Bringing Art (Therapy) to Life: An Interview with Judith Rubin

 
 
Victor Yalom: Welcome Judy. I wanted to start out by saying how grateful I am that you’ve recently trusted psychotherapy.net to publish the vast video library you’ve created, containing over 100 expressive arts therapy titles. It’s truly an honor for us to be the caretaker of this unique and incredibly valuable library. So, thanks for that, and before we talk about the collection, I want to get some context. I understand that through some interviews you’ve given, that you were there when art therapy was just starting as a field of study and practice. I know there’s not just one art therapy, but to get us going, how would you define art therapy or art therapies? What does that really mean? 
 
Judith Aron Rubin: People get caught up in trying to define it, but it’s simple in my mind. Art Therapy is using an art form, in my case, the visual arts, to help people through therapy. And yes, there are many variations; but in its essence, it’s art plus therapy.
 

The Therapeutic Value of Art

VY: Why introduce art in therapy?
 
JR: As it turns out, and I guess we all know that we don’t start out having words as infants, but we do start out having visual experiences. Other art forms like movement, drama, and music also depend on some of the other basic sensory inputs babies have. So, these are simply ways we learn early on of taking in information about the world and then expressing experience.
 
To not take advantage of these natural and inborn languages in trying to help people get better seems almost foolish. Cooing, babbling, dramatizing, pretending, and making marks seem universal in higher primates. When given art materials to make marks, chimpanzees and apes like to draw and paint. So, it’s a natural activity that can be used to help people — another avenue to reach people and to help them find out about themselves.  
 
VY: Art Therapy is using an art form, in my case, the visual arts, to help people through therapy. It makes a lot of sense when you think of it that way because one of the things we’re always trying to do in therapy is to get people to explore new things and come to new understanding about themselves — although not necessarily to a non-verbal place. I know you were trained as an analyst and that in analysis, the clinician uses techniques like free association to help people discover new things about themselves by exploring their unconscious or preconscious. This sounds similar to your way of describing the use of art in therapy, although it’s probably more expansive.
 
JR: That’s one way of looking at the value in people expressing themselves freely like free associating with words. Free association and images is actually quite fun. And you can do it with mental images. You don’t have to draw or paint them. And in fact, there were a lot of psychologists in the 60s and 70s and 80s who were quite interested in mental imagery as a way of understanding, but also helping people.
 
VY: creating something visually, or moving or dramatizing, are all ways of cutting through those defenses. So, it’s tapping into these other ways of experiencing and seeing the world. How is that helpful to clients?
 
JR: Because they can get in touch with things that they are unable to articulate in words. It’s obvious with people who are not very verbal, or who are communicating to us through a second language, or who have hearing or expression problems. But it’s also very helpful with people who intellectualize, who use words defensively to cover up. They’re not aware that they’re doing that, but that happens. Creating something visually, or moving or dramatizing, are all ways of cutting through those defenses, allowing something to become part of someone’s awareness that they couldn’t otherwise access.
 
VY: There are two interesting points that I hear you making. One is that art therapy can be very helpful. It seems that it has historically been used quite a lot, and probably still is. I think non-art therapists think of art therapy being used more frequently with these populations who aren’t as verbal, and who may be in hospital settings with psychotic patients or others with other disabilities.
 
What I also hear you say is that it’s very helpful for people who intellectualize, which is a large percentage of the clients we see, especially higher-functioning ones. That can be a real limitation in therapy. People can talk about themselves; they can theorize and intellectualize about themselves; they can tell stories and come up with intellectual and rational explanations. But that doesn’t necessarily lead to anything happening therapeutically.
 
JR: Yeah, it’s interesting because using art in therapy seems to help people not only get to a kind of awareness or insight, but also to feelings that they aren’t aware of that are often evoked by using art material or seeing what they’ve created with the material. This can be incredibly powerful.

And the Children Shall Draw

VY: I’ve just had a chance to look at a few of the videos in the vast library that you’ve created. One image that struck me was when you were working with a young girl who was non verbal. People thought that she was “retarded,” which was the term used at the time. She drew this incredible image of going to see the dentist. Do you remember that?
 
JR: I do. That was 1967 — three years before the American Art Therapy Association was formed. You’re right that it was in the beginning years, and that was exciting. Actually, it was fun. I feel lucky to have entered the field at a time when it was essentially unformed. It was about ideas and passionate people. But there hadn’t been any kind of intellectual framework developed yet.
 
VY: I feel lucky to have entered the field at a time when it was essentially unformed. It was about ideas and passionate people. This is perhaps an example of the power of art that I can refer to one image someone created in 1967, and it can immediately evoke that same image in your mind.
JR: I not only remember the image, I remember the little girl who came into the art room in her wheelchair. I remember watching her create it and thinking, “God, this kid is not only not retarded, she’s saying something that needs to be expressed.”
 
VY: But she’s saying it through a picture.
 
JR: Yes. We were assessing children in a place then called the Home for Crippled Children, meaning it was all children with disabilities, some of whom were residents and some of whom came during the day. They had about 200 kids and had invited me to start a pilot art program because they had never offered art for the children. I met with the coordinators who presented me with a list of 10 eligible children. I remember saying, “only 10 out of all these children?!”
 
They were so anxious about what these kids could or could not do, so they picked only the 10 highest functioning children with the most mobility and fine motor skills. I asked if it would be alright if we assessed everybody, which they agreed to. As a result of this assessment and this drawing, this little girl was moved back into the classroom that she had been taken out of.
 
VY: Many therapists may think, “I’m not artistic, so this isn’t for me.” Is that a common thing you find?
 
JR: Oh, sure. Many patients and adults too. Except for children. Most children don’t say that. But adolescents? Adults? Sure, but then you explain.
 
VY: That’s interesting that kids don’t say “I can’t draw, I can’t dance, I can’t sing.” It’s something they do naturally. And then what happens? How do they go from there to this idea that I can’t draw, I can’t dance, I can’t sing.
 
JR: It happens developmentally around puberty, where they become much more self-conscious in the general sense about the way they look, the way they move, the way they dress and how they draw. They become self-critical. It isn’t simply their artistic talent or lack of it, because until a certain age, most kids are un-self-consciously able to create.
 
There are little children of all ages who are blocked, who are unable to play. These children really need creative arts therapy because it’s a kind of play therapy. I think the creative arts therapists in their training, in their experience, are used to helping people who can’t create, to be able to create, if that makes any sense. It’s part of the job.

Bringing Art into the Room

VY: Let’s get into what art therapy is, and how you use these natural, innate abilities in a therapeutic context to help people. That’s a big question.
 
JR: It is a big question. With different age groups, you present it in a different way, so I’ll just stick to art therapy for the moment because that’s what I know best. But, as I said, older children, adolescents, and particularly adults are inhibited. You explain that this isn’t about being an artist.
 
In fact, artists are some of the hardest patients in art therapy because they’re so aware and self-conscious about their art, and they want to make it pretty, good, and attractive. But that’s not the purpose of art in therapy. The purpose essentially is to help people express and find themselves.
 
VY: Some of the people reading this interview may be art therapists or know something about art therapy, and want to hear from you as a renowned figure in the field. But many others are therapists who have had no exposure to art therapy, so I’m wondering how, if you’re not trained as an art therapist, can you still start incorporating some of this into your work.
 
JR: I believe you can. It’s an issue, a political issue within the field, because it’s been difficult for art therapists to be recognized as clinicians. But in actuality, the training is at least as rigorous, if not more so than the training that LMFT’s and social workers and other masters-level clinicians receive. I believe it’s at least as good as, if not better than, the training that mental health counselors get. And many people go on for PhD’s these days in art therapy or related fields like psychology, which actually is what I did my doctorate in. So, I’m licensed as a psychologist, although I don’t think of myself as primarily that.
 
There’s some anxiety about sharing techniques and activities with people who aren’t trained in the art form or who don’t know how to help people to use clay or the paint or whatever, and may not understand what they’re unleashing. The truth is that you can get to buried material that can be quite disruptive unless you know what you’re doing as a clinician or therapist. That’s the political aspect of helping others to use art. But I personally believe that everybody should be incorporating it. I wrote a book called, Artful Therapy for Non Art Therapists.
 
VY: I think giving people choices is one way to help them overcome some of the inhibitions around using art in therapy. Whether someone is trained as an art therapist or not, can you say a little bit about how to introduce some artistic activity, whether painting, clay, drawing, or whatever into the therapy?
 
JR: That’s a whole chapter in a book, and a bit hard to put into words. One way is to help it be a non-threatening activity, because a blank piece of paper is pretty threatening to most adults. What has worked for me is to give people choices, to have options. I’ll say something like, “You can use clay, or you can use chalk; or if you prefer to use markers or colored pencils, that’s fine. You can use a little piece of paper or a big piece of paper, whatever suits you.”
 
I think giving people choices is one way to help them overcome some of the inhibitions around using art in therapy. It’s about explaining to an adult or adolescent that this is a way of getting at stuff that we might not otherwise be able to get at by talking. Another way is to ask people what they remember about their dreams, because dreams contain many visual images, so in a sense, they are already thinking as an artist.
 
VY: So, you give people a choice by starting out with some of the materials in your office or encourage them to have some of these materials available if you’re working online with them. What kind of instructions do you then give them?
 
JR: These can range anywhere from open-ended to a starter. A starter is an easy and non-threatening way to begin because it doesn’t push the person in one direction or another. You can put a blot of paint on paper, fold it, and then ask the person what it reminds them of. People also like to doodle or make squiggles, so you can ask them to do that with their eyes closed and then look at it, and then turn it around as you ask them, “what does this remind you of?”
 
Each time, it’s like a Rorschach as you ask them what they see. You can get a lot of projective material from this very simple exercise. Then you can say, “OK, now take all the other colors and make it look like what you saw in it.” Because it starts with the scribble that doesn’t require people to think of making something realistic, they’re liberated.
 
VY: The idea is that you want to reduce the resistance people have to drawing, or to art in general. And whether it’s an inkblot or a squiggle, you’re priming the pump.
 
JR: Yes, because just starting with a line or a shape doesn’t give you much. But when people start to develop an image, they can begin to see something, like an image in the clouds. That’s another common experience that you can remind people of to let them know that they don’t have to be an artist to be artistic. Or you can give them clay to fiddle around with and then ask them similar questions to those you asked about the doodle, squiggle, or ink blot.
 
VY: I’m sorry to interrupt here, but this reminds me of the walk I just took with my 92-year-old father, who was looking up at clouds and seeing faces in them. In an earlier stage of his life, he was not a visual person — he was a very word-and-intellectual person. In that moment, I saw him opening up to a different world in that way, which perhaps is something that happens with the elderly. Just an aside!
 
JR: That’s fascinating because he’s not the first person I’ve heard that about. I think it’s uncommon that people who were mostly word people begin to pay attention to sounds, images, and the nonverbal when they get older.
 
VY: Getting back, you started describing the process of helping people go from a doodle to filling it in. From that point, how do you do more? How do you work with that therapeutically?
 
JR: Well, let me give you another kind of example of helping people get started, one that’s very valid, and a bit different from that other making-and-creating exercise. We used to have more magazines for selecting and cutting out pictures to paste into a collage. You certainly don’t have to be an artist to do that. You just find the images you like — or even just projectively looking at postcards or small reproductions of artwork and saying something like, “pick the one you like or the one you don’t like and let’s talk about that.” You can use art as a stimulus and find non-threatening ways of helping people to get started creating.
 
VY: How do you connect that with the therapeutic issue that someone comes in with like a relationship breakup, or if they’re feeling depressed, or not sleeping well. These are some of the bread-and-butter issues that therapists deal with. How do you relate to that?
 
JR: If it’s a grown-up, you have to listen to them first. You don’t throw the art at them right away unless they say, “I’ve come because I want art therapy,” which sometimes happens, right?
 
VY: there are many ways of hooking into what they’ve talked about and asking them to think of it visually. If you’re an art therapist, it’s more likely to happen.
 
JR: But if they’ve been in verbal therapy and they’ve hit a block and they hear somebody say, “Oh, you can past this in art therapy,” they might then ask you, “Can I do some artwork?” But most of the time, people want to tell you what’s troubling first. You know, you don’t even have to ask, why are you here? They tell you pretty fast while they’re here. And so, you listen to that and sometimes you can say, “could you make a picture about that?” or, “what color would that be?” or, “what shape would that be, that issue you’re talking about?” or, “if that person was a color or a shape, what would they be?”
 
In other words, there are many ways of hooking into what they’ve talked about and asking them to think of it visually. And then you might say, would you like to make some art to see if that would help us? When I had adults in private practice, I would give them a choice of working at the table or the easel, or while sitting looking at me, in which case I would give them a sketchbook and they would sketch. I didn’t have to look at what they were sketching.
 
Sometimes, they want you to see it and sometimes they don’t. There’s a million different ways and I think one of the advantages of being in different positional relationships is also interesting. It’s not something you do in therapy as often, although some people like August Aichhorn went for walks with his patients. Some people do, but mostly people are sitting looking at each other, and if you’re an analyst, they’re not looking at you. But anyway, in the creative arts, there’s much more flexibility about how you are in space with one another.
 
VY: Even though we may think of ourselves as progressive, liberal, or open-minded, therapists like everyone else are creatures of habit who get locked into specific ways of interacting with their clients. Analysts traditionally didn’t look at their clients, and that progressed to primarily weekly, face-to-face, 50-minute sessions. And suddenly we had Covid and online therapy, before which most therapists would have said, “oh, no, you can’t do that, you’re going to lose everything!”
 
But the field, and most therapists adapted and realized that yes, you can do good work without being in the same physical space as the client. One thing I hear you saying is the importance of encouraging therapists to be flexible, whether it’s doing art, or standing next to them, or as in the case of “responsive art” where therapists draw along with their clients. However, I can see one challenge in teaching this is encouraging therapists to question their own preconceived ideas of what therapy needs to look like.
 
JR: I worked in a psychiatric hospital and child guidance center for many, many years, which were part of the University of Pittsburgh psychiatry training program where we trained a lot of social workers, psychologists, and psychiatrists. We discovered that the best way to train people was to get them involved in doing something themselves, even briefly, and then talking to their colleagues about how to use it in their work — just to get a feel for it making something and talking about it. This is the most powerful tool to convince people that it’s useful.
 
VY: I think of group therapy and how important it is for therapists to have the experience of being part of a group to really understand the power of group therapy.
 
JR: Same thing with art. I heard this again before the association was founded, from the woman who started art therapy at NIMH, which was one of the earliest places where they were trying it out. She said that whenever you train the staff, to make sure you get them working with materials. That way they will understand what you’re trying to tell them. And I think that’s why I started making films. There’s a limit to what you can tell or say about the arts in therapy with words.
 
I want to go back to the question you asked earlier about how to help people connect what they’ve done with what’s important to them. You need to be very open and explicit about that. In fact, you can get farther if you work with the symbol, rather than making or asking for any kind of obvious connection, like, “tell me a story about that picture, or what do you think is happening in the picture?”
 
You can instead ask them questions like, “If you were that person, what would you be thinking? What would happen next? What do you think happened before?” You get them to elaborate on whatever image they’ve created, and then after you’ve explored what they can understand creatively from their own creation, imaginatively, then you say, “gee, so what do you think this has to do with you?” or, “Does this have anything to do with you?
 
VY: interpreting what their drawing means is an old myth about how art therapists tell the patient what their work means. So, you get them to elaborate on it and tell stories before jumping too quickly to interpret the meaning?
 
JR: Interpreting what their drawing means is an old myth about how art therapists tell the patient what their work means.
 
VY: Well, it’s an old myth about therapy in general that the therapist would be the expert and be able to interpret for the client or tell the client what’s happening with them, or worse, tell them what they should do with that.
 
JR: Exactly! It’s a similar myth. Making the connection themselves is certainly necessary and helpful with older clients and adolescents. I’m not always necessarily explicit with children if you see progress.
 
VY: Presumably, the clients will often make those connections themselves.
 
JR: For sure. Once they learn that it’s something connected with them, you don’t need to ask those questions. They just become curious.
 
VY: I was never trained as an art therapist, but I would keep some drawing materials in my office and occasionally would have the impulse, for whatever reason, to offer that to my clients. And I recall one client drawing with some type of tropical fruit from the country she had come from. She explained that it had this kind of thick, even prickly skin. But inside, there was this sweet, tender, meat of the fruit. And it didn’t it take interpretation on my part to understand that she was talking about herself.
 
JR: That’s the other thing. The woman who told me to never try to teach psychiatrists without materials, believed, after decades of doing it, that the first drawing is usually a self- representation, even if people don’t realize it. That may never have been tested, and I’m not sure I agree, but it’s often true.

It’s an Artistic Day in the Neighborhood

VY: Changing direction a bit to before you began making videos, you said that you were the Art Lady on Mister Rogers Neighborhood. Can you say a little bit about that, and how that led to you becoming an art therapist?
 
JR: I was indeed. I was becoming an art therapist while also becoming a child development expert. Fred and I both had the same teacher at the Child Development Center where we worked with the same children. We were colleagues, and students, and workers at the same time. One day he came to me and said, “I’m going to be doing this television program next year and I’d like you to be on it.”I remember saying that I didn’t know anything about being a television performer. He said, “that’s why I want you to be on it, because I don’t want performers — I want real people.” I initially said no because I was going to have another baby and take some time off to nurse. Fred said, “oh, you can nurse before and after the tapings.” He was a little pushy, but I continued to refuse until he said, “don’t you have a grandmother in New Jersey?”
 
When I told him that I did, he said, “well, the show is going to be shown in New Jersey” — it was only going to be shown on the eastern seaboard in the first couple of years. Then he said, “well, it’s going to be shown twice a day in New Jersey and your grandmother in the nursing home can see you.” I finally and was on about once a month for three years. It was an interesting experience.
 
VY: What did you learn?
 
JR: I learned how to adlib (laughs). No, I learned how to figure out what he wanted me to have children do that was related to the theme of his program. But I guess that reminds me that being an art therapist means that you really have to be flexible and creative and figure out ways to work in different environments with whatever sort of person or group you’re confronted with. I ended up liking doing the shows because it was fun and because I was learning a lot.
 
Around the time I was taping shows with him, I was starting a pilot program at the School for the Blind in Pittsburgh. These were the multiple handicapped blind children, or premature blind babies as they were called at the time. They were being saved in incubators on neonatal units where they had better equipment. They were premature babies who had more than one disability. They were different from “normal” blind children. Sadly, there was a lot of hostility around introducing art with these children — similar to the situation at the Home for Crippled Children, but even more so, because they already had an art program, and said, “oh, you’ll never be able to do anything. These kids won’t be able to do anything.” Of course, it turned out they were. I assessed each child, and of course, they had to be different for blind children. We used a lot of sensory materials.
 
I said to Fred, “nobody’s ever going to believe how creative these kids are. They are amazing. But there’s such skepticism about them. Even in the school with people who know blind children.”He said, “well, you’ll have to make a movie. I said that I didn’t know anything about making a movie, and he said, “well, you must know somebody with a camera.” That was our conversation. I said that I would ask the people at Children’s Hospital who were already making slides of artwork. They had just gotten a black-and-white 16mm camera and said, “We’d love to go to the school for the blind. We don’t have sound, but we’d love to do it.” It was all very spontaneous, and that was my first film.
 
Although I hadn’t yet written my first book — I had written articles, one with the director for the Journal of Education for the Blind who said you couldn’t really convey in words how creative these children were. You had to see it. He was right! With seven volunteers, we started a seven-week pilot program, in which we incorporated the artwork with the children. So, we shot on a 16mm and edited on an old Moviola. That was old-fashioned filmmaking, which was fun. That was a new creative process for me, putting the images, sounds, and narration together.

An Art Therapy Film Collection is Born

VY: From there, you went on to create art therapy videos and eventually to curate and build a collection with some of the greatest people in the field, as well as the people who were up and coming.
 
JR: It was a powerful learning experience, and one that people responded to so emotionally and intellectually, from which they started programs with children like these. It made a difference. I was convinced, and I did get into filmmaking as a way of teaching.
 
VY: This story certainly resonates with me because it parallels what I did a few decades later. As you may know, I studied with a mentor of mine, James Bugental, who was 80 years old at the time. We kept saying that we needed to capture his work on film, because even though he’d written some brilliant books, it wasn’t the same as seeing someone actually work. He would often demonstrate his therapy through role plays.
 
I ended up filming him doing a few sessions and released a video, which was the beginning of my journey of creating a vast library of my own. One thing that strikes me about both of our stories is that they start with saying “yes,” and being willing, as you were with Fred Rogers, to then act on the suggestion. That’s the creative process of life — doing something and not knowing how it’s going to work, and seeing what happens. When you’re lucky and it works well enough, you can continue to take another step.
 
JR: It was for me, as I’m sure it was for you too; it’s another creative process. I found editing films that I created, one of which was about Fred Rogers and his teachings, to be great fun. I would have a hard time separating from it to do my wifely, motherly duties. Putting together image and sound was a way of teaching. Having written a bunch of books, it was a completely different teaching process.
 
VY: that’s the creative process of life — doing something and not knowing how it’s going to work, and seeing what happensIn addition to creating a number of films yourself, you also put out a call for other art therapists and creative types to send you films that you then curated into the library which you recently handed over to Psychotherapy.net. Hopefully, people reading this interview will be intrigued and want to look. It’s a very impressive and sizeable collection — well over 100 titles. Are there any that stand out or are there even a vignette or scene or two that pop into your mind that you can share with viewers just to entice them? This might give them a sense of some of the riches in the library.
 
JR: Well, I think for non-art therapists, one of the films that might be most helpful is about children who grieve. I’m trying to remember the title now.
 
VY: I think that was one that I just watched called “A Child’s Grief.”
 
JR: It was made in Canada. I got it because I gave a talk at the Toronto Art Therapy Institute where a guy came up to me and said, “I just made a film about people doing art therapy and music therapy; are you interested in seeing it?” He turned out to be a successful documentary filmmaker, but most of the people in that film doing the work were psychologists and social workers. There were also a few art and music therapists who used very clever kinds of instructions to help children deal with the loss of a parent or a sibling. But it was more structured than what I was describing that I would do.
 
VY: I just watched that and one of the messages I got was how children grieve in different ways. And using art therapy and creative approaches allows them to express that. And obviously, it’s not just children. We all grieve, and live, and emote in different ways.
 
JR: There’s another film from Canada which I think is inspiring. It’s called “A Brush with Life.” It shows some of the work at a Canadian hospital that had a good art therapy program. It also follows a little bit of a case study of this one woman, who I believe was probably borderline and was having terrible problem. You see her laying down talking to her analyst, but you also see her painting. You also see her in and out of the hospital, and you get a sense of how art played a big role in her recovery. As a case study, it’s inspiring.
 
I also think that of the two films you decided to distribute, “Art Therapy Has Many Faces,” is a good introduction to the field and is still used a lot. Many people have made subtitles in different languages because it’s an overview and provides a nice history. The other one, “Creative Healing in Mental Health,” shows different art and drama techniques that anybody can use with people of different ages.

Tapping into Creativity in Therapy

VY: Just to be clear, those are two of your films that we had previously incorporated into our collection with your generous cooperation. That was prior to you turning over your entire collection to us, which we’ve published.
 
So, for folks who are reading this interview and are inspired to learn more about art therapy and bring creativity into their work, are there other general pointers or guidelines or inspiring thoughts you have to encourage them?
 
JR: To inspire others to explore art therapy, I offer what Fred Rogers said to me about being on television — “Try it, you’ll like it. You’ll be surprised that you’ll find something of value in it.” Maybe start out with mental imagery by saying, “Is there an image that goes with that thought, or that statement, or that idea? After all, mental imagery is something that’s going on all the time and we don’t always paint it, right?!
 
VY: And that can help unfold inner exploration. Another thing I found is that it can also tell you something about the client that you wouldn’t know through typical verbal conversations. I recall a client of mine who was artistic but worked in commercial art or advertising.
 
One day, for whatever reason, I asked her, “What goes on in your mind, what do you think about when you’re walking down the street?” It was an unusual question in a sense. What she told me, I’ll always remember. She said, “I’m not really thinking, I’m just observing. I’m seeing patterns of light. I’m seeing colors. I’m seeing shapes.”
 
It struck me that her inner world was so unique, so different from mine. Most clients, most people for that matter, would never answer that way. Someone else might be thinking or planning about what they were going to do and be excited about it.
 
Some other clients’ minds might be constantly filled with ruminations or worry about what they had to do or what bad thing could happen. It just always stayed with me to be curious about that, and really drove home the point that every person’s inner world is so unique.
 
JR: That’s the beautiful thing about art. Whenever I’ve done a workshop with any group, whether it’s teaching or therapy or some combination of the two, the consensus is to use materials in a non-threatening way that are likely to come out looking pretty.
 
They suggested oil-based clay in different colors — plasticine, which you can get at the drugstore. It’s about fiddling around, warming it up, shaping it without even thinking about what you’re making, or picking three colors, and making something out of it. It’s a kind of doodling it, which reduces anxiety. And when you ask people to place what they’ve made in front of them, it’s as true with clay as it is with doodling, if you haven’t given the topic. The uniqueness of each person is so dramatically illustrated — it’s incredible.
 
As a side thought, I used to be an art teacher, so for a while I taught some art education classes to people working in elementary and secondary education. I would go to visit them to see how they were doing. For the teachers who were really good at it, their children’s work was engaging and unique. The teachers who were imposing, either consciously or unconsciously, or had their own aesthetic, had children whose work was very similar to each other’s.
 
VY: In my experiences, many adults don’t think of themselves as being creative, and believe that creativity is about being artistic or being able to do representational drawing. I grew up in an academic family, and was always a little interested in business, but it didn’t seem like a particularly creative field.
 
But when, kind of by happenstance, I started making videos and then creating Psychotherapy.net, it dawned upon me that the ultimate creativity is about having an idea and creating something out of nothing. There are many types of creativity, but it’s an act of creation, and a conversation like you and I are having.
 
I may have started with some questions I wrote out just to give me some structure, but as you and I are talking, I don’t know what I’m going to be saying, or certainly how you’re going to respond. I may have some ideas.
 
It’s going to be entirely unique, but hopefully capture the tension or the distinction we have between wanting to explain and categorize something, versus looking at that same something as a unique or individual expression. Specifically, I’m thinking of the diagnostic process because we are updating our DSM series which contains a variety of clinical diagnostic interviews. It’s been quite an interesting discussion and exploration.
 
We are exploring the uses, benefits, and the downsides of diagnosis and the diagnostic interviewing process. There’s some benefit to having a common language for communicating with other clinicians. And because there is this common diagnostic language, you can describe someone who is borderline, or depressed, or anxious to someone else, and they will have a clear sense of what you are saying — or at least, that’s the hope. But you also don’t want to get stuck limiting someone by saying something like, “this is your typical depressed patient who has sleep problems with accompanying anxiety. That doesn’t tell the whole picture.
 
If they do a drawing and you describe the drawing, you’re not going to put it into a category. You’re not going to say, “well, this is a typical, monochromatic scribble with jagged edges.” It doesn’t make sense to think about it that way.
 
JR: In the early days of art therapy, there was a great hunger for that kind of diagnosis derived from a patient’s artwork. Can you tell this is schizo or manic depressive? And of course, it turned out you couldn’t. Projective drawings were very big in psychology. Maybe you don’t know because maybe it was before you studied.
 
VY: in the early days of art therapy, there was a great hunger for that kind of diagnosis derived from a patient’s artworkActually, I did my dissertation on the Rorschach.
 
JR: The Rorschach is different because you’re projecting onto an ambiguous stimulus.
 
VY: Actually, there is a scoring system which is empirically validated, so I’d say that both are valuable. We need to have some explanations and some common language. But we also don’t want to put our clients’ inner experiences and creativity into a box.
 
JR:  This is my problem with what I call the acronym generation; the art therapists who are now certified in EMDR and CBT. Many of the young art therapists are learning these specific approaches, and they tend to use terms like directive art therapy, which makes me shudder, but that’s a common term. To me, it’s kind of anti-creative, but giving people a theme or a task that’s not bad. Inviting is OK, prompting even, but response art is very tricky. That’s one of the hazards in art therapy, that you have to train the therapists not to project their own ideas onto what they’re seeing, and to know themselves well enough so that they can separate their perception from what is actually being said or created by the client.
 
VY: And that’s the common issue in all therapies — how to be fully engaged with the client while also being aware of your own feelings and then using awareness of your feelings in a way that’s helpful for the client.
 
JR: Same idea. Response art has wonderful potential to do good, just like AI, but there are hazards as well.
 
VY: Just to be clear, can you define what response art is?
 
JR: I’m not sure who started the term, but Barb Fish recently did her dissertation on it, and it’s become very popular. I’m currently helping my friend, Millie Chapin, a fabulous artist, to sell her artwork online through a mutual friend. A lot of art therapists are actively practicing artists. She worked with Kohut and actually became a self-psychologist who then developed an interesting technique.
 
She would talk to the patient for a while to find out what was going on, and then she’d say, “Okay, let’s draw about that. I’ll draw and you draw and then we’ll talk.” It was her response to whatever the person told her and then they would talk about both drawings together. When she first had the idea, I remembered commenting that I thought it was dangerous for people who didn’t know themselves as well as she knew herself. But this technique has been embraced by many art therapists because they love using their artist-selves as part of what’s happening. So, it’s not always responding in the sense of actually responding to what somebody’s talked about. That’s Natalie’s technique.
 
VY: Natalie Rogers, right.
 
JR: Yes! It’s literally working alongside, which can be quite helpful. I did some of that while I was working with groups of children to inspire a kind of Pied Piper kind of thing. I call that the Pied Piper Effect, because I would start working with the material then they would all start wanting to work with the material. It has an impact when the therapist becomes an important person in the process. And no matter how they try to pretend that they are on equal footing, and that the activity is a collaborative process, clients hope the clinician knows a heck of a lot more than they do.
 
VY: As we end, Judy, I know we’ve only been able to tap into a small percentage of the stories of your life and your professional development. And as our readers know, or hopefully now understand, you were right there at the beginning of the creation of the entire field of art therapy. You’ve been working since the early 60s, so have had an illustrious career, but clearly, your passion, interest, and curiosity, as far as I can tell, remain as high as ever. And that’s inspiring. I hope that those reading this interview will, by osmosis, feel a little bit of that. And hopefully this will encourage them to learn more about the field, especially by watching the videos you’ve created as they continue their own journeys through life and therapy.
 
JR: Well, I hope so, too, and that they look at the titles and trailers. It’s much like choosing the art material because there are case studies. There’s work with individuals, groups, families, and couples. So, for me to choose for somebody else what they should watch when you asked earlier, “what stands out,” is hard for me too, because I think it has to appeal to them, and then they’ll get something from us.
 
VY: Thank you, Judy, for taking the time to share your journey.
 
JR: Thank you, Victor, for asking.
 
 

About Judith Rubin

Judith Rubin, a pioneer in the field of art therapy, is on the faculty of the Department of Psychiatry, University of Pittsburgh and the Pittsburgh Psychoanalytic Society & Institute. She is a Registered, Board-Certified Art Therapist and a Licensed Psychologist. Dr. Rubin is the author of five books, including: Child Art Therapy, The Art of Art Therapy, and Art Therapy: An Introduction. She was the “Art Lady” on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood in the 1960s

Integrating Generative AI and Digital Play Therapy into Clinical Practice

The Chicken Lady

When my now almost 30-year-old son and his brother were in elementary school, I took on a new role—the Chicken Lady. I didn’t intend to achieve that title, but it is one I hope I always remember because it symbolizes a pivotal moment in my time as a mother and a therapist. May we all have our own Chicken Lady experiences.  

AI generated image of a chicken in armour
Image created by Photoleap

The Chicken Lady was born soon after I realized my children were speaking a language I didn’t understand in the backseat of the car on the way home from school. They were having a very in-depth conversation about a game they had recently started to play—RuneScape, which is classified as an MMORPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game). It is essentially an expansive fantasy world where players can engage in interactions, quests, combat, and skill-building activities. 

RuneScape emphasizes problem-solving and social interaction within a richly detailed environment. Typically, we would all chat together on the way home from school, discussing things that had happened during the day, what we would be doing over the weekend, and other such family-type things. When I began noticing that the conversations had shifted and I no longer understood the content, I felt a bit of sadness. To be clear, I am quite aware that kids will have their own interests and conversations. Individuation is an important developmental process.

In that moment, I thought about whether or not I would just leave this to them as their brotherly bond. I asked them questions about the game and one of them said, “You should just play it, mom.” And so, I did. This was the birth of my exploration into discovering the therapeutic value within all things digital. I witnessed the connection, the interaction, the executive function engagement (and more) within the play for my children, and I knew there had to be value within my work as a therapist as well.

Artificial Intelligence: A Brief Overview

Artificial intelligence (AI) is a very broad field of computer science focused on creating systems capable of performing tasks that typically require human intelligence, such as learning, reasoning, organizing, problem-solving, and understanding language. The term is attributed to John McCarthy and the Dartmouth Summer Research Project in 1956. As an aside, many people disagree with the term “artificial intelligence,” as they feel it does not accurately describe what this tool and process is. It is unfortunate because the connotation of intelligence that can mimic human processes often diverts conversations in ways that can be distracting. Science fiction writer Ted Chiang offers Applied Statistics as a very viable alternative. I am inclined to agree with him and his proposal of the term. 

Generative AI

Generative AI refers to a type of artificial intelligence designed to create new content such as text, images, stories, and more—to generate content through programs such as ChatGPT. Unlike traditional AI systems that follow predetermined rules, generative AI uses complex algorithms, often based on neural networks, to learn patterns from large datasets. This allows it to generate original and unique outputs that can mimic creativity and problem-solving skills.

It can be used for numerous day-to-day administrative (letters, session notes, treatment plans) and training tasks (learning objectives, quiz questions, slide decks, presentations) to create personalized therapeutic content (images, storytelling) and a variety of interventions and exercises. By integrating generative AI into therapeutic practices, therapists can offer more tailored and personalized experiences for their clients. In this regard, I offer the following table.

Aspect Description Therapeutic Application
AI Learning Process AI learns from large datasets including therapy concepts, psychology texts, articles, and more  Reading and collating large volumes of data 
Text Generation AI creates written content for therapeutic use  Writing personalized stories about overcoming anxiety 
Image Creation  AI produces images based on descriptions  Visualizing a client’s experience 
Language Understanding  AI analyzes and interprets context in communication  Grasping underlying emotions in client responses 
Customization for Therapy  Adapting AI for specific mental health applications  Training on therapy techniques, adjusting vocabulary 
Prompt Creation  Therapists and clients learn to craft effective questions for AI  Components and iterations inform the client’s conceptualizations 
Continuous Improvement  AI refines outputs based on feedback over time  Learning over time provides improved responses 
Multimodal Integration  Advanced AI systems work with text, images, and audio  Combining written responses with generated images 
Ethical Considerations  Prioritizing client privacy and data protection  Ensuring the use incorporates confidentiality, secure data storage, and client protections 

Administrative Uses

AI provides a way to complete administrative tasks quickly in therapeutic practices, streamlining processes such as letter writing, case notes, treatment planning, and business analyses. For instance, AI-powered tools can draft and format professional letters, saving therapists valuable time while ensuring consistency and accuracy, or even help finding a synonym as I have done in this paper from time to time using ChatGPT. APA has even addressed how to cite the use of ChatGPT.

AI can transcribe session case notes, summarize key points, and organize information, allowing therapists to focus more on their clients and less on paperwork. This can also assist in treatment planning, creating templates and formatting documents as desired. Additionally, AI can assist in creating personalized, evidence-based, formatted plans by analyzing sanitized client aspects and suggesting potential interventions. 

For therapists who provide trainings, AI can assist in the creation of required proposal content. If the trainer inputs a description of the training, the slide deck, or any other details, AI can generate elements such as training descriptions of specific lengths, trainer bios, learning objectives, quiz questions, and more. By providing the desired format (APA, multiple choice, true/false), prompts can guide AI to provide the information in ways that will minimize necessary alterations. All material should be evaluated and edited for accuracy. This is an area where the therapist’s expertise is critical to alter, amend, and/or add information. AI is here to format and collate information for the user, not to replace the therapist’s experience, expertise, or knowledge.

The Many Uses of AI in Therapy

Generative AI is transforming therapeutic practices by enabling the creation of personalized and vivid representations of a client’s experiences, narratives, hopes, dreams, fears, and visions. Generative AI can turn descriptive narratives (prompts) into detailed creations, providing a tangible representation of a client’s inner world. These aids are incredibly beneficial in therapy, helping clients articulate and explore complex emotions and thoughts that might be difficult to express verbally. By depicting their personalized experiences, clients can gain new insights and perspectives, facilitating deeper self-understanding and emotional processing.

Images

Visual representations can both represent and communicate important components of a client’s life. AI image generation allows for the creation of personalized images based on descriptive prompts provided by the client or therapist. These images can depict complex emotions, significant life events, or abstract concepts that might be difficult to express verbally. For instance, a client might struggle to articulate feelings of isolation, but an AI-generated image can visually convey their personalized essence of this experience.

By providing a tangible representation of a client’s inner world, these images serve as powerful therapeutic tools. They facilitate deeper emotional exploration and understanding, enabling clients to gain new insights and perspectives. This visual aid not only enhances the therapeutic process but also empowers clients by giving them a new medium to express and process their emotions.

Stories  

AI can create powerful therapeutic stories; it can craft personalized narratives based on a client’s experiences, dreams, or visions, creating rich and immersive stories that resonate deeply. These AI-generated stories can serve as powerful therapeutic tools, allowing clients to see their personalized situations from different angles, have a more objective view of representation, identify patterns in their behavior, and/or explore alternative outcomes. Narrating their experiences through AI-generated stories helps clients externalize and reframe their thoughts, leading to potentially greater clarity and emotional relief. 

Interventions

Generative AI can be invaluable in discovering interventions tailored to individual clients. By analyzing a client’s unique experiences and responses, AI can suggest personalized therapeutic strategies and interventions. These AI-driven recommendations might include specific therapeutic exercises, coping mechanisms, or behavioral techniques that align with the client’s needs and preferences and the therapist’s theoretical foundation. This tailored approach ensures interventions are highly relevant, enhancing the overall therapeutic experience and outcome. Integrating generative AI into therapy not only personalizes the treatment process but also empowers clients by providing them with tools and insights uniquely suited to their personal journey. 

Prompt Creation with AI

Creating effective prompts is arguably the most crucial aspect of integrating generative AI into therapeutic practices, particularly when exploring a client’s experiences, emotions, self-concept, identification, and representation. In the context of generative AI, a prompt is a carefully crafted input or question that guides the AI to produce relevant and meaningful output/responses. These prompts serve as catalysts for AI to generate content that mirrors the client’s inner world, whether through prompt creation, image generation, or narratives.

A prompt can capture the essence of a client’s priorities, experiences, perceptions, thoughts, and feelings. Depending on the client and the therapeutic needs, the client or the therapist could create the initial prompt with iterations and changes guided by the client. Prompts act as powerful projective tools, revealing underlying therapeutic material. As the process unfolds, subsequent iterations allow for deeper understanding for the client and therapist. By refining the initial prompt to more accurately represent their internal landscape, clients engage in a valuable process of self-discovery and expression. 

The iterative nature of prompt creation significantly enhances its therapeutic value. Each refinement can unveil new facets of a client’s self-representation, offering a fluid, dynamic, and evolving view of their inner world. As clients fine-tune their prompts, they embark on a journey of self-reflection, identifying and articulating aspects of their experiences that may have previously been unconscious or difficult to express. This process not only helps clients gain clarity but also allows therapists to track changes in the client’s self-perception and emotional state over time. By engaging with the AI-generated output—accepting, modifying, or rejecting it—clients further refine their self-understanding, benefiting both themselves and the therapeutic process.

The therapist or client, or a combination of both, can lead the prompt generation process. For example, to help a client visualize a calming environment, a therapist may ask the client to “describe a place that feels safe.” This can include colors, items, people, animals, weather, and many other aspects. A client-driven image may include a request for something which depicts “a sad little boy with brown hair, brown skin, and brown eyes who is all alone in a storm.” Aspects which do not fit the criteria can then be changed through iterations, thereby revealing the client’s experience or desired depiction.

Prompt creation can serve as a projective exercise along with the desired creation. Each version of the creation, whether initial or refined, holds valuable insights. The evolving nature of prompts encourages ongoing dialogue between client and therapist, fostering a collaborative and exploratory therapeutic environment. When used skillfully and ethically, it can significantly enhance the therapeutic process, providing both clients and therapists with tools to advance the treatment plan forward.

The Ethics of Using AI in Therapy

The integration of generative AI in therapy presents significant ethical considerations, particularly regarding the protection of personal health information (PHI) and maintaining client confidentiality. Therapists must ensure that any data input into AI systems omits identifiable information as a safeguard of a clients’ privacy. This involves adhering to strict guidelines for data anonymization and being vigilant about the types of information shared with AI tools. Ensuring that all generated content complies with privacy regulations, such as HIPAA in the United States or GDPR in the United Kingdom, is essential to maintaining trust and ethical standards in therapeutic practice.

As mentioned earlier, of key importance is the therapist’s expertise, experience, and training. While AI can provide valuable insights and tools, the therapist must have the final say in what is included and presented to the AI tool, and the decision regarding what type of output is generated within the therapeutic interaction. Therapists need to explore programs in advance and critically evaluate AI-generating programs, ensuring they align with therapeutic goals. This requires an understanding of both the technology and the therapeutic context, emphasizing the importance of ongoing education and supervision regarding the use of AI applications within therapy.

Case Example

Emily is a 16-year-old transgender girl who presented for play therapy treatment during the transitional process of altering her gender identification and representation. She utilized generative AI to explore and articulate her experiences through image and story generation. Emily was assigned male at birth but discovered her identification as female. Among other approaches and interventions, her therapeutic process was enriched by the use of generative AI. She was able to visualize and narrate her journey of self-discovery, family acceptance, and social representation.

Emily began her therapeutic gen AI journey by creating representative therapeutic images. She crafted complex prompts and many iterations that helped her create images which depicted her true identity as a female. Despite being born with male anatomy, these images allowed Emily to see herself in a way that felt authentic and congruent with her internal sense of self. The visual representations were a powerful tool in helping her recognize and affirm her identity, providing a sense of validation and clarity.

“Gay Pride Event Many Happy Teenagers”
(Created with Photoleap, numerous prompt iterations -representations of Emily’s Work)

Therapeutic Outcomes

Through the use of image and story generation, Emily achieved several therapeutic outcomes: 

1. Self-Representation: She was able to see a visual representation of herself that was congruent and customized to her experience.

2. Narrative Creation: Emily created a narrative that represented her journey, helping her process and make sense of her experiences.

3. Sharing with Others: She produced content that could be shared with others, both known and unknown, fostering understanding and support.

4. Prompt Iteration: Emily learned to determine the important components of her experience and represent them accurately through prompt creation and iterations.  

A Beginner’s Guide to Generative Artificial Intelligence

Generative AI is a type of artificial intelligence that creates new content, like text and images, based on patterns it has learned from data. Unlike traditional AI, which follows set rules, generative AI uses complex methods to generate original outputs.

Key Concepts of Generative AI:

1. Neural Networks:

  • Think of neural networks as layers of connected “nodes” that process data, similar to how our brain works.
  • They help the AI learn patterns in data, enabling it to create new content. 

2. Training Process:

  • AI learns from large amounts of data, such as texts and images.
  • AI goes through the data multiple times, adjusting its internal settings to improve accuracy.  

3. Generative AI in Action:

  • Text Generation: AI models like GPT can write coherent text based on a given prompt. They are used in chatbots and content creation.
  • Image Generation: AI tools can create images from descriptions, helping visualize concepts.  

4. Applications in Therapy:

  • AI can create personalized narrative content, like personalized storytelling.
  • AI-generated images can help clients visualize their emotions and experiences.  

Important Considerations:

5. Data Quality: The AI’s performance depends on the quality of the data it learns from.

6. Privacy: It’s crucial to keep client information private and secure.

7. Understanding Limitations: While powerful, these AI models have limitations and can sometimes produce biased and incorrect results.  

Concluding Thoughts

Integrating generative AI into Digital Play Therapy™ marks a significant evolution in the field of mental health care. Through blending advanced technology with psychotherapeutic expertise, therapists can enhance their practice in multiple ways—from creating personalized therapeutic content to streamlining administrative tasks and discovering tailored interventions that resonate with each client’s unique experiences.

Just as I embraced the world of Rune Scape to connect with my children, therapists today can embrace digital tools, including generative AI, to form deeper connections with their clients. This technology offers unparalleled opportunities for creating vivid visual representations, crafting personalized narratives, and developing customized therapeutic strategies that cater to individual needs.

However, the integration of AI into therapy must be approached with careful consideration of ethical responsibilities. Ensuring client confidentiality, maintaining rigorous training standards, and critically evaluating AI-generative programs are essential practices that uphold the integrity of therapeutic work. Therapists must balance innovation with ethical responsibility to protect clients' privacy.

Thoughtful and ethical use of AI can allow therapists to enhance their practices by offering clients more options for engaging, insightful, and effective therapeutic experiences. The future of therapy is bright with the possibilities that generative AI brings. As we continue to learn and adapt, we can utilize these technologies to transform the therapeutic process in profoundly positive ways.  

Can You See Me? Arab Immigrants’ Quests for Identity and Belonging

The multifaceted and emotional aspects of working with Arab immigrants—a community to which I belong—is something I have learned to navigate more effectively through writing. This medium allows me to articulate the ineffable and share my thoughts more sincerely and deeply.

In the coming few paragraphs, I will describe my work with American adolescents of Arab origin, some of which can be found here; my own experience of immigration and mourning; and my experience with an analyst, where the consulting room became a microcosm of world affairs. We both were lost in our own traumas, and our work could not progress. Finally, I will share my present experience in my psychoanalytic treatment in the hopes that these stories can help you better understand Arab clients.  

Between Homelands: Arab Identity and Resilience in the Face of Stereotyping and Discrimination

Although American families of Arab origin come from 22 countries with diverse cultures and backgrounds, it’s important to note that not every Arab is Muslim, and not every Muslim is Arab. Despite these differences, many face common challenges such as acculturation stress, stereotyping, and discrimination. These difficulties have been magnified by the aftermath of September 11, ongoing wars on terror, Islamophobia, pervasive anti-Arab and anti-Palestinian rhetoric, and of the war on Gaza, which has been described by the International Court of Justice as a plausible case of genocide.

The insights I share here are based on anecdotal evidence and are not everyone’s experience. While not every Arab immigrant might relate to my narrative, immigrants from other ethnicities might find similarities.

For first-generation Arab immigrants, acknowledging the profound loss of their homeland and the deep mourning that follows is essential. Furthermore, when we come as refugees, our grief is intensified by the pain, and injustice of being forcibly displaced. Additionally, issues of racism and othering often become more pronounced in their new country.

In addition to mourning and grief, Arab immigrants must balance their love for their adopted land with the awareness that they are often rejected, misjudged, and even disdained. Employing Frantz Fanon’s concept, among the White majority, we become the “phobogenic subject”—a target of racial hatred and anxiety. Imagine, as you hold your children, looking into their eyes filled with dreams and innocence, knowing that in some places, they are not seen for who they truly are but are feared and misunderstood because of these labels. In your heart, they are cherished beyond measure, yet to others, they might only represent fear and prejudice.

In our adopted societies, and even on global and international stages, we Arabs often represent Carol Adams’ “absent referent.” This term, coined by Adams—a vegetarian feminist—illustrates how subjects of oppression are discussed as if they are not present. For animals, it means the pig becomes pork, the cow becomes beef, and the chicken becomes poultry, making our meat consumption more palatable. Similarly, the identity of the Arab is reduced to labels like Muslim, backward, and potential terrorist, as a result the killing of men, women and children, and the leveling of cities becomes acceptable. Arabs are frequently this absent referent, discussed and debated without their actual representation, their narrative or voice, rendering their perspectives and humanity invisible.

It would be wholly insufficient to explore the Arab immigrant experience without delving into Palestine and the relentless war on Gaza. I realize this is a topic that often creates anger and polarization, but it cannot be avoided in this context. Since 1948, Gaza and Palestine have been etched deeply into the Arab psyche, the significance of this tragedy has intensified since October 2023. In my practice, the impact of the war on Gaza is palpable and is a replicated experience of many, if not all, clients who are against the slaughter in Gaza.

For many, if not most of us Arabs, Palestinians and racialized people of color, Gaza looms persistently in our thoughts. The plight of the children, women, and men of the Gaza strip has shattered any remaining veneers of hope, belief, and promises for Arabs and non-Arabs alike: we have come to recognize that racialized colonization is the norm. The so-called universal values of justice and human rights have conspicuously failed us.

For many of us Arabs and other people of color, the situation in Gaza, which has been described by the Israeli historian, Raz Segal, as a textbook case of genocide, has deepened our intolerance for mediocrity and double standards. One cannot advocate for the conservation of sea turtles while remaining silent about genocide, nor can one campaign against global warming without addressing the killing of tens of thousands of civilians. In my practice I increasingly see how Gaza is compelling many of us to reevaluate our actions, career choices, and investments critically: Are they promoting justice and equality for oppressed nations worldwide or merely bolstering oppressors and enriching the affluent?

I vividly recall the dismay when the U.S. persistently ignored calls for a ceasefire and blocked international attempts at halting the carnage. We were not asking for statehood or the start of negotiations—it was a desperate call for the cessation of the killing of children who could be our children, mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters, who could be us. It was about the basic human plea to halt the slaughter. That such calls did not spur those in power to take decisive action against the atrocities—children maimed, orphaned, and slain in the most brutal manners—was beyond comprehension.

This epiphany has deepened my insight, revealing a painful truth: despite being a mother, a psychoanalyst, a well-established middle-class member of society, and a devoted New Yorker who has served this country for decades, I am perceived differently. Standing beside my White and non-Arab friends and colleagues, a stark realization dawns: “I am not like you.” It is profoundly disconcerting to suddenly see oneself through this lens, to grasp that in the eyes of others, you are not entirely human.

Against this backdrop, immigrant Arab children and families try to adapt. Children and adolescents from American families of Arab descent, especially newly arrived immigrants, tend to excel academically. However, because of this success, they often remain overlooked by research and policy. These young individuals face the challenge of defining their identity in a society that may not fully recognize or understand their history, religion, or customs.

Moreover, adolescence is typically a period marked by separation-individuation—a second phase where the youth begin to distance themselves from their parents, as described by the psychoanalyst Peter Blos. This process can be particularly tumultuous for immigrants, as it may be compounded by their cultural displacement. Such disruptions can cause difficulties in managing emotions and lead to identity confusion, issues that could be alleviated through peer support and opportunities for identity exploration.

Studies have shown that adolescent immigrants often undergo what is termed in the literature as “double mourning,” defined as grieving not only their passage from childhood but also the loss of their homeland and cultural values. This dual loss raises complex questions about loyalty in their new cultural contexts. Additionally, the literature points to significant emotional stress among immigrant adolescents stemming from discrimination, microaggressions, and acculturative stress. These factors adversely affect their social and psychological well-being. Studies focusing on Latino adolescents in North America have highlighted family conflicts and perceived discrimination as major sources of depression and acculturative stress. The role of school environments, including their ethnic makeup and the sense of belonging they foster, is crucial for the mental health of adolescents.   

Literature suggests that immigrant adolescents are prone to emotional stress, exacerbated by discrimination, microaggressions, and stereotyping. Studies highlight that these experiences can lead to a decline in social functioning and an increase psychological distress. Further studies in the United States identify parent-adolescent conflict and perceived discrimination as key cultural risk factors for stress and depression among Latino adolescents. The educational environment, particularly the racial and ethnic composition of schools and students’ perceptions of belonging, also significantly impacts emotional and behavioral issues, indicating potential areas for targeted interventions.

In addition to these challenges, Arab American adolescents face unique pressures such as Islamophobia and negative media portrayals, which can intensify feelings of alienation and cultural dissonance. A study of Arab high school students demonstrated a strong link between perceived discrimination and mental health issues, suggesting a heightened vulnerability among this group.

The Shadow of the Phobogenic Self: Interpellation of An Arab Immigrant

In my work with middle-school-aged boys and girls who, like me, are Arab immigrants, I encountered a reflection of my own “phobogenic” self—an aspect of my identity that, due to its roots in history and heritage, attracts phobic hatred and anxiety. This was not just my experience but also that of my young clients. This recognition brought to light the process of interpellation, a term revived by French Marxist philosopher, Louis Althusser, through which I became identified as the “Arab Immigrant.”

In this role of Arab Immigrant, my subjectivity was shaped not just by personal experience but also significantly by the state and security apparatuses in the United States. These external forces crafted a version of myself that diverged sharply from the person I had been before immigrating to New York. This realization highlighted the profound impact of socio-political contexts on personal identity, particularly for immigrants like myself and my clients, whose selves are constructed at the intersection of past heritage and present circumstances. To understand what I am trying to convey here, consider the image that will come up for you right after I say, “an Arab Immigrant woman.” Other than her image, how do see her life and how she conducts herself in the world?

A Vignette with the Boys: I Am You
For a three-year period, I worked with a group of middle-school-aged Arab immigrant boys. The goal of the group was to help the students adjust to life in the United States. It was the first time I had worked with my own people in a clinical setting and the first time I had worked in my mother tongue. I thought that having lived for so long in the West, I could help the boys in their transition. Instead, they helped me see a part of me I wasn’t aware of.

Early in the treatment, I dreaded the advent of each session. God forbid one of the boys should want to enter the room before the beginning of our meeting, I would eat him with my eyes. I brushed my feelings off as a reaction to the anxiety in the room. I thought the sessions were so difficult that it was understandable that I wouldn’t look forward to meeting the boys. 

The boys, although they came to the sessions willingly, could barely sit still. They fought with each other and with whoever poked his head into the room. It felt impossible to contain them and alleviate their anxiety and mine. For me, they were interpellated Arab immigrant boys in the post-September 11 era. I could only see them through a political lens. My goals for the treatment felt superficial and inauthentic. The anxiety was palpable.

Even to this day, I vividly remember how much it weighed on my chest. I was at a loss. I wished for a manual with clear steps for conducting the treatment. Or perhaps a curriculum of sorts to contain me and the group. Have you ever had a dream where you went to the exam unprepared or perhaps to class in your pajamas? Well, this is how I felt during each session: vulnerable, unprepared, and exposed. For them, I was the White teacher: Although I ran the sessions in Arabic, a language they used among themselves, they spoke to me only in English. In addition, they took liberties that I am certain they wouldn’t have taken with an Arab woman. I conducted the treatment through artwork. If they were not drawing the flag of their country of origin, they would build clay structures that resembled erect penises with testicles or would throw food at each other and make sexually tinged jokes.

My feelings towards the boys and the treatment didn’t change until I presented my work at a case conference, where I was the only Arab and the only immigrant and where I began to experience what W.E.B. De Bois called a “double consciousness” feeling: this sense of always looking at myself through the eyes of others. The audience had only positive statements to offer. Nonetheless, I couldn’t escape my feeling of being an Other.

I couldn’t overlook the fact that we spoke a different language, literally and figuratively. I realized that I did not fool my audience with my Western-looking appearance. I am different. This early feeling of disconnection and alienation came back in full force. I felt as if I had just gotten off the boat. I appreciated that it would be hard for my audience to see through the social, cultural, and political layers between us. But I felt as if the boys and I were specimens for study. We couldn’t be understood intuitively. We needed to be dissected and examined. Something felt so sterile, disconnected, and uncomfortably clean.   

Following the case conference, my feelings for and experience of the boys shifted. I could no longer hide behind the fact that I could pass for a non-Arab. I could no longer project on the boys’ disavowed aspects of my identity. I realized that I had dreaded the sessions because they were making my interpellated self intelligible to me. I had to concede that escaping this self was as impossible as escaping my own skin. The alien feeling I had at the case conference reminded me of how things were when I first landed in New York: scared, alone, and vulnerable. This memory helped me hold the boys in mind (1). I could feel their sense of alienation, experience the lack of warmth they might have felt; taste the dread of living in a land as alien as Mars, and feel heartbroken by seemingly endless losses.

My work with the group was no longer only about the participants’ transition and integration but also about my second chance to connect with my origins. It allowed me to create something of value. From then on, I felt a connection to the boys that could only bring warmth, understanding, and patience to the room. I wish I could tell you that with a magic spell I was able to contain their anxiety and work with them. But no such luck. Our work together had to take its course. I accepted my interpellated self and accepted their stigma and mine.  

A Vignette with Girls: Colonization of the Unconscious Mind
A few years ago, I worked with a group of Arab girls. Most of them wore the hijab, which is a headscarf that covers the hair and exposes the face. Some women who wear the hijab also wear a neutrally colored, loosely fitting long coat, while others only cover their hair and neck and wear Western modest attire.

I showed videos of pertinent issues to engage the students in a dialogue. One such video was a documentary of interviews with five teenagers who immigrated to the United States from various parts of the world. Two of the five interviewees were girls, one wearing the hijab. One of the girls in the group I was working with, whom I will call Houda, shared her reaction to the video. Houda, who wore the hijab, had immigrated to the United States just a year earlier. She was helpful, engaged, and engaging. A group leader’s gift. Houda was clearly upset and deeply touched by the experience of the girl in the video with the head scarf. She told us how the kids in her class often teased her. She said that once, and without warning someone pulled her scarf off. The other girls in the group gasped and looked frozen.  

When she gathered herself again, Houda continued. One day a fellow student asked why she dressed the way she did. Houda explained that she was Muslim, and that Muslims believed that God wanted them to dress like that. The student who had asked her retorted dismissively: “What kind of God is this God that would force you to dress like this?!” Houda related the story with gut-wrenching distress. She was choking, half crying and half laughing, swaying side to side, as if not knowing what to do with the pain. In Arabic, she said, “I wished I could have told her that our God is better than yours. You are idol worshipers.”

I realized then how blinded I had been by the prevailing culture’s values. I thought all along that the hijab was a liability. Following the session, I decided to do an experiment. I wanted to wear the hijab to know how I would feel to carry something so dear, something that sets me apart from most around me. By the way, I want to stress that I come from a secular Christian family. I never wore the hijab growing up, nor was I expected to do so.

That summer was the first time I tried the hijab on. I was taken aback to see myself looking like a conservative Muslim woman. I had a dream after I saw myself in the hijab. To present the dream in context, I need to share a feature of Jordanian society where I grew up: pockets of culture and tradition made of the same substance that, paradoxically, do not seem to link. Although Christians and conservative Muslims live, work together, and have warm a respectful relationship, in Jordan, they don’t always cross paths socially. In fact, it is quite unlikely for my Jordanian family to have close or intimate relations with a conservative Muslim family: in a sense, they just do not speak the same language.  

I was taken aback, therefore, when I had the following dream. I dreamt that I was back in Jordan. It was winter and the weather was rainy and dreary. Streets flooded, mud everywhere. The kind of day that makes you not want to leave the house except in emergency.

The apartment was boisterous and alive with the sounds of children, blasting radio and the cling-clang of some culinary project in the kitchen. Freshly washed laundry was spread out on every open piece of furniture. The humidity and the aroma of home-cooked food sapped every bit of fresh air. The place felt uncomfortable and tedious. Nothing was going on except chores. No playdates to relieve you from the screeches of your quarreling children, or the hope of a lighthearted adult conversation.  

The bell rang. A middle-aged woman was at the door. She was wearing a conservative Muslim dress, head scarf, and long neutral-colored coat. She was softly walking towards me. She brought with her the hope of a pleasant chat and her three children, who would entertain mine and give me peace and quiet. My sister and brother were there. They greeted her as if they knew her. I felt I should have known who she was. I felt I was expected to greet her warmly. After all, she made the extra effort on a bad day and dragged her children along to greet me and welcome me back to Jordan.

When I woke up, I realized that this woman was no one else but me. She is my interpellated Arab immigrant self. I might believe that I am an Arab Christian or think that this made any difference in my social encounters. Christian, Muslim, white, brown, or green, my internalized sense of myself is that of a Muslim woman with a headscarf, and long neutral-colored coat. I am that woman in the mirror, shackled with tradition, fighting for recognition, gasping to rise above the stigma of her heritage. I felt sad and ashamed. Ashamed that I had dismissed and rebuffed her. I denied her existence. On which peg in my New York life does she fit? Among my American welcoming friends, she could be terribly misunderstood. I thought that no matter how hard I might have tried to explain her, tried to bring her into focus, her image will always be blurred and unclear.  

From that moment onward, I began to see how my thinking was colonized. In my article Through the Trump Looking Glass into Alice’s Wander Land: on meeting the House Palestinian I use Malcolm X’s analogy of the House vs. Field Negro to describe how I was the House Palestinian I noticed how often in my work with my people, my thinking and ways of functioning come from a colonized mind. I delivered a keynote address at the National Institute for Psychotherapies annual conference. In a 16-page essay, I repeat the word Christian seven times. I repeat it as if it were an important part of my life when I rarely, if ever, visit a church, and my connection to Christianity is mostly through Christmas gifts and Easter eggs. But on some unconscious level, I felt I needed to claim this religion, perhaps to identify with my aggressor, to tell them that “I am like you,” or, tragically, to disidentify from my own people: to the hijab, a liability is in itself colonial thinking.  

At this point in my life, I refuse to refer to myself other than a Palestinian or an Arab. I believe religion began to be used to fragment our societies because bonding together and our collective power can be formidable.

Immigrant’s Mourning: Peter Pan’s Neverland

I have wanted for a long time to claim that Arab immigrants and refugees have a unique position in terms of our struggle to adapt to life in the United States, especially regarding the history of Arab-West relations and the political issues I outlined above. I yearned to claim that the Arabs had it worse than anyone else, that our pain was more chronic, our longing more tender, our losses irretrievable, and our weeping inconsolable. But I couldn’t. Alas, the DSM-5-TR does not come with a diagnosis a la carte; there is no such thing as Arab Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Russian Paranoid Schizophrenia, or Character Disorder Français. The symptoms are the same, but the causes are different. To paraphrase Tolstoy, every happy immigrant is the same, but every unhappy immigrant is unhappy in their own way. Nonetheless, we are a particularly racialized and demonized minority. We are indeed the phobogenic subject.

Arabs might arrive in the United States as refugees escaping a war-torn homeland or an oppressive regime oppression, such as Palestine, Syria, Yemen, Sudan, and Iraq. Usually, their trip to the US is difficult: in addition to having to uproot themselves and abruptly and without permission, leave family and loved ones behind, they have to find a safe passage to their adopted homeland. When they arrive, they have to adjust to a strange land, language, smells, and faces. In addition, often they have to contend with below-the-poverty-line lives: someone who might have been a well-established office manager in his home country, because of language restrictions, would end up washing dishes for three dollars an hour, barely making ends meet.

In addition to the anguish, sadness, and hardship, they must be in a society that judges them, sees them in one light, and often disrespects them and their heritage. Considering that most of us Arabs are of the Muslim faith, Islamophobia and misrepresentation of the Islamic teachings tarnish a treasure Muslim immigrants hold dearly. A faith built on surrender and respect is misperceived and manipulated and misrepresented by politicians and mainstream media. Consequently, something you hold dearly, a book that is your blueprint for good and patient living, wrongly becomes deformed and ugly. The Arab Muslim immigrant is left heartbroken and dissociated from a logic that does not make sense.

The experience of immigrants, in general, tends to include periods of mourning. I once felt that immigration was like a never-ending funeral—an infinite procession of losses—relationships interrupted, events not attended, words left unsaid, memories that cannot be recaptured… A world and life are gone forever, but they are undying in my mind. I likened this experience to Peter Pan and his Neverland (2). Peter was an immigrant; he left his home in Kensington Gardens in search of a better life.

He told Wendy that one night, when he was still in the crib, “father and mother [were] talking about what [he] was to be when [he] became a man. …” He rejected their plans and left the crib and ran to Kensington Gardens, where he lived for a “long, long time among the fairies.” But, one day, Peter Pan dreamt that his mother was crying, and he knew exactly what she was missing—a hug from her “splendid Peter would quickly make her smile.” He felt sure of it, and so eager was he to be “nestling in her arms that this time he flew straight to the window, which was always open for him.” But the window was closed, and “there were iron bars.” He had to fly back, sobbing, to the Gardens, and “he never saw his dear mother again” (3).

Peter lives on the Island of Neverland, which is make-believe, and everything that happens there is also make-believe—time moves in circles, no one ages, and most of the events are pretend. He comes across as a superhero, an invincible boy who does not want to grow up. Peter likes to portray himself as independent and self-sufficient. He claims he “had not the slightest desire” to have a mother, because he thought mothers “over-rated.” The lost boys were only allowed to talk about mothers in his absence, because the subject had been forbidden by Peter as silly. When he is away, the boys express their love—and longing—for their mothers: “[All] I remember about my mother,” Nibs, one of the lost boys, said, “is that she often said to father, ‘Oh, how I wish I had a chequebook of my own!’ I don’t know what a ‘chequebook’ is, but I should just love to give my mother one.”

Despite his claims of self-sufficiency, however, Peter longed for a mother. Every night, he snuck into Wendy’s house to listen to her mother’s bedtime stories, which he would relay to the lost boys in Neverland.

Part of the immigrant’s psyche, like Peter Pan, lives in a “Neverland,” a make-believe imaginary space. There, relatives do not age, his mother still expects him for Sunday lunch, the dog waits for him at the door, and his friends look for him on the weekends. It is where he is understood without explanations, where he does not need to spell out his name or pronounce it, where his actions and reactions are just the way they should be, where everyone looks familiar, and where he safely blends into the background. Like Peter, the immigrant does not want to grow out of his Neverland, nor accept that his country, as he knew it, is no longer there. He does not want to mourn, for doing so means losing home forever.   

The immigrant is unaware that the interpersonal scene back in his home country is not the same. Time did not stand still: his friends aged, and their roles changed; parents, siblings, and cousins moved on, and the space that he once occupied is now filled with someone or something else (there is already “another little boy sleeping in [the] bed,” to use Peter’s metaphor). The immigrant is left suspended, never landing—a spectator to the events behind barred windows and painfully aware that even if he wanted to go back, he could not.

For the immigrant, visits to his home of origin become a harsh reminder of his mortality and insignificance in the schema of life. The memories he has of himself back then, of the person he developed into—the one who “came from nothing, progressed from a primitive and physical state of being to a symbolic one” (4)—do not exist and there is no proof that he ever existed. He left no traces behind. The memories and emotional experiences he holds are nowhere to be found.

In my experience, the immigrant’s trajectory entails an effort to assuage the pain of leaving “no traces … behind” by creating something that can be productive in the new land and applauded in the old one. It has to be successful enough to make an impact back home, so he won’t be forgotten, valuable enough to mend the rupture (real or perceived) created by his departure, and desired by others enough to give him a sense of still being needed.

Just as Nibs wanted to get his mother a “chequebook,” the immigrant wants to bring back proof that the losses were worthwhile and his love for his homeland is unrelenting. Thus, to view the pain and longing as pathological and to attempt to heal it before the immigrant is ready feels to him like murder—as if separation will kill the person he once was. It is to deny that he ever belonged to a group. To move quickly past the wound robs the immigrant of the energy that propels him to harvest the fruits of severing his ties.

Just as Peter and the lost boys left their mothers behind, the immigrant leaves his mother figure—their motherland and all its symbols—behind. In the New World, they struggle with the loss of psychological existence as a member of the larger group with whom they share a permanent sense of continuity in terms of the past, the present, and the future. Accepted ways of self-expression and old adaptation mechanisms must be shed: they are, at worst, dangerous and threatening; at best, they are unique or exotic.

Freud wrote that one mourns his lost object by separating from it, “bit by bit.” At times, the immigrant’s “bit by bit” mourning of his homeland is seemingly perpetual. For all intents and purposes, his love object is not dead: the country is still there, his parents call regularly, his friends stay in touch, and he can reach his siblings anytime. But he mourns the loss of his country on every significant occasion that takes place there. He might rejoice in a sibling’s wedding, but he will not know the little stories and many encounters that kindled the couple’s love; he might be sad that an uncle died, but he cannot and will not miss the uncle the same way others will. His presence at the funeral or his letter of condolence is that of an outsider; he is the undesignated mourner, unable to soothe or be soothed.

When the immigrant arrives in the new world, he spends much of his psychic energy adjusting and adapting. Unconsciously, he survives on the mistaken belief that his “secure base” is stable, and he can “refuel” anytime.

Speaking of my personal experience, my emotional connection to my country was like Peter Pan’s Neverland—a make-believe space where people never age, and time goes round in circles. My house is just as I left it the day, I moved out more than 40 years ago—as if my teenage siblings are still waving goodbye, as if my friends look for me every weekend, my mother waits for me for Sunday coffee, and my father is no older than I am now. But my sister and brother are parents now, my father passed away, and my friends are busy with new commitments. I am only a spectator behind the barred windows to events that move me, but I can’t touch. To use Peter’s metaphor, there is another baby in my bed.

For many, especially Palestinians, returning home can be a jarring experience, a stark revelation in black and white of all that has been lost, how life has irrevocably changed through no fault of their own. Your home is occupied by someone else, the streets you walked on as a child are barred for you, your neighborhood and your streets have been renamed, and the shop down the corner is now a supermarket that has been built on top of the ruins of most of your neighborhood. “I’m trying to understand why the sight of my son standing near the gate of the house, on a bench stretching to catch a closer glimpse of the garden, shattered my heart”

Recently, my son and I visited Palestine. One winter morning, we went to see my mother’s home in West Jerusalem—the home she lost in 1948. I arrived to find everything as she had described: the big stone construction, the arched balcony, the two staircases, and the lemon tree. It was all there. I longed to nestle under the tree, climb the stairs, or perhaps stand on the balcony. Of course, I could not; this was no longer my home. To this day, I’m trying to understand why the sight of my son standing near the gate of the house, on a bench stretching to catch a closer glimpse of the garden, shattered my heart. Perhaps it felt like he, too, was mourning, dreaming, and wondering what could have been. Or perhaps it was the sense of powerlessness to protect my son’s rights, his dreams, and his wishes.

Radioactive Identifications and the Psychoanalytic Frame

The psychoanalyst Wilfred Bion recommended that we approach treatment without “memory, understanding, desire, or expectation” (5). Is that possible when the intersubjective space is flooded with trauma, hurt, grief, and rage—when it is drenched with sociopolitical forces beyond the control of the clinical couple? Can we hold the psychoanalytic situation when the power differential is not only between expert and client, but also between colonizer and colonized, terrorist and terrorized?

In such circumstances, any communication between the clinical dyad, even silence, Bion argued, is liable to create “an emotional storm.” To sail safely through this storm, the analyst needs to maintain clear thinking. But if the situation becomes too unpleasant, the clinician might opt for other forms of escape, such as sleeping or becoming unconscious. I would argue, based on the personal experience I describe in an article I wrote a few years ago, entitled “Where the Holocaust and Al-Nakba Met: Radioactive Identifications and the Psychoanalytic Frame,” that under circumstances such as those above, it is nearly impossible to do anything more than make “the best of a bad job,” as Bion noted.

In my article mentioned above, I delved into the intersection of historical trauma, psychoanalytic treatment, and sociopolitical influences through my personal experience. As someone of Palestinian heritage, I engaged in therapy with a Jewish analyst, the descendant of Holocaust survivors. Our interactions became deeply influenced by the respective historical traumas associated with our backgrounds—mine with the Palestinian displacement known as Al-Nakba and his with the Holocaust.

The concept of “radioactive identifications,” first introduced by Yolanda Gampel, is central to understanding the dynamics within our therapeutic sessions. These identifications refer to psychic remnants from memories of extreme social violence that remain potent and disruptive. In our therapy, these identifications manifested through various interactions, complicating the therapeutic process.

I worked for a little over two years with an analyst whom, in a paper published, I call Dr. Shamone. I chose Dr. Shamone, a queer Jewish analyst opposed to the American Psychological Association’s complicity in torture, hoping he would understand the experience of being an Other. I was unaware of his anti-Palestinian beliefs at the time. Our early sessions were promising; I felt comforted and believed he was genuinely interested in my well-being.

However, a few months into our sessions, Dr. Shamone accused me of vandalizing his air-conditioner with graffiti. He believed the scribble, which looked like a combination of our names, was my doing, likening it to the act of “teenage lovers.” I could not believe what I was hearing. I sat in utter shock and dismay. I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. I could not speak. My eyes were welling up. I felt overwhelmed with sadness, disbelief, and powerlessness. Who am I to this man? I wondered. How does he see me? Which part of me comes across as an irresponsible, immature woman who acts like an adolescent? Which part of me seems like a potential vandal and someone who would break the law so nonchalantly?

I spent the time between this session and the next researching the graffiti. Could it be an artist who scribbled on people’s air-conditioners? What could this word be? At the next session, I told him I thought the word on the air-conditioner could have been “Lakshmana,” which is part of the name of an organization called LifeChange. Dr. Shamone acknowledged that a week before the session, someone researching this organization visited him while writing a critical piece on the organization, accusing it of harming those who join it. It didn’t occur to me to ask him why it was that he accused me instead of wondering whether the researcher or someone belonging to that organization was responsible.

I am a Palestinian, but not a Terrorist

I entered psychoanalytic treatment with Dr. Shamone about 13 years after the September 11 tragedy. At the time, I thought the difficulties I faced had more to do with being an Arab from the Muslim world in an environment that demonized and feared people like me. On a conscious level, I was, of course, aware of my heritage but did not realize the extent to which radioactive identifications with intergenerational trauma and global events could affect the treatment. In the consulting room of Dr. Shamone, such identifications seeped between us — formless, odorless, and deadly.

Dr. Shamone began to struggle to keep himself awake during the sessions. Halfway into our meetings, he would become drowsy, his eyes would close, and his head would hang over his chest. At first, I felt as if I needed to protect him. I did not want to embarrass him. When I saw him dozing off, I would look away, pretending I had not noticed. One day, I came in with a bunch of chocolate bars. He wondered if I had a crush on him; perhaps chocolate was a sign of love. I said, ‘‘No, it is just that chocolate contains caffeine.’’ He responded, “You know, you are right, I gave up coffee a while ago.” I smiled and thanked him for accepting my gift. I thought then that his sleepiness was perhaps nothing personal, but caffeine withdrawal symptoms.

During this period, persisting to the end of our treatment, our relationship seemed to oscillate between a waltz, a judo fight, and an extended Amy Goodman interview. Dr. Shamone was only able to remain engaged and present when the discussion centered around Middle East politics. But when issues of everyday life took the place of politics, and topics such as my boyfriend, children, or work took center stage, he would feel drowsy and doze off. It was as if this monster between us was too much to bear if it wasn’t being continuously addressed. The monster had to be front and center; when it was hidden, the atmosphere became heavy and pregnant with unuttered statements. This dynamic continued for over a year.

Finally, I began to take his sleepiness personally. I felt this way because it was then that I began sharing my childhood trauma. I told him that I would feel hurt when he fell asleep and did not know what to do with that. Other times I would tease him; as soon as I entered his office, I would ask, “Are you going to doze off today?” This question usually worked, and he would stay awake.

Dr. Shamone felt certain that I was bringing something to the room that was making it hard for him to stay awake. He said at times what I was saying felt confusing, which made him lose concentration. But his conclusion shed no light on anything useful. Now I wonder if his sleepiness was a way to evade the reality of our dynamic, a flight from his feelings about me, or a way to escape from a traumatic memory that was being triggered by me.

Perhaps it was I who held unbearable trauma that he sensed and could not handle. Maybe he could not bear feeling responsible, at least in some way, for the trauma that led to my damaged mother. Or, perhaps, this was a parallel process to what Palestinians experience their predicament unrecognizable, their lives ungrievable, and seemingly on the road to annihilation. At the same time, the world dozes off on the sidelines.

During that period, I began to censor myself with Dr. Shamone. The analysis stopped being about my internal process and growth, but about how to keep Dr. Shamone engaged, about what material to bring in so he would remain present.

As I considered ending our work together, Dr. Shamone suggested, “Make sure your next analyst is not Jewish.” When I expressed my hurt, he added that I might harbor murderous intentions and come to the session with a weapon. This statement was a final blow, making me feel utterly alienated and unsafe.

In one of our last sessions, I told him about the fictitious traits I endowed him with when I approached him for treatment. I said, “I thought you would not be supportive of the Israeli government. I imagined that you were pro-Palestine.”

“Of course, I would be supportive of Israel! If things get tough for me here, I could always move there and be accepted.” I responded with a heavy heart. “Will you be living in my grandmother’s house?”

With a confused look on his face, he was quiet for a moment. Then he said in a thoughtful tone, “Sometimes we hurt each other.”

Back to the Present: My Journey with My Current Jewish Analyst

About two years ago, I began working with a supervisor to enhance my skills as a couple’s counselor. The supervisor was incredibly thoughtful, kind, and down-to-earth, with no pretenses, just analytic love and acceptance. Our connection transcended a mere supervisory relationship, embodying profound care and hope for my well-being on this life’s journey. Consequently, I decided to engage in personal analysis instead. While we sometimes focus on supervision, our interactions are primarily a therapeutic dyad.

Having previously worked with Dr. Shamone and had this painful experience, with my present analyst, I immediately brought up Palestine after expressing my desire to become his analysand. He reflected, “If you had asked me 20 years ago, my response would have been different. Now, I understand the situation on a much deeper level.” I have been with my current analyst for over two years now, experiencing significant personal growth and feeling deeply grateful for his attentiveness and presence. When the war on Gaza began, he would check in on me regularly, even outside our sessions, to ensure nothing was overlooked and to express his concern during those difficult times.

Contrary to Dr. Shamone’s advice, my current Jewish analyst has become one of the most important and healing people in my life. I continue to work with him because he is an honest and caring witness to my life and genuinely cares about me. Each session enriches my understanding of how to live authentically and trust myself as a therapist. Like my analyst, I strive to be authentic, helpful, and deeply caring with my clients.

Reflecting on my experience now, several years following the termination of treatment with Dr. Shamone and having this analytic experience with my present analyst, I find it insufficient and too generous to attribute my ex-analyst’s action solely to radioactive identifications. I have come to believe that my ex-analyst’s behavior was not just professionally unethical but overtly racist. His demeanor and actions towards me perpetuated a narrative that cast me in the role of a terrorist, devoid of an unconscious—my words came with subtitles I did not write.

Can You See Me?

Remember the experiment I mentioned earlier about wearing the hijab myself? On several occasions, I would wear the hijab and go about New York streets, watching for reactions. On my first trip, I discovered that there was a social network hidden in plain sight. Women wearing the hijab and men who seemed to be Middle Eastern or South Asian acknowledged my existence. They greeted me with a look, a gentle nod or some gesture, as if to say: I am here for you. I see you. I am like you. I realized how much I had been missing. That I have brothers, sisters, and a family I never tapped into. On other occasions, and for no apparent reason, my projections left me anxious and feeling in danger. I was worried someone would intentionally push me or pretend to be tripping and bump into me, or that I might be lynched in plain sight.

One summer, I had foot surgery and had to use crutches. During those times, when I traveled around New York in Western dress, I felt taken care of by many. For example, I never lacked a seat on the subway. Riders would rush to give me theirs. Dressed like a Muslim woman, I felt as if they looked right through me. As if I didn’t exist. Crutches or no crutches, they didn’t know what to do with me. I did not feel discriminated against per se, I just felt invisible.

A feeling of sadness and loneliness took me over. My Palestinian or Arab self is a charged topic. I, therefore, often enter my social encounters edging to be seen, but opting to hide.

I realized that there is a point that my dear psychoanalyst cannot enter;

I wish I could let him in. Perhaps I can hum a tune of a song he’d remember.

I wish he could smell the air of my land, see the beauty in desert roads, rundown houses, and joyfully running barefoot children with smudged clothes.

I wish he could taste the food I miss and know my teenage friends who are grandparents.

I wish I could mention the name of a neighborhood and he’d tell me about the streetlamp that stood there.

I wish he could laugh at my Arabic jokes, know a poem or two, or remember a public holiday.
But I don’t want to share my misunderstood traditions—I don’t want to find out how peculiar they seem to him.

I don’t want to introduce him to my beloved Palestine, I am afraid I might find out that he can’t understand the endless heartbreak I experience daily.

I don’t want to share my wish to remain in Neverland, where time goes round in circles, where no one ages, and where my siblings are still waving goodbye. I don’t want him to tell me that no such land exists.

I don’t want to uncover my inner world and end up being a specimen—dissected by his skilled psychoanalytic blade and disjointedly reassembled.

I really don’t want him to see me, all of me. I just want him to sit with me, hold my pain, blow on my wounds, and just answer “yes” when I ask him:

Can you see me!?

References

(1) Allen, J. G., Fonagy, P., & Bateman, A. W. (2008). Mentalizing in clinical practice. American Psychiatric Publishing, Inc.

(2) Barrie, J. (1911). Peter Pan. Barnes & Noble Classics.

(3) Kelley-Laine, K. (2004). The metaphors we live by. In J. Szekacs-Weisz & I. Ward (Eds.), Lost Childhood and the Language of Exile (pp. 89-103). Karnac Books.

(4) Becker, E. (1973). The Denial of Death. Free Press.

(5) Bion, W. (1970) Attention and Interpretation. Tavistock.

 

©2024, Psychotherapy.net

Standing With Clients in the Twilight of Life

Chris had advanced cancer, and only a short time left to live.

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Connecting at the End of Life

Chris was in his 70s, and he felt full of regret as he approached the end of his life; he felt afraid of dying, and disappointed in himself. He believed he’d damaged and lost all the key relationships in his life — who would want to be near to him now, he wondered?

In the course of our weekly therapy conversations, Chris came to realize ways his selfishness had hurt his personal relationships, and he came to recognize that his supposed preference for a solitary lifestyle had become an excuse or rationalization for his estrangement. He thought, though, that he was now paying too dear a price for his errors: dying alone in a nursing home.

Chris lacked a formal religious faith, yet he had spoken of his vague sense of a life beyond this one, and he expected to again see the loved ones who had already passed away. One morning when I came to his room, Chris was sitting on the edge of his bed crying.

He looked up and said, “Talk to me, Tom, I’m scared.”

I pulled a chair up close and looked at him and spoke quietly.

“Chris, when you first came here, you told me you thought you had wasted your life and burned all your bridges. You thought that you’d made all the wrong choices, and had neglected relationships, and that you would die alone.

“But you have been surprised by so many things that have happened during the past few months. Your son came from the west coast to see you and decided to stay here with you till the end; and you thought you had lost him. You hadn’t spoken with your sister for years, yet she and her husband have become regular visitors to you here.

“Many friends you had long lost touch with have reappeared, and you didn’t know how they found you or learned you were ill. Look around the room, Chris, and see all the gifts and cards and flowers you have received from people you thought would not know or care that you were ill. So many unexpected hands have reached out to you, Chris, to help comfort you as you prepare to move on from this world; you never expected such tenderness and reassurance.

“You have spoken lovingly of your parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles, and how you look forward to seeing them again on the other side. So, here you are Chris, poised between this world and the next. You have been loved by many over the past few months, even when you had believed yourself to be unloved. Many hands have been extended to you in this world to help you on your journey, and you anticipate many hands to greet you when you arrive in the next world.”

His quiet sobbing subsided, and he gave a big sigh and said, “Okay, okay, thanks, I feel better.”

A few days later Chris quietly passed.

Nursing homes, typically less formal than outpatient settings, have been special places for me as a psychotherapist, especially when I encounter people with major or terminal illnesses. I commonly engage in exquisitely poignant therapy conversations about life and coping, and about dying and grieving. Clients facing the end of their lives often feel a need to speak openly about their fears, hopes, doubts, and beliefs. Meeting their needs often involves bold entry into topics sometimes avoided or not considered as part of treatment. But it can be profoundly touching and rewarding to meet clients directly in the midst of their most vulnerable moments.

Questions for Reflection and Discussion

What are your reflections on the type of clinical work this author describes?

In what ways do you embrace or avoid working with the elderly or dying client?

What are some clinical challenges that might accompany working with this population?  

The Bad and Good Ghosts: A Story of Reauthoring in Narrative Therapy with Children

“There’s a boy, there’s a kid always living in my heart every time the adult shivers he comes and gives me his hand.” Brant and Nascimento [1]  
 

My childhood has been a never-ending playground of theoretical and practical knowledge that has influenced my own evolution as a therapist working with children. In my work with children, I bring my own valuable child-within who leads me through the paths and crossroads of therapeutic work and inspires my imagination and curiosity toward a world to be discovered. Favored by being born into a family where other children arrived year after year, older siblings like me were taught to take care of the younger ones. I was privileged to be raised in a generation where neighborhoods were populated with children and playing in open spaces was imperative. Thus, in my consultations, echoing the lines of Brazilian composer and musician mentioned above, there is a child always living in my heart. 

From this particular cultural heritage, I assumed positions that today I consider foundational for my personal relationships, and fundamental for my clinical practice. I understand that the therapeutic relationship with children requires letting oneself be carried away by playful and creative coexistence, and the belief in a collaborative relationship that transforms unhappy ways of living.

This article was produced because I felt invited to share a reflection on everyday clinical practice, understanding it as a written dialogue between me, the author, and other authors or readers. It involves the work I did with a family consisting of parents and two children ages eight and four. The consultations were mostly made involving the mother and her eldest son, whose main issue was the indomitable spirit that appeared whenever he was contradicted by her, with an abundant flow of anger, accusations, and dissatisfactions arising on his part and paralyzing her. These are therapeutic conversations that took place during the year 2020 and were crossed by the COVID-19 pandemic, which brings as a challenge the development of resources to maintain the therapeutic process.

In the dialogue with the reader, I intend to report fragments of the practice, seeking to give visibility to: 1) externalizing conversations as a ludic dialogical resource and promoter of preferable changes, 2) the production of therapeutic documents in the format of therapeutic chronicles (1, 2), a useful resource for pointing out remarkable moments in the participants’ reauthoring process, and 3) to the share of moments in which the use of online technology helped the co-construction of generative therapeutic relationships, making it possible to move forward in the conversational process.

Chatting with Some Textual Friends Before Entering the Therapy Room

Michael White (3), despite the expressive systematization capacity of his work as a whole, privileged the developments of his practice so that the spirit of narrative therapy could be expanded, without letting it be tied down by any preponderant discourse of this or that therapeutic school. David Epston, echoing this plurality of meanings in narrative therapy, points out both the irreverence, improvisation, and imagination present at the center of everyday life and the indignation with the injustice that generates human suffering (4). Thus, narrative therapy actively questions the individual centralization of human problems and invites one to think about their insertion into the dominant social discourses that configure people’s lives.

As a therapeutic stance, this questioning promotes an egalitarian relationship between therapist and client and denies norms that subject people to standards on how they should be, feel, and act. Such a decentered position of the therapist facilitates a joint construction of choices that clients wish to assume about their problems and difficulties, based on the values and beliefs that guide their lives. Thus, change is built from new shared meanings toward the dissolution of the problem (5).

Narrative therapy discusses the deconstruction of the therapist’s power from a Foucauldian perspective that emphasizes power not as an institutional implementation from the top-down, but as one that develops and refines itself at the local level of culture (6). In other words, people are products and producers of relationships, concepts, and dogmas that shape dominant and socially constructed cultural discourses. Thus, in the therapeutic encounter, we are faced with problem stories that are saturated by culturally-sanctioned master narratives, which objectify people and describe them as problematic, paralyzed, and incompetent in promoting change.

To face the dominant stories that produce this deficit and limited identity construction, the externalization of the problem — later renamed externalizing conversations — was an ethical and creative response developed by Michael White (3,6,7) to counter the power of uniform descriptions about people, which engulfs all the uniqueness that each individual has in facing their difficulties. Such conversations, as a dialogical resource, invite participants to understand that the problem is the problem and not the person; an approach that encourages people to question the oppression that problems acquire over them, as well as to weave the reauthoring of their lives. Michael White says:
 

There is a sense in which I regard the practice of externalizing to be a faithful friend. Over many years, this practice has assisted me to find ways forward with people who are in situations that were considered hopeless. In these situations, externalizing conversations have opened many possibilities for people to redefine their identities, to experience their lives anew, and to pursue what is precious to them.  


This fascinating spirit that rests on what is unique in each person and is so present in working with children is reflected in the enthusiasm of another young client: “I said to my father: ‘There must be some magic here! That cry that I used for everything disappeared!’”

With the inspiration of “as if it were magic,” I will present below the report of the family care on which this article was based. The meetings were mostly attended by the mother (Aurora) and her eldest son (Daniel) since the difficulties described brought many misunderstandings and a feeling of hopelessness in the relationship between them. Since problems organize the system, Leo, the youngest brother, was included when conflicts between children intensified with the social isolation imposed by the pandemic; the father could participate in only a few sessions, when we managed to schedule appointments after his work shift. In these meetings, where the whole family got together, playing freely was the main objective (8).  


A Cry for Help

Even in the first days of the January 2020 holidays, Aurora, the young mother of Daniel (eight years old) and Leo (four years old), was very distressed at not achieving a balanced relationship with her eldest son, who “throws himself at the television” and does not commit to his obligations, from taking care of personal hygiene to school obligations during class time. Born at 7 months of pregnancy, he was assessed during the literacy period and received a diagnosis of Attention-Deficit Disorder (ADD), in addition to living with an uncomfortable dysgraphia and psychomotor immaturity, which forced his mother to follow up on school tasks, correct spelling, and “correct the ugly handwriting.” Always complaining, he got irritated when his mother pressured him: he screamed, cried, and accused her of being a bad mother. It left her “out of her mind,” since she did the best she could. In those moments, anger also dominated her, from which words emerged that she would never have used if she could think before speaking. She therefore felt very guilty and convinced herself that she really wasn’t a good mother.

Aurora was also concerned about her younger son. Like his older brother, he was born prematurely, but perinatal complications and the effects of early birth were more invasive in his development. The parents began to protect him, offering him little encouragement in the autonomy of daily life activities: “He is our baby,” “required a lot of care,” “was always weak,” and “cries to get everything he wants and I end up giving in so as not to get angry anymore,” said Aurora. A kind of vicious circle was established, where Daniel’s defiant attitudes and Leo’s insistent crying resulted in a joint explosion of irritability. In this way, by giving in to her children’s demands, Aurora obtained a moment of peace: “I end up giving them what they ask to put an end to the complaints,” to soon after, be taken by guilt and the uncomfortable feeling of impotence in the face of the conflicts.

The family had moved to the city of the maternal grandparents two years before, in the hopes of receiving family support for the care and treatment of their children. They left behind schools, relationships, friendships, leisure, and professional stability. They faced professional and financial obstacles and the expected help from their family members did not materialize. The couple underwent a reorganization of their responsibilities as family providers, with the children’s father expanding his professional activities, while Aurora saw hers reduced due to the care and education of her children. Thus began a lasting period of frustration, overwhelm, and exhaustion.

“Hello, May I Come In?”: Expanding the Meaning of the Problem

Aurora and Daniel attended the first meeting. Daniel was a silent and observant boy apparently uninterested in participating in the conversation that concerned his failures in everyday life. Aurora spoke about all her disappointments with her son, such as: watching too much television, complaining about everything although she was always helping him, lacking autonomy for schoolwork, avoiding physical activities, and being uncooperative and disobedient to his parents’ expectations. His greatest difficulty, however, concerned the inability to control himself before exploding into fits of rage when contradicted. Uncomfortable, Daniel silent and sad, slowly walked away and disappeared from the room. Another environment was more interesting to him: the playroom. 

I invited the mother to accompany him and, looking for a way to involve him in the issue that brought them to the consultation, I said that many children suffer from all sorts of problems, and that, as if that were not enough, these problems also interfere with the lives of their families. Curious to know the face of the problem, I asked if we could take a picture of it; problems that haunt children’s lives are invisible and we can only get to know them by drawing them. Continuing, I said that a camera has not yet been invented to register the existence of these beings that disturb people so much. The mother looked open and curious; Daniel looked incredulous at what he had just heard. Aurora took the initiative and soon the two of them found themselves sitting on the floor, dealing with paper, brushes, paint, and enthusiasm.

While planning what could be drawn, a different conversation took place. New vocabularies sprouted from a much more collaborative mother-son relationship: “Is it a monster or a ghost? It’s quite big, so it needs a larger paper. It has a skirt, and many teeth in the mouth; the hair is spiked.” Daniel started to see the image of the problem: “Mom, the monster will be red, because red is the color of anger.” The boy, encouraged by the change of direction of the conversation, busied himself in coloring with care and the mother patiently accompanied him in the dance of the brushes. By photographing with paints and brushstrokes, the problem takes on form: “Wow! It’s nice! Mom, you look mean!”


Ghost of Fury

Satisfied with the reproduction, Daniel says: “It is a giant of Fury that torments a lot, attacks the head, and keeps hitting it.” The part of the conversation below illustrates the dialogue that is being woven around the externalized problem (the acronyms T, D, and A, refer respectively to Therapist, Daniel, and Aurora):
 

T: I think he has a jackhammer in his hands and drills holes in your head to get in! (I paint a tool in the hands of the giant). Could we come up with something to let you know when he’s turning on the jackhammer? (I paint a radar that says “No,” when it notices that the giant is approaching).

D: No… it crosses your mind… It’s a ghost.

T: Oh! We are getting to know him better! He looked like a giant, but he’s a ghost!

D: Yeah, he doesn’t drill holes; it goes through the head (erases jackhammer drawing with white paint).  
 

I understand that this attitude of Daniel concerns his authorship, and he gradually builds on his relationship with the problem. It’s like he’s saying, “Hey! This is my problem!” There is a significant change in how he relates to exploring the difficulties that brought him to therapy.

The separation between the person’s identity and that of the problem does not exempt them from facing the damage that this has brought to their lives. According to Michael White, it enables them to assume this responsibility, and, in this way, they are encouraged to establish a more clearly defined relationship, in which a range of alternative possibilities becomes possible. And continuing…

T: And does he take advantage of some “little windows” to get inside your head?

A: I think it’s when he gets jealous of his brother and when we go against him.

An alternative way of talking about the difficulties that permeate family relationships is under construction without, however, pointing out the child’s deficits, and blaming him. Externalizing conversations, by objectifying the problem, offers an antidote to internal and essential understandings of an individual.   

Building an Identity for the Problem

The problem, now named Ghost of Fury, is gradually discovered through a curious investigation where I learn from the clients about their experience. The Ghost of Fury is 1,000 years old and lives in every child’s house for one year. It arrived when the family moved from the city where they lived two years ago, leaving the loving paternal grandparents. He feeds on people’s anger and his favorite food is “rage burger.” He lives in hell and other evil ghosts also live there.

Upon hearing Daniel’s vibrant description, Aurora reported that the parents and children lost their friends. The children separated from their schoolmates, from the playground in the old house, and from the paternal grandparents’ beach house. She says: “Daniel always says it was my fault we moved here. He doesn't like it here.”

D: Yeah, we had to come here because she got a job here…(notices the mother’s tears) Mom, are you crying??!!!!  

T: I think you were all very sad to have moved to another city. Nothing happened as you expected…

A: He says I'm not a good mother, I feel very guilty. I do everything for them, I can hardly even work…

T: Yeah… one of these evil ghosts’ tricks is to make mothers feel guilty. They disrupt the whole family’s life.

D: Not my father’s life! He works and comes home late and just sits on the couch watching TV, right mom? (Aurora laughs).  

Looking for the influence that the problem has on the life of Daniel and his family, I highlight the following excerpt:

T: What does he want for your life?

D: That I become evil? He wants me to be mean!!! (His eyes are wide open, pointed at his mother).

It is important to note here the change in the child’s expression that seems to reflect on the influence the problem has on his life and suddenly discovering his real purpose. And continuing:  

T: And what does he want for your family?

D: He wants us to fight, stay in front of the TV alone, without talking to our mother, without playing… He doesn’t just disturb the family; he also goes to my (maternal) grandparents’ house. The most nervous is my grandfather. He drives my grandfather crazy.

D: Mom, grandpa needs to come here too!  

Michael White says that this type of conversation, through influencing questions, compares to investigative journalism and its first objective is “to develop an exposition of the corruption associated with abuses of power and privileges,” imposed by the problem. Like investigative journalists, therapists are not involved in the domains of problem-solving or engaging in conflict, but, again referring to White, “Rather, their actions usually reflect a relatively ‘cool’ engagement.” In contrast, clients also assume an investigative reporter position, reflect on their experience, and contribute to exposing the character of the problem. They denounce its objectives, purposes, and activities.

This posture reveals the importance of the narrative therapist’s decentered position. It paves the way for the clients to identify and build other plans for their lives, what they value, and contradict the threatening voices of the problem. In other words, externalizing conversations offer a shared island of safety for people to engage in the reauthoring of their lives.

A Story About the Externalized Problem Inspired by the Idea of Poetic Documentation

For White and Epston, the written word is an ideal path for discoveries made during therapy which, like documents, can be evoked, read, and recreated. Written tradition, through “making visible,” highlights extraordinary events, giving prestige to an alternative narrative (9). Still, according to Campillo Rodriguez (1), writing as a therapeutic resource opens up many paths through which people can see themselves through the eyes of the other.

During clinical consultations, therapeutic poems build, in a special way, an opening to new stories, which play with the imagination and give clients the freedom to experience their own images, sensations, and new meanings.

Discussing the usefulness of therapeutic poems in her work, Sanni Paljakka (2) writes:
 

Due to their unusual form (the lack of requirement for the shiny completeness of sentences and ideas in prose text), these poems have opened up a unique way for me to play with ideas. Writing in poetry form allows me to pit the horrors and hauntings of a problem story against a confection of possible counter-story ideas with no regard to orderly sequencing of life experiences or the flow of a therapy conversation.


So, at the opening of the session following the revelation of the Ghost of Fury, I asked Daniel and his mother to sit down comfortably and listen to a text that I wanted to present to them (Although the authors point out that poetic documents should be written exclusively with the words expressed by the client, I took this therapeutic tool as an inspiration, adding a personal way of narrating, to what I preferred to name therapeutic chronicles.):  

It was a problem and it was a gigantic

A giant that was so gigantic, it tormented everyone

It tormented the boy even more
The boy was a child

And he did the worst for the child Just for the kid, he had a jackhammer

He made little holes
In the boy’s head

When he was a child and the boy was a child

Clever
Thoughtful
Observer
And the boy had an artist mother
The child boy had an artist mother!!!
The smart boy and the artist mother took a picture of the giant
Click, Click, Click
Red he was
With funny hair and there was the jackhammer Making holes in the head
And making everyone nervous and quarrelsome and then… Sad
And found out the giant was all Rage Aha!!!
Now we know you!!!

And the smart boy and the artist mother didn’t notice…

The Giant of Rage, that was his name, was very intelligent

In a brush step, zas!!!
Changed to Ghost of Fury
What the hell!!!
Ghosts don't need little holes to get into the heads and families of smart boys and nice moms

Ghosts walk through walls

The smart boy figured out the trick. He found that the ghost goes through his head

And lo and behold! He knows many tricks to do bad things

He is 1,000 years old.  


I recited the chronicle, dramatizing it in such a way that the emphasis fell on the resources and extraordinary events subjugated by the problem (the boy was a child; he was smart, thoughtful and observant; the child had an artist mother; the smart boy and the mother artist took a picture of the giant), as well as the perverse purposes fueled by the problem (the giant that especially affects the boy, who is a child; his evils are preferably directed at him; a very intelligent giant, who magically transforms into a ghost to cross heads). 

As an externalizing conversation, listening to your experiences coming from another person, written in a poetic way, promotes a sense of legitimacy and centers authorship on the person. Afterward, Daniel said he liked it and thought it was funny: “He doesn’t even look that bad!” He still prefers to maintain his version of the problem as a ghost that enters his head without making small holes: “Hey tía, he doesn’t have a jackhammer.” Aurora was touched by the understanding that her son is “just a child” and that, due to so many turbulences in the family, her impatience could be harming him, in addition to expecting him to know how to renounce his place in the family in favor of his younger brother.

It was surprising to her to be perceived as an artist and she reported other craft skills, inherited from her mother. Daniel praised his maternal grandmother’s skills, attentive and creative, and discovered that his mother resembles her. The externalized problem, re-narrated, allowed the emergence of a narrative not subdued by the history of conflicts in the period between the meetings. Aurora says:

A: The giant isn’t showing up much there… he’s only showing up with strength when he’s with his brother. They fight, Leo gets in the way, and Daniel loses his temper (the words giant and ghost will alternate during the course of therapy, as meanings of an entity/problem separate from the child).

T: I think it’s the Giant of Fury’s tricks to keep taking advantage of the fights in your family.

A: He (Daniel) is better than me, calmer than me, he obeys when I speak.  

Despite the influence of the problem having diminished in the family, this meeting addressed many conflicting moments between siblings and between mother and children. Daniel suggests painting the Giant/Ghost again. Very excited, he announces:

D: Now I’m going to do it! It will have two colors. Half angry and half calm.”

The new image of the problem in metamorphosis was made with four hands, and the child tried to reproduce with his own lines the first form almost entirely created by Aurora (the Giant of Fury). This was explored in its finest details within a loving and respectful dialogue, mostly coming from the child. Everyone looked proud at the end.


Ghost of Fury in Transformation

The letters C and A were added to signify the initials for Calm and Angry, English vocabulary learned by the boy at school. Descriptions and facts previously mitigated by the problem populate the conversations, allowing the child to be perceived through his resources (learns another language, likes to paint, collaborates with the mother). Immersed in a dialogical and horizontal relationship, instigated by conversations fueled by painting, I outlined Daniel’s hands on a blank piece of paper, with the letters F (Fury) and C (Calm) to be taken home. They could help them remember that when they manage to stay calm, the Giant weakens.


Drawings of Daniel’s Hands as signalers of emotions in the house

The session that followed this one focused on efforts to distinguish the influences of the Giant/Ghost in the family’s life and the family’s in the Giant's life. The rage attacks are less intense; frustrations are expressed with lamentations. Aurora says:

A: Daniel is more loving, more understanding, helping me to calm down faster. It was a lot of just complaining, now it’s like this, more smiling. Sometimes he is more patient with his brother.

D: I didn’t get angry with Leo crying. I say: ‘Caaaalm down, Leo’.

A: We put the Hands in the room. In a place where everyone can see.

T: If the house is calmer, how is the family?

A: I bought paints, they are painting.

T: It’s a family of artists!  

At this time, they review the contributions of their maternal grandmother, skilled in manual arts. Daniel speaks proudly of his grandmother who draws house plans for engineers. Aurora has the opportunity to reframe her relationship with her parents, with whom she feels hurt by for not receiving the expected support: “My parents are very active, they have a life of their own…”

Daniel is attentive and praises his grandmother’s kindness but claims that his grandfather is very nervous: “The ghost must be living there now.” and continues… “Hey tía, I think next time the Giant of Fury will be all blue!”

From these conversations, another poetic document was presented to them at the next meeting.
It was a giant
Giant?
Not anymore

It wasn’t even a giant. It shrunk

And in its shrinking, OH! Would it also be changing color?
And the giant asked for help

Help! Somebody help me!

I’m shrinking and I’m not even red! Help!
And nobody listens

The artist mother and the smart boy continue their task of transforming him

Now the little giant is red and blue
Half bad, half good. Half angry, Half calm

The smart-mother and the artist-boy continue their work of painting the new little giant red and blue

The Giant of Fury is sneaking out

It no longer fits in that room. It no longer fits in those lives

At the door, already saying goodbye, he looks back and takes with him an image that bothers him. He sees the boy-artist calmly walking around the room, talking to his smart-mother, deciding together on the last brushstrokes.

The image has changed. And the Giant of Fury, sad, decides to leave in search of another place to live.  


“The Fired Ghost of Fury,” Made by an Artist Upon my Request

When presented with the new image, this time taken by me, the mother laughs at the ghost and its “Fired” sign. Daniel says: “Poor guy,” and, “Mom, we’re firing him from home too!”

With a social constructionist sensibility, narrative therapy assumes that the self is relational. Within the plasticity of relationships, we build reciprocal identities, shaped by contextually-situated linguistic descriptions. Thus, Daniel’s interest and initiative, in a safe and inclusive environment, transform him into a boy-artist, now accompanied by a smart mother who, less confused by her feelings of incompetence and guilt, becomes someone who knows how to take action (welcoming, encouraging, believing, hoping). Therefore, the Giant who abandons that relationship is one of misunderstanding, impotence, and pain.

The self-confident artist-boy prepares to paint another ghost: “I do. It will be all blue. Blue is the color of calmness, right mom?” 


Ghost of Calmness

Since we were at that moment on the verge of social isolation due to COVID-19, we suspended face-to-face meetings and sought to build communication via WhatsApp, through messages and audio, since the video camera sessions proved to be unproductive for the participation of the children. Contacts were more frequently aimed at supporting Aurora’s concerns regarding Daniel’s growing lack of interest in online classes. Still, mother and son agreed that the Ghost of Fury was still diminishing. In this period of confinement, the interaction between the two children deteriorated, slipping easily into conflict. I suggested that Brother Leo be invited to participate in a face-to-face meeting, and we all committed to this meeting, respecting the health standards for disease prevention.

The dialogue below illustrates a remarkable moment from this meeting, where many disputes took place, with Daniel asking for his mother’s interference to calm down and hold his brother who “only gets in the way” an

Effects of Social Media on Child Development: Healthy Strategies

Positive Effects of Social Media on Child Development

As a marriage and family therapist, I have found it essential to recognize the positive — and negative — effects of social media on child development in my therapeutic work with families. Social media platforms offer opportunities for young clients to connect with peers, access educational resources, and explore diverse perspectives. Through online interactions, they can develop social skills, empathy, and cultural understandings, enriching their social development.

Additionally, social media provides a platform for creative expression and self-discovery, allowing them to explore their interests and talents. By engaging with educational content and participating in online communities, children and teens can enhance their knowledge and skills in various areas, fostering intellectual growth and curiosity.

Furthermore, social media can facilitate communication and connection within families, especially in today’s fast-paced world. Platforms such as Facebook and WhatsApp enable families to stay connected, share experiences, and support one another across distances. For families undergoing transitions or facing other challenges that put distance, both physical and emotional, between members social media can serve as a valuable tool for maintaining bonds and strengthening relationships.

By acknowledging these positive aspects of social media, I have successfully incorporated them into my therapeutic work with families, leveraging digital resources to promote healthy development and resilience. Through psychoeducation, communication skills training, and family interventions, I have helped to empower families to harness the benefits of social media while mitigating potential risks.

Here are a few practical strategies I have found to be highly useful:

  • Digital storytelling- encouraging families to use social media platforms as a tool for sharing their stories and experiences. By creating digital narratives, families can express their thoughts, emotions, and challenges in a creative and engaging format. This process can foster self-expression, promote empathy, and strengthen family bonds.
  • Psychoeducational resources- sharing informative articles, videos, and infographics on social media platforms to educate families about child development can provide parenting strategies, and useful mental health guidance and information. Providing accessible and relevant information can empower families to make informed decisions and adopt healthy practices in their daily lives.
  • Online support groups- facilitating virtual support groups or forums on social media platforms can help parents to support their children’s connection with peers, the sharing of experiences, and receipt of support. These online communities provide a safe space for families to discuss challenges, seek advice, and build solidarity in navigating the complexities of parenthood and family life.
  • Collaborative goal-setting- using social media platforms to engage families in collaborative goal-setting exercises and activities can encourage them to set specific, measurable, achievable, relevant, and time-bound (SMART) goals related to their parenting practices, family dynamics, and child development goals. By sharing their progress and achievements on social media, families can celebrate their successes and inspire others to pursue their goals.
  • Digital mindfulness practices- integrating digital mindfulness practices into therapy sessions can help families cultivate awareness and intentionality in their social media usage. Encouraging families to practice digital detoxes is a powerful process that includes setting screen time limits and engaging in activities that promote offline connection and presence. By fostering a mindful approach to social media usage, families can develop healthier relationships with technology and prioritize meaningful interactions with each other.

By incorporating these practical strategies into therapeutic practice, I have helped families to harness the positive potential of social media to support them in productively impacting their child’s or children’s development. Through collaboration, education, and mindful engagement, I have empowered families to navigate the digital landscape with intentionality, resilience, and well-being.

Negative Effects of Social Media on Child Development

While social media offers various benefits, it also presents significant challenges and risks to child development, necessitating careful consideration and intervention in my therapeutic work with families. Research has consistently shown that excessive use of social media is associated with increased rates of anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem among children. The pressure to maintain a curated online persona and the constant comparison with peers can contribute to feelings of inadequacy and insecurity.

Moreover, social media platforms can serve as breeding grounds for cyberbullying and online harassment, posing serious threats to children’s emotional and psychological health. Children may experience harassment, ridicule, or exclusion from their peers, leading to significant distress and trauma. Additionally, exposure to harmful content such as violent imagery, explicit material, and misinformation can negatively influence children’s attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors.

Furthermore, social media can contribute to the erosion of face-to-face interactions and family dynamics within households. Excessive screen time and digital distractions can disrupt communication and bonding among family members, leading to feelings of disconnection and isolation. In some cases, parents may struggle to set boundaries around screen time and monitor their children’s online activities, further exacerbating these issues.

To effectively address these negative effects of social media on their child’s or children’s development, I have implemented targeted strategies and interventions with them. These strategies include:

  • Psychoeducation- providing families with information about the potential risks of social media and how it can impact child development.
  • Communication skills training- helping families develop effective communication strategies for discussing social media use and setting boundaries around screen time.
  • Family interventions- facilitating family sessions to address issues related to social media usage, cyberbullying, and online safety.
  • Collaborative goal-setting- working with families to establish clear goals and guidelines for healthy social media usage within the household.
  • Referral to specialized services- connecting families with additional support resources, such as mental health professionals or digital wellness programs, when necessary.

Strategies for Supporting Healthy Social Media Usage

I have also found it essential to equip myself with practical strategies for supporting healthy social media usage among my clients. These have included:

  • Promoting digital mindfulness practices- integrating digital mindfulness practices into therapy sessions to help families cultivate awareness and intentionality in their social media usage. Teaching mindfulness techniques such as breath awareness, body scans, and mindful scrolling has helped my clients develop a balanced and mindful approach to technology use. By practicing digital mindfulness, they have enhanced their ability to regulate their emotions, manage stress, and maintain healthy boundaries with technology.
  • Encouraging offline activities and face-to-face interactions- emphasizing the importance of offline activities and face-to-face interactions in promoting family bonding and well-being. I typically encourage families to prioritize offline activities such as outdoor play, family meals, and creative projects that foster connection and presence. By balancing screen time with offline experiences, relationships have been strengthened and resilience has been cultivated in the face of digital distractions.
  • Modeling healthy social media usage- leading by example by modeling healthy social media usage in my own professional and personal life. I demonstrate responsible online behavior, such as respectful communication, thoughtful content sharing, and mindful engagement with social media platforms. By modeling healthy habits, I have hoped to inspire families to adopt similar practices and create a positive digital environment within their own households.
  • Providing ongoing support and guidance- offering ongoing support and guidance to families as they navigate the challenges of social media usage. I am available to address concerns, answer questions, and provide resources to help families navigate difficult situations online. By offering personalized support and guidance, I have empowered families to overcome obstacles and thrive in the digital age.

Case Application

Recently, I had the privilege of working with a family who were grappling with the challenges of social media use in their household. James and Keisha, the parents, expressed concerns about their teenage daughter, Jasmine, spending excessive time on TikTok and the toll it was taking on her mental well-being. Jasmine, like many teenagers, was drawn to TikTok for entertainment and connection, but often found herself feeling anxious and inadequate after scrolling through her feed.

During our therapy sessions, we delved into the ways TikTok was shaping Jasmine’s thoughts, emotions, and behaviors. We discussed the importance of digital literacy and critical thinking in evaluating online content, especially on platforms like TikTok where trends and challenges can quickly go viral. Together, we established clear guidelines for healthy TikTok use within the household, including designated screen-free times and open discussions about online experiences.

As part of our therapeutic work, we integrated digital mindfulness practices into our sessions to help Jasmine and her family develop a more mindful approach to TikTok usage. We practiced techniques such as mindful scrolling, deep breathing, and engaging in offline activities to promote presence and connection within the family.

In addition to their digital mindfulness practices, the family began implementing a weekly family game night as a routine offline activity. They set aside one evening each week to gather and play board games, card games, or engage in other fun activities that didn’t involve screens. This allowed them to bond as a family, laugh together, and create cherished memories outside of the digital world.

Over time, I witnessed significant progress within the family as they implemented the strategies and interventions we discussed in therapy. Jasmine became more mindful of her TikTok usage, learning to recognize when she needed to take breaks and engage in offline activities. James and Keisha became more involved in their daughter’s online experiences, providing guidance and support as she navigated the complexities of social media.

During one of our therapy sessions, Jasmine shared a digital story she had created about her journey to finding balance with TikTok. Through a series of videos, photos, and captions, Jasmine expressed her thoughts, emotions, and reflections on her relationship with TikTok and the impact it had on her life. It was a powerful moment of self-expression and growth for Jasmine and her family, as they realized the importance of open communication, empathy, and mindfulness in navigating the challenges of the digital age.

As we concluded our therapy work together, I felt grateful to have had the opportunity to support the Thompson family in their journey towards healthier TikTok usage. Through collaboration, education, and support, we were able to empower them to navigate the digital landscape with confidence, compassion, and resilience. It was a testament to the transformative power of therapy and the positive impact it can have on families in today’s digital world.

***

As a marriage and family therapist, I have found it crucial to advocate for positive digital citizenship and support healthy child development. I have also remained vigilant in educating families about the risks and benefits of social media, while providing them with the tools and resources needed to navigate this complex terrain.

Questions for Thought and Discussion

In what ways do you (or don’t you) resonate with the author’s experiences?

How do you address this issue in your clinical work with teens and families?

Can you think of one particular clinical experience around social media that challenged you?

How to Be Successful in Child Therapy: Lessons From 5 Decades of Practice

The insights I value the most came from direct work with children, adolescents, and families who taught me what is most important and helpful in the work that we do. I learned from children that what is most essential is that we do not give up on them. Embracing unwavering faith in children as they go through the worst times of their lives may prove to be far more important than any technique or intervention we employ.

The Importance of Therapeutic Presence with Children

Repeatedly, my former child clients tell me this when they come back to visit 10, 20, or even 30 years later as they establish themselves in their adult lives. Surprising to me is the fact that at the time I was seeing these former child or adolescent clients, I did not feel that I was particularly helpful. The crises that brought them to therapy were so intense that I was unable to appreciate the power of therapeutic presence and commitment.

One of the most important insights that emerged from my private supervision with the late Walter Bonime, MD, senior training psychoanalyst, has helped sustain me during the most challenging moments of my 55-year career as a clinical psychologist working with children and families. Dr. Bonime taught me that no matter how frustrated, discouraged, angry, hopeless, or impotent the therapist may feel, it cannot begin to match the depth of the same feelings in the child.

Children taught me that sometimes “more is less.” In certain moments what is most important is that we be a caring presence, a trusted witness. The temptation is for therapists to shower intense moments with words that can diminish the transformative potential of a deep encounter with a child.

I’ve met many a “fawn in gorilla suit” during my career. The analogy suggests that the “fawn” as the core self is highly vulnerable — has been hurt too many times! The aggression (putting on the gorilla suit) is intended to protect that vulnerable fawn by keeping people at a safe distance. Yet, the longing for connection burns deeply within.

Another important understanding gained from the decades of work with children is that whenever a youth says, “I don’t care!” we should assume they once cared a lot, but it simply hurts too much, it is too great a risk to care anymore.

I’ve always told my interns and young clinicians, “when you don’t know what else to do, just treat children and families with profound respect and dignity.” They are surprised how far that goes.

Children carry within them powerful narratives that all too often no one takes the time to elicit or hear. The youth, as much as they might avoid it, long to unburden.

The therapist’s willingness to risk themselves in the therapy encounter, and sometimes be wrong, is a “gift” to children by creating a safer context for the child to express what is difficult to put into words.

An 8-year-old boy asked me to explain the initials after my name. This led the boy to say, “Well, you don’t look that smart!” I told him my family tells me the same thing. It reminded me of how important a sense of humility is in working with children. To connect with children, we must be willing to look like fools sometimes. Otherwise, we are no fun at all. Children will only feel free to talk when they feel free to not talk.

Our goal is to honor strengths without trivializing suffering. This is a delicate operation. The work we do is rewarding. We get paid in the currency of the heart. Some of the moments we share with children and families are precious and priceless. But our work is hard. There is an undeniable emotional toll exacted from caring for children with deeply wounded spirits.

Can we hear the hard stories without the hardening of our heart? To do so requires diligent and disciplined efforts to take adequate care of the instrument of healing — our self. As much attention in our field has been paid to the importance of self-care, each child therapist will need to reflect and honestly assess to what degree it is a priority. If we short-change ourselves, it is likely that we are also stiffing our families, and perhaps the children and families we treat as well.

[Editor’s Note: David and I are colleagues and friends, and we are honored to offer his reflection here, which is not about “what to do” with children and teens in therapy, but, “how to be.”]

Questions for Thought and Discussion 

  • In what ways is the author’s orientation to child therapy Similar to your own?
  • What have you found to be the most effective ways to intervene with children and teens?
  • What have you found to be some of the greatest challenges in working with young clients?

Sasha McAllum Pilkington on Grace and Storytelling at the End of Life

Lawrence Rubin: (LR): Sasha, thanks so much for joining me today. I was drawn to the narrative stories you’ve shared through your hospice work in New Zealand and the incredible way you help the dying and their families. But before we begin, I know you had something you wanted to say about your work with these clients. 
Sasha McAllum Pilkington: (SP): Kia ora, Lawrence. Thank you very much for having me. Tēna koutou katoa. Hello, everybody. My name is Sasha, and I work as a counselor for Harbour Hospice. We provide specialist palliative care for people in the community and have an inpatient unit. I work mainly as a counselor in the community. I just wanted to say that sometimes when I’m talking about practice, I use stories to illustrate what I mean, and I wanted people reading this to know that I do that with the consent of the people that I’m speaking about and with respect to their confidentiality. So, thank you. 

Meaning Making in the Shadow of Death

LR: I'm glad that you started right there, Sasha, because my very first question is, what does your way of co-creating stories with dying clients say about what you believe works in therapy or consultation?
SM: I think being alongside people who are dying, and their loved ones, is very important. When I speak of being “alongside,” I am referring to supporting a person to reflect on their experience and what matters to them in ways where they experience themselves as worthy of respect and holding knowledge about their own life. I think recognizing our shared humanity is significant in working with people who are seriously ill and approaching death. We are all mortal beings with bodies that can become unwell, and we can all suffer. I am no different in this regard from the people whom I meet in my work and keeping that idea forefront in my mind allows me to see the person beyond the illness and whatever changes that imposes. Change is a shared endeavor and, in my view, takes place in the relational space. So, the stories I have co-created with the people I have met show, I hope, a spirit of collaboration and the importance of the therapeutic relationship in generating change. It can be very hard living with a life-ending illness so I hope the writing acknowledges that while showing what might be possible for both the person who is unwell and the therapist.

You might notice that I use some unusual language constructions as we talk. My use of language reflects some particular understandings that I think are important therapeutically. For example, I speak of “the person who is dying” rather than “the dying person” to acknowledge that people are more than the illness they live with. They are more than the problems they live with. As a narrative therapist, I think identity descriptions are important as they influence how we think of ourselves, what we think might be possible for us, and then how we might respond. The identity of “dying person” can limit how the person sees themselves and then influence how they might respond and act.   

LR:
I speak of “the person who is dying” rather than “the dying person” to acknowledge that people are more than the illness they live with
Some might say that hospice work, at the very end of someone's life, either by natural causes or an illness, is the end of a story. But I'm hearing you say something that suggests that the storytelling that you co-create is not simply about an end.
SM: Relationships endure beyond death, don't they? One of the opportunities I get is to talk to people about the kinds of stories that they might like to endure and to meet with families and ask them what kinds of stories they might tell about that person after they have died. This puts me in mind of a family meeting I was part of that took place on a rural property with a farming family. The men were sitting around in their gumboots — big blokes who probably had never spoken to a counselor in their life, let alone been anywhere near one. I was asking the person who was dying how they would like to be remembered, and then the family what stories they'd be telling about their loved one.

At first, the family were shy and hesitant to talk. But as they warmed up, they started to tell some really funny farming stories, which were brilliant. One was about how the man fell out of the tractor and just lay there because he couldn't stand up but had insisted that he go on working. And these men started to laugh as they were sharing these stories from their lives, and then one of them said to me, “Oh, I thought you counselors were meant to make us cry, not laugh.” It was quite delightful. Talking about such stories not only can nurture the relationship with someone after they have died, but they can also make it grow. The written stories we co-create therefore often reflect not just how a person has died but what might endure from the relationship family members have had with them. For example, the published story called “A Small Hope,” which illustrated how a therapeutic conversation brought forward some beautiful memories two young children had of their father, and then how they were developed into legacy stories they could carry with them throughout their lives.   

LR: And perhaps that flies in the face of what the uninitiated believe counseling in hospice to be, which is about sadness, crying, and lamenting. But it sounds like the storytelling that goes on in these last days, or weeks, or months of your clients' lives are not just about sadness and grieving and saying goodbye, but almost like living eulogies.
SM: I think the work really reflects the richness of life and what people have to lose. There are stories of both great sadness and also the savouring of life, and what has been most precious. There is a lot of crying, but there is also a lot of laughter. People walking past my room sometimes wonder what on earth’s going on when they hear all the laughing coming out, and it can change from moment to moment. So, yes, the conversation can reflect what and who has mattered most to a person, the real richness in their life, and ways of living, as well as losses they may be experiencing. 
LR:
I'm always listening for the beauty in people's lives, the stories, the nested stories within whatever we're talking about
Has this particular way of working with the dying and their families over the years changed the way that you ask questions?
SM: Yes, writing collaboratively has changed my questioning. I've been writing therapeutic letters and collaborative notes for decades now and writing stories that illustrate practice over the last 10 years. It has changed both my way of questioning and what I’m listening for, as well.

If I'm looking back on conversations, say, in a transcript, it gives me the chance to really look closely at my questions and to think, “How could I have asked them better? What work is that question doing? Has it been helpful?” That constant examination and thinking about questions has really allowed me to be a lot more intentional and be more skillful in my questioning. At the same time, I think my listening has changed. I'm always listening for the beauty in people's lives, the stories, the nested stories within whatever we're talking about. Just the other night, someone was talking to me about accompanying a family member who was dying and said, “You know, the job of the family is to deeply love,” and it just really struck me. I heard that clearly and in a way, perhaps, that I wouldn't have prior to doing all this writing.  

LR: So, the stories, the notes, that flow from these interviews are, in a sense, love stories, stories of love, and how that's permeated the lives of the dying and their families?
SM: Yes, sometimes. I’m very much listening for expressions of Aristotelian goodness such as love and kindness, compassion, courage, determination, and because I'm listening for it and inquiring into those spaces, it very much comes forth. I was just thinking of your use of love. I mean, it is a form of love, doing this work, I think, isn't it?
LR:
there is an idea that the work is all sad, and what I would say is that it can be both sad and uplifting and enormously meaningful
Well, it certainly is, in my mind, the ultimate act of giving. And if love is defined in part or in whole by giving, then when you are sitting with a dying client and their family, it is, I think, the deepest form of giving. So, yeah, I think it is about love the way you describe it. What have you learned from working with the dying and their families that may encourage others, perhaps those who are sheepish, to venture into this particular domain? 
SM: I really hope that the stories I’ve published will encourage those who are interested in this work, and support them in gaining some confidence and feeling prepared for what they might encounter. I think, as we were saying previously, there is an idea that the work is all sad, and what I would say is that it can be both sad and uplifting and enormously meaningful. This work does require me to be present for suffering and to be able to enter some of the taboo areas of life. But having said that, when people are approaching death, there are also stories of what's been important and what's been good about living, and they can be incredibly rich. For me, I think there's something also about working with problems that can't be solved, that can't be fixed, and being alongside a person and making sense of what's happening… Conversations that generate helpful meaning making, that are transformative perhaps, or reveal the extraordinary in the taken-for-granted. For me, anyway, that's enormously rewarding. 
LR: So, because their futures are so foreshortened and their death is so inevitable, it's not like looking forward to alleviating depression or looking forward to lessening anxiety. It's looking forward to an absolute end and helping them to prepare for that end with the greatest sense of meaning they can.
SM: Yes, indeed. Meaning making is a significant part of the conversation I have with people. Making sense with people about what is currently happening to them as they live with the illness and also reflecting back on their lives. Having a sense of living meaningfully is very important to most people at the end of their lives. Every person's life is different and people bring different things to their dying. However, while our conversations talk about dying and perhaps what they might be afraid of, or what dying means to them, we also talk about living. We may spend time speaking about how they might like to spend the last phase of their life and what is precious to them, for example. 

Narrative Therapy: Discourses Around Death and Dying

LR: Your clinical work is grounded in the Narrative Therapy tradition of Michael White and David Epston, so I’m wondering what are some of the dominant discourses around death and dying that may actually be unhelpful to clinicians working with the dying and their families?
SM: When I first started working in palliative care, I noticed that there were many cultural messages about a “right” way to die and a “right” way to live with an illness that were highly influential in shaping people’s experience of the end of their lives. I learnt that dominant cultural discourses could be helpful for some people whereas for others they positioned them as not getting it right in some way.

One cultural idea that springs to mind is the idea that death is a bad thing to be fought. If you have a curable illness or apply this idea to your experience in particular ways it can be very useful. However, for many people living with an incurable illness, the idea of a fight can start to become unhelpful. It might lead to them fighting the illness at any cost, for example, forgoing quality of life in pursuit of more and more treatments to avoid dying. Or it may position them as either winning or losing a battle, which can be a very unhelpful and limited description for someone who is dying.

Part of my role is to create a space for people to reflect on how they are going about living with the illness and approaching death so they can examine whether they are doing it in ways that fit with their values and what matters to them.

I've illustrated therapeutic conversation with people who have taken up a fighting stance against an illness with different consequences in some of my papers. For example, in the first story that I ever wrote, I met with a man who refused to acknowledge he was dying and was fighting by continuing to work rather than spending time with his family, and that didn't fit with his values. For him, the meaning of fighting his incurable cancer was not abandoning his wife, and he decided to have some enormous experimental surgeries. It was a really important thing for him to do. A fighting stance can work for someone. I can think of another person who had a really traumatic childhood, as did his wife. They had found each other at a young age, and it had been a very happy relationship. And for him, the meaning of fighting his incurable cancer by having some enormous experimental surgery was not abandoning her. It was a really important thing for him to do. The cultural idea of fighting can be both unhelpful and helpful. Dominant ideas aren’t usually good or bad in themselves. However, if they are guiding a person’s life, are unexamined, and don’t fit with their values, they can be problematic. It's more important how particular cultural ideas are applied, the way that they affect people’s relationships with themselves and their experiences, and the meaning they hold as a way of approaching death.   

Another dominant Western idea that can have unintended consequences is the message that we should be positive. In fact, Carla Willig describes the pressure to be positive as a cultural imperative in Western societies. At the end of life, the idea that we must be positive can shut down talk of our mortality and of suffering leaving people alone in their experience. Part of what I do is to listen and be present for stories that are often silenced. They may be experiences of suffering or fears about dying for example. There are few relationships where people can speak of such things. The idea we “must be positive” affects health professionals, family, and friends as well. It may have family members and visitors trying to cheer people up rather than acknowledging what a person is going through. So, at times, it can be a very persuasive and unhelpful idea.  

There are many cultural discourses that can cause people distress when they are approaching death. The idea that relationships end with death, and we have to “move on” rather than that relationships continue beyond death. And then there are some of the individualistic discourses; Western discourses such as “the reason that I've got cancer is because I didn't eat right, exercise enough,” and so on, right? People are often made to feel they are to blame and individually responsible for the bad things that have happened in their lives even when they are societal issues. Those are just a few examples. I find Narrative Therapy helpful in untangling ideas so that the people I meet with can examine them more closely.  

LR:
another dominant Western idea that can have unintended consequences is the message that we should be positive
What is it about Narrative Therapy that helps you to untangle some of those dominant but unhelpful discourses with the dying and their families?
SM: Narrative Therapy has encouraged me to be curious about another person’s world and to use questioning practices to inquire about ideas that a person raises in conversation. This allows the ideas to be brought forward so the person can examine them and reflect on their influence on their life. The dominance of certain discourses or ideas can mean they are taken for granted as “truth” and unexamined. Narrative Therapy has trained me to pull apart the threads of an idea in collaboration with the people I meet with and to look for how that idea impacts on different groups of people with the workings of power in mind.

Hope is an experience that I commonly examine with the people I meet with. Hope can mean many things to many different people, and I can't assume that I know the meaning of it in a particular person’s life. I might ask, “What does hope mean for you?” There’s an example of such a conversation about hope and the questioning I might use in the story “A Small Hope.”

I think Narrative Therapy really lends itself to assisting people at the end of life to reflect on the cultural ideas that are shaping their experience and then choose and think about how they want to go about the end of their lives.   

LR:
Narrative Therapy has encouraged me to be curious about another person’s world and to use questioning practices to inquire about ideas that a person raises in conversation
And that sort of brings us back full circle to our opening when we talked about storytelling, co-creating stories, co-creating notes. You've said in your writing that in working with the dying, you try to bring forward identities other than illness. What did you mean by that?
SM: We're more than the problems that we live with, aren't we? We're more than an illness that we have, but when we're unwell with a serious illness that's perhaps kept us from doing what we normally do over a period of time, the idea of being a sick person, the sick identity, if you will, can really take over. And identities matter. They don't just speak to our past and to who we think of ourselves being, they really influence our decision-making and what we think is possible for us. So, the idea of being a sick person, if it takes over, can be quite limiting in what a person thinks is possible for them, and it can lead to ideas such as a person thinking that they're a burden or that they've got no way of responding to what's going on with them.

I, for instance, can think of a person I saw who didn't feel that his life was worth living because he thought he was a burden to others. When I met him, one of the things I noticed was that despite this man being unused to living with other people and describing himself as a bit of a hermit, the carers kept coming into the room. I asked him about this and the relationships with the carers and discovered he actually learned all about their families and the countries that they'd come from.

I discovered that he was someone who was deeply respectful of others and who was able to get on and make the people around him feel really good about themselves. And through exploring this, we were able to expand his possibilities by bringing forth identities of him as a person whom others liked, as someone who cared about other people and so on. I guess we were able to bring forth a sense of living meaningfully for him. The identity we brought forward of him as someone who could give to others and make them feel valued was really helpful in starting to push the idea that he was a burden out the back door.   

LR: And you wouldn't have known that had you not been at his bedside to actually see the community in action.
SM: Exactly, it was very helpful. In fact, people would be knocking on the door when I'd be seeing him. It was really quite something, and he was very surprised. He hadn't actually noticed how many people liked and cared about him until I began to ask him about all the visitors and what might lead them to want to spend time with him. 
LR: And that's one of the essences of Narrative Therapy, which is looking to take what they call the thin story and add depth and richness. So, I can see how someone approaching the end of life can become overly focused on that singular event, which you, through your storytelling, expand and enrich.
SM: Yes. The idea of a person being just sick or dying is a thin story of who a person is. Bringing forth the depth and richness of who they are can be enormously therapeutic. As I get to know people, I am listening for who and what matters and has mattered to them in their life and how they have gone about their life. As they share these details, I particularly listen for Aristotelian virtues that are expressed in how they have lived. The themes of virtues give rise to the possibility of rich identity descriptions for the person — them being a compassionate or kind person for example. Such identity descriptions are very helpful for someone who is unwell, as it is possible to enact them with a sick body. If someone’s been a great sportsman, that’s not going to be such a useful identity going forward even if it is something pleasurable to remember. Let me share an example of how these rich descriptions of a person can give rise to sometimes transformative responses.

I was once asked to see a man who was living with a number of very serious conditions. He was refusing to speak about his dying even though he was in the last few weeks of his life, and was insisting on having resuscitation even though it would be hopeless and at the same time very traumatic for his family. He was self-medicating to the point where there was real concern that he might accidentally kill himself and wouldn’t discuss his future care needs. It had come to a critical point, especially for his family. When any of our staff tried to speak with them about any of these matters, he became angry. After an incident where he shouted at one of our doctors, I was asked to go out and see him.

I went out and met him and his wife, and as is common practice for me, I began by asking him about himself and his life aside from the illness. As we discussed who and what was important to him, I was listening for Aristotelian virtues that he had expressed in the way he went about his life. I learned that he dearly loved his family. They were incredibly important to him, and he was very concerned about their well-being. I learned that he was a really considerate employer who knew all about the families of his employees. He personally bought them Christmas presents. He was a very kind man. And I also learned, in his early life, that he was a courageous person. He was an adventurer. He had been involved as a bystander in a very violent and frightening incident and had behaved with incredible compassion and courage. So, these are identities that I sought to bring forward through inquiry as I hoped that they might be helpful to him.

After nearly an hour, he said to me suddenly, “Sasha, you've got it.” And I said, “Oh, may I ask what is it that you think I've got?” And he said, “You get why I want to live. You get why I don't want to die. You will be my death philosopher, and I will talk about dying with you.” We were then able to talk about his dying and how resuscitation would be hopeless and traumatic for his family to witness. Remember, family really mattered to him, and that value was very present in the conversation. We were able to talk about his hopes in taking the medication, that it was harmful, and also about what he might want for the end of his life. I don't think it was just that he felt seen and heard, which was so important, but also that he was able to access parts of himself that he needed to have those conversations. The conversation and the two we had following this one allowed us to plan for him to have a dignified peaceful death with his family nurtured as well.  

Building Meaning at the Threshold of Death

LR: Well, it sounds like you're giving these folks an opportunity to contribute to the narrative rather than being a passive recipient of the traditional story of the dying person and giving them a sense of agency, and utility, and value. This makes me wonder, based on something you said in one of your wonderful writings that working with the dying is sacred. What did you mean?
SM: I meant that I think it needs to be revered, that we need to give every respect to the people we're talking to, that I need to give every respect to the person I'm talking to. I'm entering the most tender areas of a person's life. They may not have been able to share their fears, their experience, with anyone prior to that moment, sometimes because they want to protect those they love most, sometimes because it is taboo to go into these territories, and no one has been able to ask or even wonder.

I might be talking with a person about what their fears are about dying. What part of dying are they most frightened of? Just recently, I was talking with someone about her deep shame at the thought of other people seeing her naked body. Another was frightened about incontinence, and how would she maintain her dignity? These people are worthy of my every respect, and when they're able to share some of those fears or losses, it's the gift, and it's a gift to be honored, I think.  

LR:
these people are worthy of my every respect, and when they're able to share some of those fears or losses, it's the gift, and it's a gift to be honored
So, you don't use the word “sacred” necessarily in a spiritual or religious context.
SM: No, I'm using it just in the sense of to be revered but perhaps a bit more than that. The hospice has a Māori name called karohirohi, which means where the light hits the water, the liminal space, the space between living and death, and perhaps there is something about that space that's sacred, something that’s out of the ordinary. It's something to take great care of.
LR: By virtue of it being a liminal space, it is out of the realm of day-to-day experience. It really pushes one to be somewhere they've never been before. And to have the courage to do that, whether we call it heroic or sacred, special, unique — there may simply not be a word — but I do love the word “sacred.” Sasha, can you give an example of having worked with a client who, in spite of your best efforts, was not able to embrace meaning, was not able or even willing to take you up on your invitation to write a story that their survivors could have?
SM: I think you raise an important point. I adjust what I do according to the person or family I am meeting with and what it is that they want and works for them. I don't write stories with everybody as it’s not right for everyone for lots of reasons. I think that there is almost always the possibility for assistance, and supporting people to have a sense of living meaningfully if they are willing to have a conversation. Some people have more to grapple with than others and I may not be the best person for them to talk to. Someone else might be a better fit. I think it is for me to adjust and try and discover what works for each family. People have different ways of approaching death and living with illness. Talking may not be their preferred option or what is best for them. I respect their knowledge of themselves and what they want.  
LR:
I think that there is almost always the possibility for assistance, and supporting people to have a sense of living meaningfully if they are willing to have a conversation
They're very lucky then. What lessons about death and dying have you learned from working with the Māori?
SM: Many. I read Michael White's paper, “Saying Hello,” and learned about the idea of relationships continuing beyond death, but Māori, who are the indigenous people of Aotearoa New Zealand, have held that idea for 1,000 years or more. Māori incorporate their tipuna, their ancestors, into daily rituals. The idea that those who have died are part of our lives is a taken-for-granted idea within their culture and is a powerful example for me.

When I was learning all of this in the ‘80s, family therapy, thinking systemically, wasn't necessarily the usual way of thinking. Whereas, again, for Māori, thinking systemically, meeting as a group and working things out, was, again, a practice that they had done for 1,000 years. And I think the other thing is that the way that they mourn is, in my mind, very enlightened. For example, a tangi or tangihanga, which is a funeral, takes place over days rather than in an hour, giving meaningful time for connecting and expressions of grief. Such a practice has influenced the time my family and many others give to mourning. And I believe that New Zealanders touch their dead more than any other culture in the world, and perhaps this is part of the legacy and influence of Māori. I feel I’ve benefited from the influence of Māori processes.   

Postmodern Play Therapy: Helping a Child Overcome their “Trouble Energy”

When I was deeply entrenched in research, writing, and play therapy practice that incorporated superheroes, I learned about the importance of the origin story — the backstory narrative. It is no different in the context of this article, which is about what I call “postmodern play,” a term I use to describe play-based interventions rooted in Narrative Therapy. As a brief but related aside, I had just finished a book on the use of superheroes in counseling and play therapy when I was contacted by MSNBC to come on air to discuss what they, NOT I, called Superhero Therapy. When I sat excitedly in front of my television that night to watch myself, I noticed a chyron beneath my image that said, “The APA does not endorse Superhero Therapy.” Fifteen minutes of infamy, I guess.

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Ironically, I had never used the term, “Superhero Therapy” in my writing, nor did I profess my clinical work with superheroes to be evidence based. And so, it is here! The APA will never endorse postmodern play, nor will it ever attain evidenced-based status. And I aspire to neither.

But, as Irvin Yalom suggested in his Gift of Therapy, nonvalidated therapies are not (necessarily) invalidated therapies. So it has been for me, and postmodern play. In my child therapy work, particularly involving play, I have noticed that positive changes in the child’s world, both inside and outside of the therapy space, could often be explained by some of the core principles of Narrative Therapy, one of the postmodern approaches to therapy — which also includes Brief Solution-Focused Therapy. These core principles included a(n):

  • Strength-based orientation rather than one based on deficiency
  • Focus on the child as an agent of change
  • Externalization of the problem
  • Collaborative orientation to treatment that includes parents and teachers
  • Author-editor relationship between therapist and child
  • Future orientation that draws upon past successes
  • Articulation of preferred identity through storying
  • Personalization of outcome measures
  • Understanding that children have islands of competence

Channeling Trouble Energy in Play Therapy

As an example, I recall 8-year-old Liam, who came with his parents for help with “his” problems of stealing food, his mother’s jewelry, and temper tantrums — exclusively at home when he was confronted with his misdeeds. Born in Asia, Liam was adopted in early infancy and seemed to be progressing nicely through his developmental journey. But something was happening that was giving rise to this relatively new spate of behavioral problems. During the intake, the parents and I wondered together if the racial/cultural difference between him and his parents was contributing to an emergent and distressing sense of “otherness” — they rarely, if ever, discussed the adoption, Liam’s origin story. We wondered if he was trying to process the loss inherent in the adoptive process, stealing as a way of filling a gap. We wondered if the marital tension between them was creating a bed of unrest and insecurity for Liam. We wondered!

When Liam came to my office the following week, I was met by a very poised, articulate, and interesting child whose vigorously shaking leg suggested that deeper currents of emotions ran just below the surface of this very seemingly contained boy. Drawn in by that current, I wondered aloud about the “energy” in his leg, and asked in what other parts of his body does he sometimes feel such energy. He played right along and said how sometimes that energy goes to his stomach, and sometimes arms, and together, we called it “body energy.” We explored this body energy when it started and whether he liked it, whether it got in the way sometimes and what he typically did with it once it appeared.

From there we launched into a conversation of other possible types of energy that he had, and as I asked him to describe some of his interests, which included history and origami, I asked him if he could label that energy, to which he responded, “art energy and learning energy.” A bit later in the conversation, when our conversation turned to the concerns his parents had around his stealing and angry outbursts, he quite spontaneously came up with the notion of “trouble energy.” I asked him to pick a colored piece of Play-Doh and show me how big trouble energy could be in his life, and he offered an apple-sized ball of Play-Doh in his little hands. That was the sum total of our intake and treatment plan.

The clinical work in the following weeks consisted of:

  • Play therapy with Liam using the sandtray to act out play out scenes of family separations and reunions
  • Playful conversations about trouble energy in his life, and what he wanted to do with it and its influence
  • Liam sharing his vast knowledge of world history and “trying” to teach me origami
  • Discussing simple behavioral methods for the parents to use when Liam expressed anger and took things
  • Collaboration with his teacher around additional sensitivity to his needs, and
  • Occasional family drawing time during which Liam and his parents expressed themselves freely.
  • Referral of Liam’s parents to a marital counselor which they happily agreed to.

I never doubted that Liam was content with allowing trouble energy to rule his life, and I always had confidence that his parents and teacher could and would work together to support him and bring out the best in him. As a tip of my hat to readers who might be wondering, “well, what was your outcome measure(s),” I offer the following which is Liam’s depiction of trouble energy at the time of our last session at right, in contrast to trouble energy at the beginning of our work, at left.

I also offer the words of David Nylund, speaking at the Pan Pacific Brief Therapy Conference in Japan in 2001, regarding outcome measures in a postmodern, narrative play therapy context. He said, “I believe in evidence, but I am more interested in what constitutes evidence, and who gets to decide on what counts as evidence. Is it professionals, licensing boards, researchers, and journal editors? Or is it clients? If a young person is able to reclaim his life from ADHD, for example, and we create and circulate a therapeutic letter about his experience, I consider that just as compelling as a randomized clinical trial.”

***

My work with Liam and his family was complete, satisfactory to all involved. His tantrums subsided, the family re-visited and openly discussed the story of his adoption, and his feelings about it, and the stealing ended. I trust that my description of the work adequately captures the core principles and methods of what I call postmodern play therapy. Chyrons not withstanding!

Questions for Reflection and Discussion

What are your impressions of this author’s work with Liam?

In what ways have you found narrative therapy to be helpful?

What about this approach do you find interesting? Helpful?

The Elder in Exile: Psychotherapy with Older Adults

A frustrated and depressed nursing home resident recently described the facility as “a place where unwanted elders can be exiled.” Through our therapy conversation in that session, he came to acknowledge that he did have problems with his memory and his health, and that his facility residence was reasonable — even though unwanted — and was not a rejection by his son. “I know he’s only doing what he thinks is right for me.”

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The Emotional Plight of the Nursing Home Resident

Many residents of nursing homes view their predicament as a rejection, or an exile, or an imprisonment. Many blame family members for the situation and try to pull the heart strings of loved ones in efforts to get them “to take me home.”

Many adult children weep as they speak with me about the conflicts they feel over the placement of their mother or father in the facility. Daily care at home with family is desired by all, yet available to only a few.

The older person living in the nursing home may feel a loss of home, family, their former roles, and too often, their sense of the value of their life. Some older people feel not only cast out by others, but inadequate due to the infirmities of their advanced age and their medical problems.

As I speak with seniors in psychotherapy at nursing homes, I discuss the specific aspects of their situation and seek to place some of their experience in a broader cultural and societal context. For example, I talk of ways that “the Elder” has traditionally been venerated in human societies.

Whether sitting around a fire in the cave, or in a small tribe, or a simple village, it has been the Elder who others looked to for history, stories, and advice. The younger members of the tribe or clan or family came to the Elder to learn the lore and lessons of their people. Others listened to and memorized the stories told by the Elder, and those stories they passed along when they, in turn, became an Elder.

The older nursing home resident might feel adrift from their family and their former life, but the value and the lessons of their life endures, and the sharing of their personal stories — whether in life-review therapy, with family, or with others at the facility, is a key part of reclaiming and affirming the value of their experience.

I encourage residents to share their stories with me and others in their life. I point out and affirm the dignity and value of the person’s journey through a long life. I speak to seniors of ways the society has changed, and how elders might not socially be held in the respect that their lives deserve and have earned.

Some people have suggested that nursing homes ought to have daycare programs attached to them, for the mutual benefit of old and young. But I think that it might be more productive, and developmentally appropriate, to have programs for troubled teens associated with nursing homes. Then, a teenager might share her problems about a relationship, her parents, school, or a career choice, and the senior might be able to understand and share suggestions, relate anecdotes, and offer guidance that might be helpful and in line with the long history of ways younger persons have been helped and guided by the wisdom of the Elder.

“Okay, but I don’t know if I really am wise, and I have all kinds of problems,” an elderly lady said as we discussed these ideas one day. I point out that throughout the long history of human life, the Elder who others looked to and venerated, likely also experienced problems with balance, and with short-term memory, and with urinary incontinence; but that did not erase the value of what they could contribute to younger generations.

It is important to share the stories of one’s life. As we age, we might become less active, and we might forget some of the recent events, but we might retain long-term recall of long past events and situations and relationships — and the sharing of those stories can enrich the understanding and the development of the younger person.

A nursing home sponsored a program a few years ago in which all the staff wore a round metal pin labeled “I’m a Future Senior Citizen.” That program enhanced the awareness of younger workers about the aging process. We each may now be, or may later be, senior citizens. Aging does not invalidate the adventures and lessons of a full life. A key task for the elderly person is to share their tales, and that is as it ever has been, and should be. And one of the most valuable tasks a therapist can undertake with the elderly is to give them the opportunity to share their story.