragile during their courtship.

“At times I’d come away from an evening or early morning with him to head back home and feel like I had to shower all of his pain off me. He would start out as a strong, strapping guy wanting to take me to dinner, movies, or whatever, but by the time the evening took off, it was texts with his ex-wife and children, a sad, vacant look in his eyes and tuning out whatever was left of our conversation, followed up with, well, odd word, but — pleadings for me to see him again.”

I was just about to ask her what that was like for her, but she continued her recall and continued making it all about Steve.

“It was just awful for him.”

I pursed my lips to keep from saying too much after my one-word response of “Him?” followed by what a client used to call my owl-eye stare.

“Well, him, yes, at that time. I know what you’re getting at, but I was okay with him being the center focus at that point. Relationships are like seesaws, and this was the time for me to lift him up.”

“Mary, can you pinpoint at what point it became not okay for you? At what point was Steve’s behavior towards you not okay?”

Through hands that made their way in nanoseconds back to her face, Mary cried suddenly.

“I became a laughingstock. He made it so. Right in front of his kids, ex-wife, ex-neighbors. It had been a risky proposition for me to even go, but then…” Tears formed and she grabbed a tissue from the end table and dabbed her eyes in what seemed like a deliberate patten of four dabs each eye before continuing, “He posed for family photos with his ex and children, ignored me the entire night. “It was as if he was deliberately trying to break me”. I left with him feeling like the child I used to be when my mother and sister each forgot to pick me up from school and I had to ask my teacher for help.”

She threw out the term “gaslighting” as she described the ride home with Steve after the party at his ex’s. Her slightest bit of revealing her feelings was met with Steve’s psychological evaluation of her and “diagnosis” of immaturity. In the next breath, she said, he practically begged her to stay the night with him, that he needed her and would think about what she had said. She was shaking her head as she described ignoring her own upset in exchange for focusing on his wants. It seemed like her emotional pendulum would swing often in this relationship. In a possible attempt to distract from looking at her pattern of focusing on Steve at her own expense, she asked if now was the time to recap her toilet training and her childhood in England. I thought about redirecting her back to the car ride but decided to let this pattern of putting others first, even when their behavior was abusive, have a wider net that could possibly include her life before Steve. My expression of encouragement by curiosity was enough prompting.

“I was always okay, you know. I was the nurse when we kids would all play hospital. Funny, not the doctor, anyway, nurse it was.”

“You can picture it?”

She nodded, “Oh, clever.” Her face became once again hidden by her long hair and her hands, but I knew she was crying. I was prepared to keep her focus on what Mary described as cold, unaffectionate parents and then later in future sessions delve more into the present ground we had initially covered. However, like a detour on a road trip that leads to more and better, Mary processed a direct link between her teenage years and her marriage. Though my own bias and historic blind side in therapy is to identify a plan of action, I yielded and let Mary’s insight be the focus. Insight about trying to win her parents over and this being replayed in her marriage took the focus of the next few weeks. Forever the Freudian, Mary described seeing repetition compulsion in red ink every time she saw her husband. The cognitive behaviorist in me saw this as a concrete decision on her part to change her thinking. No matter the modality, the door was open, and Mary was about to walk through it to freedom.

“Mary recalled baking pretend cookies for her mother when her father was working late and saving a couple “cookies” in a tin for when her dad came home”. She described singing and dancing whenever he was around. Our mutual smiles were slammed shut when she jumped up and started stomping, hands on hips.

“I cowered in the corner when my father’s arrogant, holier-than-thou, pseudo-intellectual family mocked me for having a lisp. And what did I do whenever this happened — and always did whenever any of them seemed displeased? I’ll tell you. I sucked up. I kissed ass. I was a doormat baking fake cookies and singing songs and learning to be gutted by predator animals in the real world my whole fucking life.”

I hesitated before asking what the baking fake cookies behavior looked like in her teen and adult years. She smiled, “I became a good listener. An observer of everything. A helper. The teacher’s pet, the best daughter, sister, student, friend.”

“Others could rely on you for understanding and caring. How did that benefit you?”

Smiling after another pregnant pause, “Well, people don’t bite the hand that feeds, especially while they’re being fed.”

***

Therapy eventually became targeted on how Mary had learned to focus on others at the expense of caring for herself — the origin of her blind side in both her professional and personal life. Mary had simply adapted to focusing on the needs of others, at the expense of her own. Effective personal and therapeutic confrontation were already in her toolbox, but what was needed — what we worked on — was creating another kind of therapeutic confrontation. This was one through which she implemented an internal filtering system that she could use in order to silently confront other people’s words and deeds to herself. Not an actual confrontation, since it was to be only internal; however, it would be as real as those formidable fake cookies. Actual external confrontation was the homework for future sessions.
 

I’m So Glad You Stopped Me

Uh oh, it’s happening again. Another session where my patient, a man in his 30’s, has taken over the session. I sensed this might be an issue from our first intake visit, which extended into a second session because of our mutual tendency to allow him to speak in long-winded answers. And here we go again – 20 minutes into our session and I’ve barely gotten a word in edgewise. I take an audible in-breath and lean forward in my chair, signaling that I’d like to speak. He responds with a small nod, but at the same time speeds up his words and raises his voice, effectively saying “no” to my bid for a turn. We’ve been through this cycle enough times that I’m feeling rather trapped – my choices seem to be either to shout him down or fall silent. On the one hand, this isn’t a good thing. He’s not going to get any help if he doesn't let me participate in the conversation. On the other hand, falling into this pattern is exactly what needs to happen. He’s come to see me for help with his relationship with his wife, who complains that he interrupts her all the time. I can almost see the thought bubble above his head shouting, “Help! Stop me!”

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Healthy relationships offer opportunities for the joy of conversational “flow.” An excellent conversation can have the charge of two soccer players passing a ball back and forth down the field or the grace of a figure skating pair. The two parties read each other’s non-verbal communications, sensing when to move forward and when to shift to support their partner’s motion. In conversation, the “silent” partner is active in the role of listener, sending feedback signals in the form of nods, reactive facial expressions and all of those wonderful listening noises: “uh-huh,” “mmm,” “oh?” “I see,” “yes,” “go on.”

People can fall out of conversational cooperation by either talking too little or too much. Some people offer excessively terse “closed down” answers when discussing emotional content, obliging the listener to work hard to draw them out. Others tend to speak with excessive length or over-complexity, in ways that can be hard to follow and difficult to interrupt¹.

Traditionally, the culture of therapy has been to let patients talk. Psychoanalysts famously say almost nothing. But failing to address conversational imbalance is a huge missed opportunity. Helping patients recognize and shift a problematic default tendency is an important part of therapy – both because conversational collaboration is a key part of the working relationship, and because the therapeutic dialogue serves as an in-vivo training opportunity in collaborative behavior. What is tricky is to do this in a way that is encouraging rather than shaming².

“Allan, can I stop us for a moment?”

He looks at me somewhat surprised, for I’ve raised my voice a bit louder than usual in order to get his attention.

“Sure?” he says a bit dubiously.

“I’ve noticed something happening between us, and I was wondering if we could take a look at that together because I’m thinking it’s an opportunity for us to communicate better.”

“What do you mean?” He’s flinching as if anticipating a harsh blow.

“There have been a number of times I’ve had something I’ve wanted to offer you, but I haven’t been able to find a way to break into the conversation. I’ve noticed feeling a bit frustrated, and also sad because I don't feel as connected to you as I’d like to be. I’m wondering if you’ve noticed this, too, and if you’ve felt anxious or frustrated with how we’ve been connecting.”

I can see him physically expand, as though about to let out a flood of thoughts, but he stops himself. He speaks slowly for the first time.

“I was afraid you were going to criticize me for interrupting you, just the way my wife does. I think I’ve been worried all along that you have been silently judging me, and ironically I think that makes me talk even more so you won’t have a chance to hurt me.”

“It sounds like I was on the mark about your feeling anxious in our relationship – and that you’ve been feeling that anxiety for good reason, because you were picking up on my unspoken frustration. It’s really cool that you noticed that. It feels awkward to talk about this, but at the same time, I’m excited by the opportunity we have to shift things, so we can have a better connection.”

“But I don’t know how to stop interrupting or even to talk less. I don’t feel like you really get me, so I have to give you all the details. Like, I mean…”

I raise my hand and smile. “Is this an example where you wanted to add in more details so I’d understand?”

He nods.

“Could we try something?” I ask, “I wonder if this might be a ‘less-is-more’ situation. Would you be willing to let me guide you a bit? I’m thinking that if you give me a little more space to talk, we might actually communicate better and ironically, you might feel more understood.”

“I already feel more understood since you stopped me to talk about this.”

Together we agree on a plan for me to raise my hand when I’d like to talk so we can practice a more back and forth dialogue. He recognizes that this shift away from telling every story in completeness is going to be uncomfortable for him, but he sees what he stands to gain.
Two sessions later, things are already starting to look different – he’s still a talker, but we’ve gotten ourselves in rhythm, and we’ve gotten down to work tackling his communication difficulties with his wife.

“Wow!” he tells me at the end of a particularly good session. “We had a real back and forth going there. That was actually a lot of fun! I’m so glad you stopped me!”

References
Gratitude to Dan Brown’s work on fostering collaborative behavior (see his book Attachment Disturbances in Adults, Norton, 2016)

Gratitude to Dr. David Burns for his method “Changing the Focus” demonstrated here (see his book Feeling Good Together, Crown Publishing Group, 2008.)
 

An Indelible Impression

“We scheduled his next appointment, and I took payment for the session. I turned to open the door to my office as I always do, and I said take care and that I would see him next week. As he walked past me, he turned back and said, ‘You know, tattoos are a choice, and God did not choose for you to have tattoos.’ He just kept walking. I was shocked. It was unexpected. I didn't know what to say; it happened so quickly and quite literally in passing. It was not in a hateful tone at all.”

So began a spontaneous and unsolicited conversation during my counseling internship class – I always offer students the opportunity to reflect upon their previous week’s sessions, whether seemingly innocuous or salient. In this instance, one of the interns hesitantly brought up a clearly uncomfortable moment at the end of a recent session with a teenage adherent of the Church of Latter-Day Saints. His departing remark took her quite off-guard in the moment and led her to process whether she might have better served this young man by concealing, rather than exposing her tattoos.

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What seemed apparent to me was not whether she should or shouldn’t conceal her ink (her agency did not explicitly prohibit exposure of tattoos), but that this was a unique teachable moment both for her and her young client, but also for me, as her clinical supervisor.

I did not want her to roil in shame and guilt over the concern that she might have somehow hurt the therapeutic relationship and this client, leaving him avoidably confused. Had she just covered up! I wanted to create an atmosphere of both acceptance and challenge, in which she could explore the relationship between choices she made as a clinician and person and the impact of those choices, whether intended or not, upon her clients. And I knew the rest of the interns were listening for lessons they could take from the conversation, as they reflected both upon this specific situation and those with their own clients.

In those moments, I was both the supervisor, cognizant of seizing the lessons inherent in that teachable moment, but also the therapist, reflecting on similar moments I have had with my own clients at the self-doubting and shifting intersection of self-concealment and self-exposure. I, too, am visibly tattooed, at least if I roll up my sleeves, which I most invariably do when working with clients, both literally and figuratively. I wanted what I have learned on my road to becoming a therapist to be useful to these nascent clinicians. I also did not want to force them down my road, even if I could.

Over the next week, I reflected on that conversation, wondering about its impact on this particular intern and the group. In the next group supervision, she offered the following:

“Dell [a fictitious name] did come back to counseling, and he actually brought up the subject of my tattoos and his faith before I could even close my office door! He said after he left, he immediately felt bad for the way he approached the subject of my tattoos and that he thought a lot about it and was concerned I wouldn't see him anymore, as he said he enjoyed our time together and that I was incredibly helpful. He said when he left he started thinking about why people get tattoos and what they mean to them. He came to the conclusion that for some people, tattoos are as meaningful to them as his CTR ring (Choose the Right, which is a saying in the Church of Latter Day Saints). He asked if his conclusion about tattoos was true and what mine meant to me. I said that I could not speak for others with tattoos, but that mine meant very much to me.

I described them as time capsules, memories, a reflection of me; stories, and that they mean very much to me, just as his faith does him. I told him there was no need to apologize, and I appreciated his kind words. I also applauded him for taking the time to reflect and educate himself about the subject, as I will not be the only human he encounters with tattoos. I also told him that I thought a lot about what he said and that I researched a lot about the Mormon church, so I could have a better understanding of his views. We agreed that this new understanding of one another strengthened our professional relationship and that we both learned from one another and in working together.”

My supervisee impressed me with her expanded world and self-view, one that was broad enough to take in all visitors to that intimate space of therapy. She closed by saying, “I learned how tolerant I can be, when something I love and cherish is judged so quickly and harshly, and that people have the capacity to grow and open their minds to differences even when their religions may not agree.”

I was honored to be part of the learning process, initiated by my clinical curiosity and desire to guide my interns forward on their own journeys. Indelible impressions were made on all.
 

The Last Responder

After the last COVID-19 patient has been discharged and the intensive care unit beds are empty, the world will declare the crisis over. Politicians and pundits will begin to talk about mistakes made and try to lay blame. They will finger point and bluster about why it got as bad as it did and declare it wasn’t their fault.

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Store shelves will be full of products again. There won’t be a run on toilet paper or hand sanitizer or sanitizing wipes. People will have parties and weddings. They will have celebrations just because they can. Many businesses that were forced to close will reopen, many people will have jobs to go back to, and nearly everyone will breathe a sigh of relief that it is over.

Family members will gather to mourn their dead, to hold each other and cry, to process the guilt of not being with their loved ones as they died.

Doctors and nurses will start to process their own trauma. The trauma of watching patients die alone, of their decisions about who got the respirator and who didn’t, and of knowing their colleagues died from this virus due to lack of protective equipment. The trauma of holding the phone for a patient and witnessing the last goodbye before that patient is put on a respirator.

Those who survived this virus will wonder if they passed it to anyone else before they even knew they were contagious. Some will know they passed it on, and they will wonder if any of those people died.

Things will eventually get back to the way they were before this virus took over our lives in ways we never could have imagined and barely comprehended

People will enter my therapy office trying to find a way to fit this unprecedented event into their life story. There will be guilt and regret and pain and fear. And grief. So much grief. The trauma will continue for months and years to come because trauma is a time bomb with no visible timer.

The trauma of this pandemic does not end when the acute crisis is over. That is when it truly begins. That is why I am the last responder.

As I listen to the ever-increasing number of infected and dead, I know my work hasn’t even begun. I will celebrate when the intensive care unit beds are empty and when we can hug each other again.

Life will start to return to normal, but things won’t feel quite the same.

I’ll take a deep breath. And then another.

And then, I’ll get to work.