Bethany Brand on the Identification and Treatment of Dissociative Identity Disorder

Lawrence Rubin: Bethany Brand is a professor of psychology at Towson University. She’s an expert in trauma, specializing in trauma related disorders, including post-traumatic stress disorder and dissociative disorders. She also maintains an independent practice in clinical psychology in Towson, Maryland. Doctor Brandt serves on international and national task forces developing guidelines for the assessment and treatment of trauma disorders. Welcome, Bethany. Thank you for joining.

Bethany Brand: Thank you so much for having me.

Right Place, Right Time

LR: What got you interested in dissociative disorders, trauma, and ultimately dissociative identity disorder from a personal perspective?

BB: It was a number of things. One of the early experiences I had as an undergraduate at the University of Michigan was working in a shelter for women who’d been battered, which is what it was called back then—not interpersonal violence like we call it now. I started hearing about trauma and remember being very interested in it. In my first semester of graduate school, I was doing a psychological testing practicum at Johns Hopkins Hospital on the kids’ unit. This was in the late 80s, so many of the kids had been abused or neglected according to their charts. I asked my supervisor how that experience might be reflected in their psych testing—how would they be different? And there we were at Hopkins, one of the premier institutions in our country, and she did not know.

To her credit, she acknowledged that and asked her supervisor, who later gave us this fascinating off-the-cuff talk about trauma and his experience with traumatized kids. It was so compelling that I decided that was what I wanted to do my master’s thesis on. I was lucky enough at the time that Frank Putnam, one of the legends in the field of dissociation, called my graduate program, asking for students who might be willing to volunteer on his project—a longitudinal study of girls who’d been sexually abused. I was incredibly lucky to be at that right place at the right time, working with a pioneer.

To be honest with you, I wasn’t sure about the whole idea of dissociative identity disorder because we didn’t see that in the lab and that was not what we were studying, even though Frank was studying it at the National Institute of Mental Health. When I later went on internship at George Washington University Hospital, a woman there said she had multiple personality disorder, with whom I had done the testing.
The treatment team was a little skeptical, but my supervisor referred me to Judy Armstrong at Sheppard Pratt Hospital in Baltimore who offered to review the data with me. After she did so, she said, “You know what; you actually might have somebody with MPD.” After that, it was just luck because I got a postdoctoral fellowship at Pratt, where they had just opened up a trauma disorders unit, and where I did my dissertation on trauma. I remained there and began working very heavily with folks with DID, and other serious, complex trauma disorders. Right place, right time, and fortunately, amazing training with amazing clinical supervisors.

DID and the Dissociative Spectrum

LR: Before I ask you what readers most likely want to know, which is, “What actually is DID,” why the transition from “multiple personality disorder” as a label to, “dissociative identity disorder?”

BB: There were a lot of reasons, but just to be very brief; by calling it multiple personality disorder, many clinicians thought it was a personality disorder like borderline personality disorder, and it’s not in that category. The experts in the field wanted to emphasize it was a trauma related disorder connected to dissociation, not a disorder of personality. The name change was an attempt to reflect that.

LR: Well, I guess relatedly—and I may get back to my initial question—does the DSM’s characterization of DID as a complex post-traumatic developmental disorder, ‘capture it?’

BB: It’s a terrific start. It’s a foundational start, because it implies that it starts in childhood, which is what developmental disorder means. The research strongly points to very early severe chronic child abuse as the cause. But we also know that there is genetic tendency towards dissociation. And often these clients who end up as individuals who develop DID also have attachment problems because they didn’t have secure attachment. There are multiple things going on, but trauma really has an early childhood foundation.

LR: In your writing, you discuss TRD or trauma related dissociation and suggest that DID is almost always related to early childhood trauma and severe disruption of the attachment relationship. Is there such a thing as a NTRD, or non-trauma related dissociation?

BB: Yes! We all dissociate to some extent, so normal non-pathological dissociation can occur. It can be going into a state of automatic pilot. For example, when we’re driving down the highway and we’re really thinking about something, and barely remember the drive when we get home. Or we’re driving down the highway and we miss our exit because we’re so preoccupied, not because of traffic, but because of our mental disconnection from what we’re doing.

It can also happen at moments of peak spiritual experiences or athletic experiences when people can disconnect from their bodies or feel out of their bodies and have this incredible experience. But none of these experiences interfere with functioning.

LR: I imagine getting lost in a book or a song or a movie or a conversation containing elements of dissociation, but on the left side, or benign side of the spectrum.

BB: Exactly. Those are called absorption, and some people are very prone to absorption. We know from research that the more somebody is prone to absorption, they may be more at risk for dissociation. There’s been some debate over whether absorption should be called dissociation or not? For now, it is understood as one of the lower levels, not-so-problematic types of dissociation, which comes from self-report measures.

LR: Is it clinically useful to think of a dissociative spectrum with absorption type experiences on the left or benign side, and DID as the most extreme and pathological form all the way to the right?

BB: Yes, I think it is. But I’ll say that with awareness that some people living with DID really resent that, because understandably, this was an adaptation to horrendous, overwhelming circumstances. And so, I completely get it and respect that they had a brilliant way of adapting and getting through what would have been just harrowing experiences. The research actually supports exactly what you said.
As I said earlier, all of us dissociate to some extent. And then when you start studying dissociation and different psychological disorders, there’s a range of scores that people have on the different, self-report questionnaires. And it starts out with people having [scores] a little bit above what might be for people who are not struggling with any emotional disorder.

And then it gets at the highest level is folks with DID. And in between, there might be people with eating disorders and maybe borderline personality disorder, because there’s often a lot of trauma in those people’s background, and then you start getting into PTSD. And then the dissociative disorders indeed are at the end with the highest levels of dissociation.

LR: I would think that someone who is engaging in non-suicidal self-injury or someone who is in the middle of an intense food or substance binge is in an acute state that requires a certain amount of dissociation to be able to inflict that level of harm on to yourself.

BB: Is there some dissociation that goes on during those moments? The answer is yes! Often people are somewhat disconnected from their bodies. An example is a client who, with DID or severe dissociation, may be cutting and not feel it and be kind of fascinated with what they’re seeing under their skin, like really extreme cutting with the detachment. And they don’t feel the pain.

LR: Is it possible that someone with DID could be cutting while there’s another element of that personality that’s watching? Am I using the right nomenclature for the other “states?”

BB: There are people in the field that are really pushing for those parts to be called dissociative self-states. In the literature, they’re alternatively called identities, personalities, parts, and alters. We’re really trying to emphasize that whatever they’re called, that they’re all parts of one person. They’re self-states. They’re not different people. That’s why we’re encouraging that name to be adopted in the next DSM.

LR: I find myself gravitating toward more questions that may be more of a popular culture artifact, but I’ve heard that different self-states can have symptoms of a particular medical illness or disease while another is asymptomatic. Is that possible in your experience?

BB: It depends on what illness you’re talking about. We know that, depending on our emotional state, our blood pressure may change, right? And Frank Putnam, who I referred to earlier, did some of the early research showing that different self-states have different EEG patterns.

Simone Reinders in the Netherlands has done a bunch of research studying neurobiological differences among some self-states. She’s tried having professional actors impersonate self-states while they were hooked up with all kinds of biological markers, including brain scans. They could not emulate different self-states.

It’s remarkable. It’s not magic. It’s a disorder that is linked to neurobiological changes and differences. And of course, these different self-states are going to include the traumatized self state, the one that remembers trauma and has all the symptoms that go with that PTSD. When they’re scanned, of course you might expect their heart rate to be much faster and for them to have more activity in their limbic system, versus a part that’s very detached and doesn’t recall that trauma. The heart rate of that self-state is not going to be as elevated. And they’re not going to have the intense amygdala activation.

LR: I can see that if someone is in a moment of active sexual abuse, sexual trauma, that it’s in the body’s interest to down-regulate the heart rate and cortical activation.

BB: Yes. There are studies about that, talking about how animals go into survival mode and, you know, like the faint mode or the feigning death mode. There are some animals that have that response of total disconnection from their bottom up to allow them to survive attack. Well, there’s some parallels with humans that have been horrendously abused repeatedly. Their brains shift into dissociation as a survival mechanism.

Their access to memory can be quite different as well. One of the diagnostic requirements is that there be amnesia for some of their life experiences, that are not due to drugs, alcohol, or head injury. Or they may not remember key autobiographical events, like their own wedding. We call that dissociative amnesia.

LR: What are some of the myths and misconceptions about DID that clinicians should know about?

BB: There are a lot, unfortunately. One is that DID is exceptionally rare. On and across different prevalence studies, at least 1% of the general population meets criteria for DID. That’s the same prevalence rate roughly as bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. So, it’s not rare, but there have been some critics.

Critics of the whole notion of dissociation and DID have been putting it out for a long time in articles that are published in journals. And that has found its way into psychology textbooks that undergrads and grad students read that put forward that myth so that unfortunately, many people, even mental health clinicians, think it’s rare. Another myth put forward by the critics is that DID folks exaggerate their symptoms or are prone to create false memories of abuse.

When you actually compare people with DID to people with PTSD to what are called healthy controls, people who don’t have any emotional problem, and professional actors who try and emulate all of this stuff, there are some studies we’ve done that show that people with DID
are no more likely than people with PTSD to develop false memories.

The important thing that most mental health clinicians have not been trained to know is that they are highly symptomatic across a bunch of different domains. They don’t just have amnesia and different dissociative self-states. They also have PTSD. And we know PTSD is a complicated disorder with 17 potential symptoms. And so, at times they’re flooded with traumatic intrusions, pictures, awful memories, awful nightmares. And then there’s periods where they’re shut down and avoid it because it’s so awful to remember and feel that stuff.

And then there can be incredible periods of irritability and sleeplessness and feeling like they’re an awful person and different from the rest of the world. There’s a lot of research showing that dissociation is very common among people with PTSD. They also have major depression and because living with all these symptoms is so brutally difficult, many of them have substance use problems.

They try to knock out the memories by drinking too much or using drugs. They often also have eating disorders because they have a very difficult time tolerating their bodies. They blame their bodies for their abuse, and so they try and get really big so that nobody’s ever attracted to them or—and they often go back and forth, or they get really anorexic and starve themselves hoping to die or to look unappealing that way.

All of that is shown in the literature. And with regard to feigning DID, one of the ways that you look for malingering is when somebody is reporting too many symptoms or reporting exceedingly severe symptoms. They are much more likely to be classified as potentially malingering on some of the evidence-based measures and interviews for malingering. I’ve developed research that helps mental health clinicians and forensic experts know how to differentiate when somebody has true DID and when somebody is attempting to simulate it.

The critics also don’t really understand complex trauma. They are typically not clinicians or academics. But because so few mental health folks are getting trained in the evidence-based information about DID, they come away with these stereotypes out of textbooks that are just wrong. They’re just flat wrong. And myths.

LR: Is there a short list of the cardinal presentations that differentiate DID from some of the other severe forms of psychopathology?

BB: Back when I was trained, I was taught that if you hear voices, you are psychotic. But more than 75% of people who have DID hear voices.

LR: Schizophrenic?!

BB: Yes, schizophrenia or maybe the psychotic phase of bipolar disorder. I would encourage therapists to not automatically assume that hearing voices means psychosis. There’s a whole bunch of research, including people who don’t have DID, experience voice hearing, and this is strongly associated with trauma exposure. There have been meta-analyses that support this, so I suggest that clinicians always ask every client, no matter the setting, if they have been exposed to trauma. So, learn how to do a good trauma assessment.

If somebody endorses having experienced trauma, then ask about PTSD symptoms and dissociative symptoms. Ask about the different types of dissociative symptoms. Ask about depersonalization. Does the person ever feel numb when they should have feeling? Does the person ever feel like their body doesn’t belong to them? Do they ever see themselves at a distance, like outside of themselves, like they’re watching a movie? Those are three common symptoms of depersonalization, and there’s a range of other symptoms they can ask about, like do you sometimes feel like you’re younger or not your own biological age. Ask about voice hearing.

LR: What’s your gut feeling about why there’s such resistance among clinicians to embrace the reality of DID?

BB: It does sound farfetched, right? But that’s because people are misunderstanding the disorder. It is impossible for people to have multiple people inside themselves. It is impossible. Right. But, Lawrence, you don’t have a little Lawrence running around in your brain, and I don’t have a little Bethany running around in my brain. How do you know you’re not me?

LR: I’ll have to check.

BB: I stump my students when I ask that question. You know who you are because you know that you have a cat and that you’ve been married and lived in Michigan, and that you like Hello Kitty, and that you like certain kinds of music and food, and you have knowledge and memory of family and life experiences. But people with DID don’t always feel like all that.

First of all, they have periods of time missing. And so, they’re confused about who they are and what’s happened in their lives. But they’re not different people inside. Now, I’m going to say that, and some of the readers who have the idea are going to object to what I just said, because some people with DID do feel like they are different people.

That is their perceived experience, but people with DID don’t literally have little people running in their heads either. Our personalities are based on the neural firing of networks in our brains. And like we were saying earlier, there’s a neurobiological pattern that is characteristic for trauma related self-states versus ones that are very detached and don’t remember the trauma.

So, I think a lot of mental health people are mistaken and don’t understand what they have heard. It’s rare and I’ve been told this so many times, “Doctor Brand, I’ve been in the field for 30 or 40 years, and I’ve never seen a DID patient.” But I guarantee you, if they’ve really seen a lot of clients, they actually have, but missed it because perhaps they’re looking for dramatic presentations like Sybil. If it was that obvious, then when people switched states, it would be easy to diagnose. But that’s what movies do to make it look right to the audiences. That is not actually what DID really looks like.

A Tiered Approach to DID Intervention

LR: What is a multi-phasic approach to intervention with DID, and why is it considered the gold standard?

BB: It means that clinicians who work with DID and other serious dissociative disorders are realizing that there needs to be three stages of treatment. When somebody comes into treatment with complex trauma, and especially if it’s very serious, there needs to be an initial stage of stabilization of their symptoms. At this early stage, they may be suicidal, self-harming, drinking and using drugs, or engaging in some other kind of addictive behavior.

They often have really high levels of hospitalization, so they need to learn other ways of regulating themselves that are safe and that they can do out of the hospital. If and when they get stabilized, they begin learning how to regulate emotions in ways that ground them, which is the opposite of dissociation.

Once they’re stable and want to go on to stage two work, we are talking about trauma processing. That’s where they may then talk about some of the trauma so that gradually they can heal from that and not have so many intrusions of nightmares and flashbacks and horrible memories or feeling numb to it.

It’s an awful thing to feel like you’re deadened inside. That would be stage two work, which can take a very long time. So can stage one, by the way. And then comes stage three. For complex trauma—and I’m not just talking DID now—but in general, the person works more on developing their life, their friendships, their career goals; they’re no longer so focused on the past and trauma, but integrating into whatever kind of life and relationships they want.

LR: Is this in line with your “Finding Solid Ground” program?

BB: Yes. The program I’ve created with colleagues called “Finding Solid Ground” is a staged stabilization approach where we help clients learn about, first of all, grounding. But it’s not just for people with DID, but also for people with complex PTSD, and what in the United States is called the dissociative subtype of PTSD.

Our research is showing it helps all these folks, not just DID, but they learn to be more present to their emotions and deal with emotions in healthier ways. They learn about how to deal with PTSD so it’s more contained and not so intrusive so they can sleep better so that they’re not having these awful images pop into their mind and interrupt their functioning all day.

We help them learn to separate past and present. When somebody has very bad PTSD, the brain cannot really distinguish the difference between a flashback and the present moment. It feels to the person it is happening now. So, we teach them how to catch their warning signs that they may start being close to being at risk for intrusions of PTSD, that they might start dissociating, that they might start drifting towards self-harm, and then find ways to get out of that cycle. Among other things, we teach them a little bit about the neurobiology of trauma and that it’s not their fault.

LR: Is integration of self-states the absolute end goal for treatment?

BB: When I first accepted that postdoc at Sheppard Pratt in 1993, the emphasis in the field was integration of personality states. And yet that’s not what I was hearing and seeing was happening very often. I was the leader of a study where we asked experts around the world how many patients had they integrated in their careers. It was small numbers.

That may not sound like a jolt of lightning to readers, but it did lead us to rethink whether that was very achievable for most patients or not?

At the same time, many people living with DID do not want to integrate their parts because they have lived often for decades with these parts. And that helps them function from their perspective. That is who they are. They value their parts, or eventually you hope that therapy can help them learn to respect and value their parts rather than be at war. Some of the self-harm and suicide attempts are about one part trying to kill off another. At the time, they don’t recognize they will all die if they commit suicide. So now I have a different perspective and I think there are different options. I think clients should have the right to choose what they want their endpoint to be.

And that may change over treatment. In the beginning, some clients absolutely say get rid of these parts, but they don’t understand. They can’t. I use the metaphor that you can’t live by cutting out your heart or your liver. And it’s the same thing with self-states. You have survived because of the self-state. You can’t get rid of one. You can learn to work as a coherent collaborative group like a business or a healthy family rather than being at war.

DID and the Family Connection

LR: Are there useful systemic interventions that involve family, spouses, children?

BB: Of course, as a therapist, I’m teaching them, but I don’t want their spouse or partner to be doing therapeutic things. Right! But it gets really messy. If they have children who see them switch, and mom or dad doesn’t seem to remember things they’ve said or done, I find ways to explain DID to the kids in an age-appropriate way.

It is incredibly important that they’re not switching a lot in front of their children. Parents should be consistent no matter what, no matter who they are, whether they have DID, bipolar disorder, or PTSD. Children need consistency. So I would work with a client to help them develop the parenting parts and having them learn to look similarly and act similarly with the kids, so they’re not confusing the kids.

LR: In this context, can a person with DID voluntarily call on another self-state, rather than it “taking over” during a time of crisis or trauma-related moment?

BB: Yes. So that might be something that we’d work on, to go back to that last example, when they’re around their children. You would want them to work towards having parts that can be very supportive, caring, loving, consistent parents. And the parts that are little, that feel as if they are young children, terrorized, traumatized themselves, would be in the back of the mind.

All this is metaphor, however, right? There are no little people, right? But metaphorically, those self-states are taken care of internally so that they are consistent. Same thing with work, same thing when they’re driving.

LR: You said earlier, Bethany, that invariably, dissociative states and DID in particular are born out of severe trauma in childhood and attachment disruptions. At what point might a clinician begin to suspect dissociative identity disorder in childhood?

BB: Really good question. Some of the same symptoms that later develop and become more severe in adulthood can be seen in little children with the beginning stages of a dissociative disorder. One thing I haven’t mentioned is that adults with DID can go into trance states where they’re not responsive to the outer world.

Little kids start showing attention and zoning out. They’re often misdiagnosed as having ADHD. So again, we need all clinicians to be trauma-informed and trained. Not that they’re expecting to see a dissociative kid, but they might, especially if they have symptoms of PTSD like nightmares and flashbacks, or report having imaginary friends. Some talk about that for a second.

Developmentally, it’s normal for children to have imaginary friends. But if imaginary friends start to be frightening, or upsetting, or tell the child to hurt their sibling or a pet, or to destroy their toys, that’s not a “normal” kind of scenario. Little kids usually stop talking about imaginary friends around age seven. But people with DID report that they never went away. Those actually linger as parts of their dissociative self-states.

Keyword, Avoidance!

LR: There are clinicians who believe that if we look hard enough for trauma, we will find it. Is it similar for dissociation and DID?

BB: It might be! During medical training, students commonly think they have all the different disorders. The same thing may be happening in our field. For 26 years, I taught a course on differential diagnosis and interviewing. At the beginning of the class, I warned the students that they were going to be tempted to diagnose themselves along with everybody they loved or hated. It is a normal phase of learning the DSM but I asked them to be respectful and stick to the diagnostic criteria, so they don’t go telling people they’ve got borderline personality disorder.

There is a normal stage of training in which, at least for a while, we may overuse certain concepts as we’re learning them. But again, if clinicians are well-trained in differential diagnosis they will be less likely to overdiagnose certain symptoms and disorders—in this case, dissociation and DID. This is one of my research streams.

There is a lot of research out there, and I’ve written a book about how to assess dissociation and how to distinguish it from other symptoms and disorders. Here is where training is critical. The ways you treat schizophrenia and bipolar disorder are very different from the way you treat DID. Schizophrenia and bipolar are the two disorders that people with DID are most often misdiagnosed with.

People with DID don’t need mood stabilizers or heavy-duty antipsychotics. Instead, you do a trauma-informed stabilization approach. Two of my earliest DID clients were misdiagnosed with schizophrenia and treated accordingly for years. One passed away and gave me permission to share her story. By the time I saw her, she had horrible tardive dyskinesia. She had been disfigured by the treatment for schizophrenia that she didn’t have. Once we started working together, she got a lot better— not cured, but a lot better, and she was much more functional. She had dropped out of school and midway through high school, she went back and became a minister in her community.

LR: What do you see as the core elements of training that need to be incorporated into graduate programs so that DID can be correctly identified, and interventions designed?

BB: Only 8% of APA-approved doctoral programs require a course in trauma. That’s gotta change. Information about trauma should be a required part of graduate training in psychology, social work, and related fields. As part of that training, they also need to learn about dissociation and the range of dissociative disorders, and how you assess for dissociative disorders, and how you do differential diagnosis. And, of course, something about evidence-supported treatment. There’s only one program so far based on randomized controlled trial data that shows it helps people with profound dissociative disorders. But they should hear about that. That should be in the textbooks.

LR: What do you think is contributing to that incredible avoidance by the APA of mandating graduate-level trauma training at graduate level?

BB: A group of us have been pushing for different guidelines about working with complex trauma that finally got approved by the APA this last summer. But there is pushback. And a lot of us think there’s a political issue. Let’s just think about what PTSD means. The required criteria center around avoidance. You nailed it there!

Even people who’ve been traumatized don’t want to think about it. It’s human nature not to want to know, think, and talk about trauma. Believe me, it’s a hard part of my job. I do it, and of course I know how to do it. But hearing the stories of what has happened to little children is incredibly difficult.
And there’s some real doubters out there when it comes to thinking about child abuse. Maybe they should read a little bit about child pornography and child trafficking and how rampant they are, because we’ve got plenty of evidence that that happens. Some individuals report that part of their abuse was being the victims of child pornographers.

So, I think we don’t want to think about that stuff!

LR: Avoidance on a large scale.

BB: Avoidance. You nailed that.

LR: Not to get sidetracked, but I wonder if this is what Bessel van der Kolk experienced when he tried to get his developmental trauma disorder approved by APA.

BB: I’m sure that’s some of it, but not-unshockingly, it likely goes back to financial issues.

LR: It’s hard to imagine.

BB: At this point, the National Institute of Mental Health has never once funded a study of the treatment of DID. So, I have literally had to get donations to fund my studies. Do you think cancer researchers do that? Do you think researchers of any other disorder must have bake sales and pass the plate at college?
Where is the money in trauma right now? It’s in the Veterans Administration. I’ve heard this from various people who work there. They do not recognize DID, and they don’t want anybody in the VA system being diagnosed with DID, because that’s a real problem for our military, right? Everybody there has a dissociative disorder. Although believe me, I have assessed people in that system and helped them get honorary discharge. Anyway, there’s a huge amount of funding that goes to VA research and they emphasize working with adults. They want to keep the soldiers “strong” and ready to go or whatever the branches to ready to fight. Yeah. The childhood trauma.

LR: It’s hard not to introduce politics into conversations at this level. But do you have any concerns about funding for dissociative and other disorders as the incoming administration takes form?

BB: I do, and I think many, many researchers are very concerned about funding for new science research in general. But then when you get into groups like research on women, research on children, research on traumatized people, research on any kind of minorities, but especially LGBTQ groups, people are very worried. My funding has always been a problem. But I do have many generous donors.

Wrapping Up

LR: There’s so many big sales you can have, and winter is coming.

BB: So, we’ll have some hot chocolate sales and some coffee. Yes, there is a group called the International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation (ISSTD). They do lots of multi-level, face-to-face and online training for dissociation and children, adolescents, and adults. They also supported RCT studies for our Finding Solid Ground program.

I’m strongly urging clinicians to learn about that program. We’ve got two books out there. One for people living with the disorder, and one for therapists. Our research shows that the Finding Solid Ground program works best when the therapist knows the program and the clients working with the therapist who knows the program.

LR: Has counter transference entered into your work with any particular client?

BB: For anybody working with complex trauma, there is going to be countertransference and traumatic countertransference. And the client will experience transference. There’ve been times I felt like I wanted to rescue somebody because they’ve had such a hard life. But you’ve got to keep the boundaries strong. I consult with a lot of therapists. One of the mistakes I hear from therapists is they do try and rescue, or they go too far. It’s not uncommon that therapists will see a DID client for free and become very burned out. I don’t ever advise that.

The psychotherapy research shows that people benefit from treatment more if they’re paying something. It’s also common for therapists to alternate between feeling helpless, like the child was back during trauma time, and at other times harsh and mean which the client may experience as harsh and mean, almost like the perpetrator or a non-protective bystander. Those three roles are extremely common in the treatment, so I teach a therapists to watch for that, to work on that, and to make that understood.

Something they actually talk about with their clients so neither get stuck in those spaces and can learn from it. It’s part of the healing, rather than becoming the point where the treatment comes off the rails.

LR: I think that we could talk for hours, Bethany. It’s been a fascinating conversation for me as I hope it was for you. Is there anything I’ve left out?

BB: Yes. There are people out there who have died because of this disorder, but there is hope, even despite the tremendous suffering. It’s important that these people know that they are not alone, and neither are their therapists. It’s important that therapists convey that they’re not alone, it’s not their fault, and that they are not weak or dumb. They don’t have to suffer endlessly, and neither do therapists need to feel powerless. There’s hope.

LR: I think the clinical world is a smarter place for your presence in it. Thank you, Bethany.

BB: Thank you!

When to Use Unexpected Techniques with Emotionally Overwhelmed Adults

“Name it to tame it” has become a popular phrase among parents and those working with children. It denotes the principle that we can help emotionally overwhelmed children feel better by helping them put their feelings into words. Daniel Siegel provides an example of this principle. Bella, a nine-year-old girl, watched the toilet overflow after flushing it, “and the experience of watching the water rise and pour onto the floor left her unwilling (and practically unable) to flush the toilet afterward.” Her father later sat down with her and encouraged her to tell the story, allowing “her to tell as much of the story as she could,” and helping her “to fill in the details, including the lingering fear she had felt about flushing since that experience. After recalling the story several times, Bella’s tears lessened and eventually went away.” Putting these experiences into words, Siegel writes, “allows us to understand ourselves and our world by using both our left and right hemispheres together. To tell a story that makes sense, the left brain must put things in order, using words and logic. The right brain contributes to bodily sensations, raw emotions, and personal memories, so we can see the whole picture and communicate our experience.”

Putting Theory into Action in Therapy

I repeatedly experienced the power of this principle during the six years I worked with children in an elementary school. After I transitioned to working with adults, I would sometimes forget the principle. I can remember a session with Mary, a 55-year-old woman who could not bring herself to leave Harlan, her emotionally abusive husband of 30 years. She had entered therapy to find the resolve to leave, something her friends and even her grown children had long encouraged her to do. I spent the better part of the session encouraging Mary to give voice to that part of her that wanted change. She followed my lead and asserted her rights and needs. After speaking with passion for several minutes, she suddenly stopped talking and looked off into space. “I know everyone thinks I should leave Harlan, and I know their hearts are in the right place.” Her eyes fell to the ground, all the energy that had animated her just moments before now gone. “We were basically kids when we got together. We grew up together. There’s something about Harlan and me that others just don’t understand. There’s something that I just can’t put into words.” There was a heaviness to her words. She seemed to be saying, ‘Yes, on paper there are good reasons for leaving him, but these other reasons possess a power that ensures that things can never change.’ I had given Mary the space to share her story, but she was now telling me that part of her story could not be shared. She was suggesting that this part of her story, perhaps because of its ineffability, exerted a hold over her from which she could not escape. Consequently, she felt she could not move toward the goal that had motivated her to start therapy. As the session ended, her despair seemed contagious, and I too felt that she would never be able to articulate that part of her story. I thought about our session over the next week and couldn’t avoid feeling that I had failed her. Yes, I had empathized with her, and I think she felt that, but I had failed to give her hope. I shared my feelings with my own therapist, and she said something that reminded me of another popular principle among parents, one often described as, “the power of yet.” I hadn’t helped Mary put words to her feelings —yet! She and I would again talk about Harlan, and she would again say that there was something about their relationship that others didn’t understand, something she just couldn’t put into words. I would add that simple, powerful word. “There’s something you can’t put into words—yet.” Not unlike a parent, my job as a therapist is to sometimes help others find words for their experiences. Helping them find their words is not the answer to every problem, and indeed words cannot fully and adequately describe the depth of many important experiences. Yet. Helping clients put words to their most difficult experiences can be profoundly helpful. Mary could not describe a crucial part of her relationship with Harlan—yet. My work was to help her find those words. I thought back to my clinical supervisor’s statement that, when his clients struggled to describe their inner experience, he would ask if an image or even a color came to mind. The goal was not for them to provide a precise, granular description of their feelings at first, but to try to take steps in that direction, little by little, one word at a time. I now had hope, and I knew I would be able to share my hope with Mary. It might take time to get there, but with my encouragement, she would vocalize that aspect of her relationship that had never before been vocalized. And when she did so, she would feel less isolated and more empowered. I did not know what she would feel empowered to do, and neither did she. Yet. Questions for Thought and Discussion In what ways does the author’s message resonate with you? Not resonate with you? Based on the readings, do you agree that the author initially “failed” with Mary? How might you have addressed Mary’s decision to remain with Harlan?

A Day in the Life of a Very Old Therapist

The day had not started well. I woke at 3:00 a.m. with leg cramps that wouldn’t go away. I quietly got out of bed, careful not to disturb my wife, Marilyn, sleeping deeply next to me. To relieve the pain, I took a hot shower until it turned lukewarm, then dried myself and returned to bed. The heat had soothed my muscles, and the cramps had subsided somewhat. I tried hard to go back to sleep. But when it comes to sleep, “trying hard” is always doomed to failure. Insomnia has been my kryptonite for decades. I had been tapering down my use of sleeping pills, reluctantly, as my doctor suspected they were accelerating my memory loss. I tried some breathing exercises. Time after time I inhaled, whispering “calm,” and exhaled, whispering “ease,” a meditation practice I’d learned years ago. But it was to no avail—the slight calming brought on by the utterance of “ease” soon morphed into anxiety, another old nemesis. I shifted my attention and focused on counting my breaths. A couple of minutes later I realized I had forgotten about counting and my ever-restless mind had wandered elsewhere. A year earlier Marilyn had been diagnosed with multiple myeloma, an insidious cancer of the blood plasma. She was in the midst of a series of chemotherapy treatments, which had yet to result in any significant improvement. Her warmth and the sound of her breathing were so familiar, my beloved bedmate for many decades. But now something new had joined us, this sinister illness, doing battle within her. I was pleased to see her resting peacefully that night and gently traced the lines of her face in the dim light. We’d been together, inseparable, since middle school. Now I spent the majority of my days worrying about her and trying to enjoy the time we still had together. Nights I spent worrying about a life without her. How would I pass the time? With whom would I share my thoughts? What loneliness awaited me? Noticing that my mind had strayed so thoroughly, I gave up the idea of getting back to sleep. I checked the clock and noted, to my surprise, that it was already 6:00 a.m. Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, I must have nodded off for a couple of hours.

Jerry: What’s Not to Like?!

After breakfast, I looked at my schedule. I had only two appointments that day. The first was a termination, the final session with Jerry, a patient whom I’d been seeing for one year. Jerry was a successful lawyer in his 40s who had come to therapy seeking answers after his girlfriend of two years had left him, the third in a string of failed relationships. “I can’t see why,” he’d said during our first meeting. “I’ve got a great house, a great job, tons of money. What’s not to like? I mean look at me.” He’d gestured at the well-tailored, clearly expensive suit he was wearing. Jerry was not what you’d call warm or reassuring. He was demanding, and often critical. He groused about my fee, suggested I get a better gardener to tend the plants along the walkway to my office, and, once inside, disparaged the artwork on the walls. He had come to me, he told me repeatedly during our first few meetings, because he’d heard I was the best, and he deserved the best. This was soon accompanied by a look of disappointment in his eyes that I hadn’t swiftly cured him of his troubles. Clearly, that look said I wasn’t the best after all. And yet, over time, we’d had success. What had worked? We had two important factors going for us. First, Jerry was highly motivated to make change in his life. Despite his prickly exterior he realized that he was in some way contributing to his relationship problems, and he was eager to put in whatever work was needed to address this. I had to slow him down, let him breathe, and see that part of the problem was the immense demands he placed on himself and me to magically “fix” him. “Imagine being your girlfriend for a few minutes,” I suggested. “What if you weren’t ‘the best,’ if your garden path weren’t expertly tended, if you didn’t look perfect on Jerry’s arm? Would Jerry love you and support you nonetheless?” “I doubt it,” he said. “Instead he would criticize you constantly, and you’d end up feeling crappy about yourself and your relationship. And . . . ?” I left the question hanging in the air. Jerry considered for a moment. “And you probably wouldn’t stick around,” he said finally. This realization, that being demanding and often unkind severely impacted his relationships, clicked for him. He could see the role he was playing and started to change. In the weeks that followed, he set about in earnest to improve. He began to catch himself whenever he was overly critical of me and whenever he complained that others in his life were inadequate. He took more responsibility for the way people, especially potential romantic partners, responded to him. And he set about curbing his sharp tongue. Jerry’s fierce drive to change himself was essential to the progress he made, but it was not something I could control. I could influence another factor, however: the powerful relationship he and I developed. From the beginning, Jerry had tested me: Why wasn’t my taste in art better? Where was my fancy car? Why hadn’t I been able to fix him all the way yet? Through all these barbs, I’d stayed in there with him. I’d been empathetic and warm, and also willing to push back when it seemed a challenge would do him some good. Gradually he softened up and stopped competing with me. As our relationship grew, his bristles felt less like attacks and more like witty, playful jabs that I could parry or call him out on. Little by little we built a strong connection, a “therapeutic alliance” as we call it in the field. This alliance, building it and using it, is the most important factor in my therapeutic approach. In what now seem like countless lectures, and numerous writings, I’ve stated that “it is the relationship that heals.” What drives change is not a worksheet that the patient fills out, a brilliant question the therapist poses, or a behavioral change the patient must chart daily. In my approach to therapy the honest connection between the therapist and the patient is the medium through which we discover, learn, change, and heal. Jerry and I had made excellent progress using that relationship over the course of the year we had together. He became friendlier, and when he occasionally still snapped at me with a disapproving comment, I would point it out. He learned to apologize and then, bit by bit, catch himself before saying something acerbic, and often, quite endearingly, replace such comments with attempts at compliments: “The lemon trees beside the path are looking much better this week” or, “You know, that statue of Buddha on your bookshelf is actually more interesting that I thought.” I looked forward to our weekly meetings and would be sad to say goodbye when today’s session ended at 11:50. But, for reasons that will become clear, we had agreed upon a one-year time frame at the beginning of his therapy. He had certainly made the most of it, and we were both hopeful that his future relationships, romantic and otherwise, would be richer and more satisfying.

Born of Necessity: One-Session Therapy

The second session on my schedule that day would be very different. It was with a woman named Susan, whom I planned to see only once. Only once!? How could I do anything resembling effective therapy in a single session? And why would I want to try? To explain, I need to rewind my timeline a bit to provide context. About five years before this, when I was in my early eighties, I noticed that my memory was starting to fail. I had always been a bit forgetful, misplacing my appointment book, glasses, or car keys with regularity. This was something different. I began to encounter people I recognized, only to have their names elude me. Occasionally I’d stop in the middle of a sentence, stuck searching for a familiar word. And, more and more frequently, I would lose track of the characters in movies Marilyn and I were watching. As this progressed, I began to think that, perhaps, I was no longer able to offer the long-term therapy I had for nearly 60 years. Instead of open-ended therapy that sometimes lasted three or four years, I decided to set a 12-month time limit, agreed upon in advance, for all new patients, hence my agreement with Jerry. I approached this new framework with some sense of loss, as it represented a major shift in my work, one derived from necessity, not desire. But soon curiosity, and my wish to continue being helpful, won out. Ultimately, I found this to be an agreeable solution. If I chose my patients carefully, I was almost always able to offer a great deal during our year’s work together. With some patients, in fact, there was an increased sense of urgency, and thus motivation, thanks to the time limitation. This had worked well, both for me and for my patients, for the last five years. Then around the time I was 87, I started to find I was more and more reliant on the summaries I recorded after each session to remember the details of my patients and that, even with these notes in hand, their faces and problems occasionally seemed alien. I was faltering, and I began to question the value of the care I was able to provide. I felt I still had much to offer, but it was clear that I could not, in good conscience, engage in ongoing work with patients, even limited to one year. And yet, and yet . . . the thought of no longer practicing was dizzying. Sharing with my patients, aiding them through their darkest thoughts, and joining them on journeys of discovery—for the majority of my life this had been my daily work and my calling. Who would I be, if not a psychotherapist? Truth be told I was angry and deeply frightened. I was not ready to feel this old, this useless. The thought of leaving therapy behind felt like resigning myself to rapid decline, followed soon after by my inevitable death. I pondered this dilemma. I had to put my patients’ needs first, so doing long-term therapy was out. But after so many decades of practice and research, I knew I had developed levels of insight and expertise that were rare, and still potent. Plus, I felt the personal need to continue contributing in some way. How could I offer something—enough to be helpful to patients, enough to keep myself engaged in the world—while also not endangering anyone? I came up with an unconventional idea. Perhaps I could meet with people for one-time, one-hour, consultations. During that hour I would offer everything I could—insight, guidance, a warm accepting presence—and then, if appropriate, refer them to a colleague who seemed well attuned to their particular challenges for ongoing treatment. The idea of such short-course therapy was profoundly foreign to me. I have always seen therapy as a longer-term endeavor—not the endless years of old-school psychoanalysis, but often several years, long enough to help patients search for better understanding of themselves and make meaningful change in their lives. The question of how I might be effective in single sessions could be an interesting experiment, if nothing else. For some time after coming up with this idea I vacillated between skepticism—Was this just a way of forestalling my own decline rather than offering anything truly beneficial to the patients?—and excitement—I knew I had skills honed to an uncommon degree and had been helpful to many, many struggling people, which undoubtedly had some value. I took the time to stare carefully at my own feelings. It was possible my pride would resist accepting this lessened importance. And yet I knew that, at some point, I would need to accept my decline and pass the torch fully to the next generations. I honestly did not know what this experiment would yield, which itself was intriguing. Thus, I began a new adventure of short therapeutic encounters, and investigation of what might be most helpful in a far briefer time frame for creating change than I had ever before conceived as effective. I announced my retirement from ongoing therapy, and my offer of these single-hour consultations—either in person in my Palo Alto office, or online—on my Facebook page. Within hours, requests for appointments started to pour in, far more than I’d expected. They came from all over the world, English-speaking countries of course, but also many other places, too—Turkey, Greece, Israel, Germany—as Zoom had collapsed the barrier of space. And they came from people in many stages, and to some extent many walks, of life. This single-session format, I quickly realized, would allow me to work with many people I had never been able to reach otherwise, people for whom ongoing therapy with me was prohibitively expensive. It was clear this would be a very interesting shift from the relatively traditional private practice I’d led from the lovely Spanish-style cottage in our backyard over the previous 20 years, and for decades before that working in the psychiatry department at Stanford University. Would it be effective for the patients? Would it feel satisfying for me? Only time would tell. It would certainly be new, and at my age, newness was nothing to scoff at. This, then, was how I found myself on that particular morning contemplating my first single-session consultation with Susan. I was excited yet concerned. I am not always filled with second-guessing, but after a restless night spent with my darker thoughts about Marilyn’s failing body and my own weakening mind, I had my doubts. How much good would I be able to do, really, in these short encounters? I had several things going in my favor, I reminded myself. First, my particular therapeutic approach has always been heavily focused on using what I refer to as the here and now. By this I mean that the interactions the patient and I have in the moment are the essential tools of change. Whatever problematic tendencies a patient has—their insecurities, their neuroses, the things they do that get in the way of their relationships with others—these are all likely to show up in the therapy sessions, through their interactions with me. Jerry, who had to have the best therapist, is an excellent example. Even though he came to me for help, and thus presumably began our work with a positive opinion of me, he constantly criticized me in many ways. Time and again I brought his awareness to this tendency. At first, he attributed the comments to my inadequacies, that I was overly sensitive and jealous of his financial success. But little by little Jerry began to see that he behaved this way elsewhere in his life as well, and that it impacted his relationships, and his happiness. This here-and-now approach is largely ahistorical, meaning that it does not rely a great deal on patients’ personal histories. Rather than spend great amounts of time digging through patients’ backstories, time which I would not have in these single sessions, I focus on the present, tuning in closely to every word and gesture they offer, as well as those that they omit. I was confident this approach would allow us to get into the serious work quickly. It also had the great benefit of dove-tailing nicely with the limited capacities of my faltering mind: remembering the past was increasing challenging, and recalling copious details about each patient was beyond me. But being present right here and right now, I could do very well. A second thing I had going for me was that nearly all of the people who requested consultations had some knowledge of me in advance. Over six decades I have written many books, including influential textbooks for student therapists, philosophical novels, and books of stories like this one that aim to demystify the process of therapy. Through these I have had the good fortune to become a well-known figure in the field, and most of the people who had requested consultations thus far had mentioned reading at least one of my books. It was clear from most of their emails that they saw me as having some amount of wisdom and power. I took this with more than a few grains of salt, knowing that we all sometimes seek reassurance from silver-haired elders. In fact, there was a small voice inside me, adolescent and rebellious, that wanted to shout out “I’m not that old yet!” and cancel this whole undertaking. But for the most part I was happy to play the role of guru on the mountaintop, realizing that I might be able to use the wisdom with which people imbued me and leverage that power to help them change.

Susan: Trying Out My New Strategy

Such was my state of mind as I settled into the chair in my office and opened a Zoom window to speak with Susan, a 50-year-old schoolteacher from Oregon who was deeply depressed. We quickly greeted each other, and I explained that I would only be able to see her one time, as noted in the Facebook posting, and that I hoped to be as helpful as possible. It felt very strange saying all of this, and I think I was laying out the groundwork as much for myself as for her. She nodded, then launched into her tragic story. Two years ago, at about 10:00 on a Thursday night, she had opened the refrigerator and noticed that the large cherry pie she’d made was nearly gone. She had planned to serve it the following evening to close friends who were coming over for dinner, but now it was reduced to a sliver of crust oozing deep red filling. What had happened to the pie? It was no mystery: no doubt Peter, her husband, must have eaten it. It wouldn’t have been the first time. “That gluttonous slob!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears. The fate of her cherry pie was too much. The last straw. She had to be at work until 5:30 the next day, an hour before her dinner guests would arrive. She would barely have enough time to get dressed and set the table, let alone bake another pie. The disrespect! Brimming with anger, she’d stomped upstairs and confronted her husband, who was already in bed. They argued for 10 minutes. Tempers and voices rose. He told her he had always been the main support for the family (not true! she protested) and that he’d eat any pie he damn well pleased. She retorted that he was an obese hog who was going to gorge himself to death. He told her to sleep on the couch and pushed her out of the bedroom, slamming and locking the door. “Fine,” she yelled. “The last thing in the world I want to do is to share the bed with a selfish glutton.” The next morning, her hard knocks on the bedroom door and loud calls to her husband were returned with silence. Finally, she and her two daughters broke into the room to find him lifeless in bed. They called emergency services, and when the medics arrived, they declared he had been dead for several hours. When police officers arrived, they sealed off the house and searched every room. Susan and her daughters were interviewed at length—clearly the police were considering the possibility of foul play, going so far as to infer that the pie might have been some sort of weapon. “How awful,” I said. “And how much have you recovered from your husband’s death?” “I’d say zero,” Susan replied. “No recovery. None at all. Perhaps I’m getting worse. I miss him so much, and I am racked with guilt about what I said to him that last night. And I’m also mad at him for leaving me. I cry all the time and now I’m the one who can’t stop eating and I’ve gained 60 pounds. I saw a psychiatrist here recently and he said that I was, in some way, identifying with my husband. What help was that? I’ve developed terrible skin problems and I can’t stop scratching myself. I can barely sleep, and when I do, I keep dreaming of Peter. When my daughters leave for college in a month, I’ll eat by myself in restaurants and people will look at me and, I’m sure, pity the dumpy fat woman eating all alone.” She caught her breath loudly, perhaps holding back tears. “That’s it, Dr. Yalom, I’ve unloaded on you. That’s everything. I don’t know what else to say.” She slumped back in her chair. “You know, Susan, I’ve worked a lot with women who have lost their husbands and your account of what you’re going through is not unfamiliar to me. Let me ask you something. You say your husband died over two years ago. Can you compare your condition now with a year ago? Is it different? Is it less painful?” “No. Just the opposite. That’s what torments me; I think of him more and more, and when I’m alone in the house I’m terrified of being sad and lonely forever. Damnit. It’s not fair.” “Grief always lessens, but it takes time. Usually, the course of grief goes through a predictable cycle. It’s most keen the first year when you experience the first birthday, the first Christmas or New Year’s Eve, without your spouse. But then, as time passes, the pain lessens. And later, when you go through the cycle of the special days for the second time, it becomes markedly less painful. But that isn’t happening for you. Something’s blocking you and I have a hunch it’s related to your anger.” Susan nodded vigorously and I asked, “Can you put that nod into words?” “I have no words for it, but I feel you’re right. It’s confusing. I’ll be drowning in sadness and then, suddenly, all I feel is intense anger.” “Let’s focus there, on your anger,” I said. “Just let your mind go there and for just a couple of minutes please share your thoughts with me. In other words, think out loud.” She looked puzzled and shook her head. “I don’t know how to start.” “It might be easiest to start at the beginning. Think out loud about your very first encounter with anger.” “Anger . . . anger. The first time I felt anger was with my first breath—at my birth.” “Keep going, Susan.” “There was anger when I was born. My mother’s anger. I remember her saying time and time again that she wanted a boy and if I had been a boy, she would have stopped there. She just wanted one child, and it wasn’t me. She let me know about it over and over.” “So you spent some of your early childhood hearing about how your birth, your very existence, inconvenienced her?” “Oh God, yes, she made me feel it all the time. Damn her for that!” “And your father?” “Worse. Sometimes even worse. His favorite joke, which he never tired of telling, was that the nurse made a mistake when I was born and brought the family the afterbirth instead of the baby.” “Ouch. Oh, Susan, how dreadful to have your father joke you’re not a person, that you’re a placenta.” “He thought that was such a funny joke. And my mother agreed. I’ll be honest with you. I know it’s unnatural, but I hated them. Both of them. My father especially. He wouldn’t pay for my college. He wanted me to work as a secretary in his store instead. So, I left home early and had to work my way through school.” She paused, letting these deep emotions swirl through her. After a moment, while she was still in that open tender place, I pushed her to go deeper. “And the anger toward your husband? Tell me about that.” “It wasn’t like my anger toward my father. Certainly not at first. I met Peter after I left home, when I was in college. We were sweethearts and he was good to me. His parents were well off, and he always had money. Whenever I was strapped, he’d help pay my rent or buy groceries. And I’d never had that kind of help or affection before. “Peter’s father was a politician and wanted him to follow in his footprints. Peter had the charisma—he could be incredibly charming and fun. But he was lazy, a poor student who gambled whenever he could, and eventually flunked out of school. He became a guard at a local bank, a job his father got him. He never made enough to support us or, if he did, he secretly gambled it away. Either way, he made it clear that I always had to work. I never took time off, except three-month maternity leaves when I had our daughters. I could never become myself, never be the kind of mother I wanted to be for my girls. Instead, I worked, worked hard. And you know what? Just a few days before he died, he told me he’d gotten too heavy to be a bank guard, and they’d moved him to office work, which meant a pay cut. He said it wasn’t a big deal, and I got so mad at him because he didn’t even care about his health. And probably I would have to find a second job to pay our bills.” “I hear lots of anger rumbling, Susan,” I said. “A husband who never recognized all the work you did, who never valued your needs and wants. A cruel father who saw you as either a problem or a punch line. And a callous mother who never wanted you, never offered love. Now they are all gone— mother, father, husband—all gone. And a good bit of your life has gone by as well. Oh, Susan, no wonder you’re angry. Who in your situation wouldn’t be enraged? I know I would be.” She nodded as I spoke. “How does it feel to hear me say that, Susan?” “Hard. Right. But hard.” “I want to take a moment to look at all you’ve accomplished in spite of them: two loving children, a valuable teaching career, and so much more. You’ve done so well, Susan.” She swallowed, taking that in. “I haven’t really been able to talk to anyone about this,” she said. “Everyone wants to remember Peter as a good person, remember us as a good couple. No one wants to talk about the darker side.” “Thank you for sharing it with me. Your anger is only human. Yet I suspect it presents a big problem. We feel we should never speak ill of the dead, that it’s wrong or somehow disrespectful. Does this ring true for you?” She nodded, tearing up. “Well, I disagree. Anyone in your situation, with the experiences you’ve lived, would have the angry feelings you’re experiencing. You’re judging yourself far too severely.” Susan was sobbing now, and I waited for her to calm down and breathe. “I don’t know what to do, how to stop it,” she said finally. “I’d like to remember so many other things about our life together. I really did love him. But now I’m just so mad.” “I suspect that as you accept your anger, accept that it is appropriate and you have good reason for it, those other memories will return. But it will take time.” “Maybe.” She nodded. “I hope so.” Then, in my most solemn voice, I continued. “Susan, I’ve listened carefully to everything that you’ve told me, taken it all in and pondered it carefully. I want you to know that I pronounce you innocent. Please hear that: I pronounce you innocent! You deserve a good life. You’ve worked hard, you’ve been a good mother, a good wife, and you deserve some happiness now.” She smiled through her tears, and I finished the session with a keen sense of having been helpful. I gave her the name of a therapist with whom she might continue. Clearly this old man still has something to offer, I thought on reviewing our meeting! I received a follow-up email from her a couple of weeks later which confirmed this. She thanked me for helping her, writing:

I won’t forget the moment when you said something like “apparently your mother and your father were not good parents, but even so you’ve done extremely well in life . . . I admire you for that.” You gave me a warm feeling of being seen and respected and supported at the same time. Also your pronouncing me innocent. I will never forget that remark, and the smile on your face as you said it. I will keep the sound of your voice in my mind and my heart.  

Thinking about it later that night, I felt this was one of my best therapy hours ever. I resolved to keep offering these unusual one-hour sessions, to see whom I could help and to glean as much as I could from the process. Equally important, I would share what I learned. Earlier, speaking of my desire to help patients, I left out the other major aspect of my professional life, that of teacher. Most of my work as a writer has been in the service of teaching young therapists and others practicing, or entering, therapy. Furthermore, many of my thoughts have gone against the grain, countering major trends in the field. While psychiatry has increasingly pushed medication as the solution to mental illness, I have championed human connection; while psychotherapists have increasingly been taught approaches that aim at symptom reduction, like cognitive behavioral therapy or solution-focused therapy, I have embraced curiosity and deep personal exploration. This dedication to sharing what I’ve learned has always been a powerful force driving me forward, and I began to feel that impulse again when thinking of Susan and imagining many rich brief encounters ahead of me. I would undertake this project not only to help those who seek consultation and to remain engaged myself, but also to pass on what I learn. Full book available here. From the book HOUR OF THE HEART by Irvin D. Yalom and Benjamin Yalom. Published on December 10, 2024 by Harper, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted with permission.

Finding Healing Through Art: A Case Study in Art Therapy

Art Therapy is a powerful form of psychotherapy that uses creative expression to help individuals explore emotions, process trauma, and find pathways to healing. Unlike traditional talk therapy, Art Therapy offers a non-verbal outlet, allowing clients to express feelings that may be difficult to articulate. By tapping into the subconscious, art can reveal hidden emotions, facilitating self-discovery and growth. In this case study, I’ll explore how art therapy transformed the life of Julia, a young woman struggling with anxiety and self-doubt.

Julia’s Journey to Art Therapy

Julia, a 28-year-old woman, came to therapy seeking help for anxiety. She described herself as “constantly on edge,” plagued by feelings of inadequacy and fear of judgment. She had tried various coping mechanisms, but none provided lasting relief. When talk therapy didn’t yield the progress she hoped for, Julia decided to explore art therapy as an alternative. Although Julia had no formal art background, she had always been creative. As a child, she enjoyed drawing and painting but had abandoned these hobbies as her responsibilities grew. During our initial session, Julia was open but hesitant. She expressed concerns about her lack of artistic skill, unsure if she could convey her feelings through art. I reassured her that Art Therapy wasn’t about creating “good” art, but rather, about expressing oneself freely and authentically. Together, we embarked on a journey to explore her inner world through colors, shapes, and symbols.

Session One: Laying the Foundation

To ease Julia into the process, I introduced her to a simple exercise called “Art for Emotion.” She was given a set of colored pencils and paper, and I asked her to draw how she felt at that moment. Julia chose dark, muted colors—black, gray, and navy. She created a swirling, chaotic pattern, which she described as a “storm” in her mind. This storm, she said, represented the anxiety that constantly loomed over her, making it difficult to focus and connect with others. As we discussed the drawing, Julia began to open up about the ways anxiety affected her life. She described feeling as though she were “drowning” in her responsibilities and unable to meet her own high standards. She admitted that she was often overly critical of herself, which only fueled her feelings of inadequacy. Together, we explored how these swirling emotions manifested in her daily life, from her job to her relationships.

Session Two: Exploring Symbols

In the second session, I introduced Julia to clay. Working with clay allows clients to engage with tactile sensations, which can be grounding and soothing. I encouraged her to create a symbol that represented her anxiety. After some thought, she molded the clay into a small, tightly-wound spiral. The spiral, she explained, was a representation of her tendency to overthink and get trapped in cycles of self-doubt. As we discussed her creation, Julia had an insight: she often felt like she was “spiraling” out of control when faced with uncertainty. By externalizing this feeling through clay, she was able to examine it more objectively. We talked about how anxiety is a natural response, but when it becomes too intense, it can feel like being caught in a relentless loop. Julia began to see her anxiety not as a personal failing, but as a reaction to stressors in her environment.

Session Three: Redefining the Self

By the third session, Julia seemed more comfortable with the process. She was starting to embrace the therapeutic benefits of creative expression, and her initial reluctance had faded. This time, I suggested a self-portrait exercise, asking her to draw herself as she currently saw herself. Julia spent a long time working on this piece. When she was finished, she showed me a drawing of a woman standing on a cliff, looking out over a vast, empty sea. The woman appeared small and vulnerable, dwarfed by the landscape. Julia described the scene as representing her feelings of isolation and uncertainty. The cliff, she explained, symbolized the constant pressure she felt to maintain control and avoid falling into despair. Through this self-portrait, Julia was able to articulate her fear of failure and the pressure to keep up appearances. She expressed how exhausting it was to always be “on guard” and how much she longed for peace. In our discussion, we explored the symbolism of the cliff and the sea. Julia admitted that the sea, while initially representing emptiness, also held a sense of possibility. She recognized that the vastness of the ocean could symbolize potential rather than just fear. This shift in perspective marked a significant turning point. For the first time, Julia began to see her anxiety not as an insurmountable obstacle, but as something she could navigate and overcome.

Session Four: Reclaiming Inner Strength

By this session, Julia had begun to show a marked improvement. She appeared more relaxed, and there was a newfound sense of confidence in her demeanor. For this session, I introduced a collage exercise. Julia was provided with magazines, scissors, glue, and a canvas. I asked her to create a collage that represented her ideal self—a version of herself free from anxiety and self-doubt. Julia took her time with this exercise, carefully selecting images that resonated with her. Her final piece was vibrant, filled with images of nature, people laughing, and symbols of strength like lions and mountains. She explained that the collage represented the qualities she wished to embody: resilience, joy, and courage. We discussed each element of the collage, and Julia shared how creating it made her feel empowered. By envisioning her ideal self, she began to see her potential beyond the limitations of her anxiety. She acknowledged that while she might always face challenges, she could choose how to respond to them. This realization helped Julia redefine her relationship with anxiety, no longer seeing it as a defining characteristic, but as one part of her broader experience.

Session Five: Reflecting and Moving Forward

In our final session, Julia and I revisited her earlier pieces. We discussed her journey through the Art Therapy process, from the initial storm of emotions to the empowered collage. Julia reflected on how far she had come, expressing gratitude for the opportunity to explore her feelings in such a unique and transformative way. She described how the process helped her develop a greater sense of self-compassion, allowing her to accept her imperfections without judgment. Through art therapy, Julia found a new way to manage her relationship with anxiety, one that didn’t involve fighting or suppressing her emotions. Instead, she learned to embrace her feelings, understanding that they were a natural part of her experience. She left therapy with a renewed sense of self, ready to face the challenges ahead with resilience and creativity.

***

Art Therapy offers a unique path to healing, one that goes beyond words and taps into the power of the creative mind. For Julia, the process of expressing herself through art provided insights that traditional talk therapy hadn’t been able to access. By working with symbols, colors, and textures, Julia was able to confront her anxiety in a safe and supportive environment, ultimately reclaiming her inner strength. Her journey is a testament to the transformative power of art and the human spirit’s capacity for growth and healing. [Editor’s Note: Please see our interview with Judith Rubin, Bringing (Art) Therapy to Life: An Interview with Judith Rubin, the preeminent pioneer in the field of Art Therapy.] 

Reasons Why Safety Precedes Forgiveness for Survivors of Abuse

When your offender(s) can’t harm you now or in the future, you are safe. Can you forgive them? Like with all aspects of trauma recovery, the answer is not a simple yes or no. Safety isn’t just about the reality of you being safe, but how safe you feel. You might be safe but not feel safe. This is a common experience, as trauma hinders the ability to assess one’s safety accurately. Trauma tells us that we are not safe even when we are. Feeling is just as crucial in trauma recovery as being because these two experiences are often indistinguishable; for us, not feeling safe feels the same as actually not being safe. After World War II ended, forgiveness advocates might have said to Wiesenthal, “You’re safe now. You’ve survived. The Nazis cannot harm you. You should now be able to forgive.” Yet if Wiesenthal experienced trauma and did not feel safe for years after he was liberated, that would have been impossible. Survivors must both be and feel safe before they can genuinely forgive.

Forgiveness Without Safety Harms Survivors

“He’s a monster. He beat me and locked me in my room for days,” Charlie shared during an Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting. “I can’t think about him without feeling angry.” Charlie began using alcohol at age 10 to cope with their stepfather’s emotional and physical abuse. By age 20, they were hospitalized for alcohol poisoning twice and had been arrested for disorderly conduct, as well as for driving under the influence—multiple times. At age 22, Charlie got sober, embraced their identity as nonbinary, and began attending AA meetings daily. AA helped Charlie to understand their trauma and use of alcohol as a coping mechanism, but the forgiveness advocates associated with AA nearly destroyed their recovery. “You need to forgive him,” was the message from Charlie’s AA group members. “If you don’t forgive, you’ll relapse, and if you relapse, you’ll die,” said Charlie’s AA sponsor. The AA group and the sponsor encouraged Charlie to forgive their stepfather by spending time with him. It did not matter to them that the stepfather continued to emotionally abuse Charlie; he often called them “a freak,” “a drunk,” and “a cunt.” The group encouraged Charlie to ignore these harmful words and approach him with compassion and empathy. Charlie followed this advice and spent more time with their stepfather, expressing compassion and empathy in the hopes that this would ignite forgiveness, which they were told would help them recover from trauma and addiction. Instead, this exposure invited further trauma as their stepfather continued to abuse them emotionally and physically, resulting in Charlie needing to be hospitalized with a broken leg and ribs after their stepfather pushed them down a flight of stairs. The AA group’s recommendation to forgive caused Charlie to place themself in unsafe situations, which led to retraumatization. As a result, Charlie stopped attending AA meetings, ended communication with their sponsor, and relapsed days later. Attempting to forgive without safety threatened Charlie’s survival. Some survivors have even been killed due to pressure to forgive their offender(s), which made them feel as if they needed to continue to participate in unsafe relationships. Psychologist Mona Gustafson Affinito writes, “Workers in the field of domestic abuse, for example, are familiar with victims returning to their abusers because they have been advised to ‘forgive’ the perpetrator. Physical and emotional injury, child abuse, and death of both victims and abusers have resulted.” Those who advocate for forgiveness should be aware that their recommendations might contribute to the deaths of survivors who are not safe. “How many battered women, for example, have returned to their batterers for more (and perhaps fatal) abuse because some counselor advised them to keep trying to save the marriage out of love and forgiveness?” asked philosopher Jeffrie G. Murphy. “I do not know what the answer to this question is, but I am worried that the boosters for universal forgiveness may not give ample thought to such issues.” Unfortunately, however, many laypeople and clinicians pressure, encourage, or recommend forgiveness to survivors without considering their safety. Regarding the risks of forgiving when one is not safe, practitioners of forgiveness therapy say that it’s not forgiveness that’s the problem, it’s reconciliation. They argue that reconciliation is to blame when forgiveness occurs without safety. “The argument seems to imply that forgiving is a way for the offender to keep a sinister control over the forgiver. If forgiving led automatically to reconciliation, then the argument would have weight,” write Enright and Fitzgibbons. They clarify their reframe with an example: “Suppose Alice forgives a husband who continues his pattern of abuse. Is she not now open to even deeper abuse? If she misunderstands forgiveness and confuses it with reconciliation, then, yes, she is open to further and dangerous abuse.” Many confuse forgiveness with reconciliation. People rarely know or communicate the distinction between these two concepts, and this mistake can cause harm. Practitioners of forgiveness therapy must be aware that though forgiveness is not reconciliation, forgiveness can lead to reconciliation, which may jeopardize a survivor’s safety. Therefore, all clinicians must provide survivors with psychoeducation regarding the difference between forgiveness and reconciliation and consistently assess the safety of survivors pursuing forgiveness. But at the end of the day, a debate over semantics doesn’t hold much weight when a recommendation to forgive could lead to a survivor’s death. When forgiveness is dangerous, it should not be a part of recovery. Of course, forgiveness without safety does not always lead to death. However, it can still harm in other ways. Forgiveness can encourage repeat offenses rather than deter them, giving the offender(s) the opportunity and incentive to continue their abusive behavior. Psychologist James K. McNulty conducted a study that found that the tendency to forgive correlated with continued psychological and physical aggression in marriage. He found that spouses who were more forgiving experienced greater psychological and physical aggression in their marriages over the first four years when compared to less forgiving spouses, who reported declines in psychological and physical aggression. McNulty expressed concern about how forgiveness can negatively impact relationships, writing that “the tendency to express forgiveness may lead offenders to feel free to offend again by removing unwanted consequences for their behavior (e.g., anger, criticism, rejection, loneliness) that would otherwise discourage reoffending.” Consequences are needed in relationships, but forgiveness can insulate offenders from the consequences of their actions, causing them to reoffend. During the first month of Charlie’s trauma therapy with me, they told me about their experience with their AA group and how their insistence on forgiveness had harmed them by encouraging them to reengage in an unsafe relationship with their stepfather. This prompted me to suggest, “What if you choose a new group that could better meet your needs?” “I can do that?” Charlie asked, surprised. “Why not?” I responded. “Your old AA group was no longer helpful. Why not see if another community could be more beneficial to you at this stage in your recovery?” Charlie hit the ground running, and within two weeks, they found a new AA group and a new sponsor who considered safety, not forgiveness, the top priority. This group asked Charlie questions such as “What do you need to stay sober?” “What works for you?” and “Do you want to forgive him?” Charlie felt accepted by this group, and as a result, they continued participating in AA, which became vital to their recovery. Months later, Charlie decided to estrange themself from their stepfather, which their AA sponsor, the group, and I supported, as Charlie reported that this estrangement was what they needed to feel safe. One year later, they received their one-year AA sobriety coin and have since continued to make considerable gains in their trauma recovery. You need to be and feel safe before you can forgive. If you are currently not safe, you cannot focus on forgiveness. You may be safe but do not feel safe, so forgiveness is currently out of reach for you as well. You may have never felt safe, and the experience of thriving feels foreign. However, it is entirely possible for you to both be and feel safe. The human brain prioritizes survival, but once this priority is met by reestablishing safety, the brain can refocus on thriving (recovery and possibly forgiveness).

Feeling Safe Enough

People often assume that certain types of traumatic experiences (physical or sexual abuse, combat exposure) are more impactful than others (financial, emotional, or spiritual abuse, abandonment, or neglect). Yet, studies indicate that children who experience emotional abuse and neglect develop the same or worse mental health issues as children who experience physical and sexual abuse. Therefore, we cannot assume that one type of traumatic event will have a more or less significant impact on a survivor than another. What’s more, response to trauma is highly dependent on the individual. [edtiquote:we cannot assume that one type of traumatic event will have a more or less significant impact on a survivor than another]I’ve worked with siblings who were close in age and lived in the same home throughout their childhoods, with the same abusive parents. These siblings never have the same experiences or the same trauma responses. They are always different. Comparing your traumatic experience with another’s doesn’t make sense; if trauma were a competition, every survivor would be a winner. All traumatic experiences are significant and valid, and so all types of safety are essential. If you are currently safe but don’t feel safe, you can begin to establish a sense of safety by accepting that all forms of felt safety are necessary. For instance, physical safety is not more or less essential than emotional safety. They are equally important. In the case of the former, you may need to feel that you are not in physical danger, and that the offender(s) or things that cause you harm cannot reach you. For the latter, the feeling of emotional safety might come when you are in an environment in which you can be honest about your emotions without feeling manipulated or invalidated. There is not one form of felt safety that should receive more or less attention or be taken more or less seriously. Every type of safety is essential in your recovery, especially since survivors often report lacking many different forms of safety. It’s common for survivors to report feeling physically, sexually, emotionally, financially, and relationally unsafe. Financial safety is a common theme in trauma recovery, which may be surprising. However, when you take a moment to think about it, it makes a lot of sense that this is so important. In most societies, financial security creates and sustains many other types of safety. Those with financial security can use their resources to support and promote their physical, sexual, spiritual, and emotional safety. Those without financial security are often the most vulnerable to experiencing trauma, less likely to be able to escape their offender(s), and less likely to receive treatment. In addition, those who do not feel financially safe often feel unsafe in other ways. For example, some survivors living in the United States do not feel physically safe because they cannot afford medical treatment if they become ill or experience an accident. Some clinicians believe that you will never feel safe until you are fully engaged in the recovery process. In this view, it is impossible to reestablish safety at the beginning of recovery. Instead, these clinicians promote intense emotional processing interventions, such as forgiveness, before you feel safe or are able to tolerate processing, believing that safety will be reestablished along the way. This line of thinking only makes sense if one believes in the existence of perfect safety, a sense of security that never wavers during the pursuit of recovery. It assumes that once safety is achieved, it never goes away, and thus, the intense recovery process can continue uninterrupted. As nice as this would be, it’s not how recovery from trauma works. Some days you might feel safer than others, and the circumstances of your life can change to bring you closer to or further away from the unsafe situations or relationships you seek to avoid. There is always the possibility of a step back in recovery, and that’s okay. It’s a normal part of recovery. No one feels safe all the time, not even people who haven’t suffered trauma. Safety cannot be a byproduct of recovery, something that happens once you start working. It must be the enduring foundation, and to lay such groundwork, the clinician must work with the survivor to establish safety before anything else. The truth is that recovery comes with safety, not the other way around. Perfect safety is unobtainable, but feeling safe enough is possible. Events and experiences can and will threaten your safety. If you’ve ever had a pet, you’ve probably seen this play out. For instance, imagine your cat is asleep on your lap. Suddenly, the cat jumps up, looks at the corner of the room, and freezes. The cat’s hackles are raised, as if static electricity has made their fur stand up. The cat is in survival mode; they heard something that caused them to feel unsafe. Then, after a few moments, the cat lays back down on your lap and falls asleep. The cat has reestablished a sense of safety and now feels safe enough to refocus on thriving (napping in the open). All organisms have moments of feeling safe (focused on thriving) and moments of feeling unsafe (focused on survival). They go back and forth, course-correcting as they go. The goal for survivors is not to reestablish perfect safety; that is impossible, and they never had it in the first place (none of us do). The goal is to reestablish actual safety and a felt sense of safety, which promotes your survival and makes you feel safe enough to focus on thriving. As you progress in recovery, your clinicians hope to see you become more resilient as your sense of safety increases. Reflections for Survivors Survivors who question the importance of their safety can ask themselves the following:
  • Am I safe? If not, can I prioritize reestablishing safety?
  • Am I feeling unsafe? If so, can I prioritize reestablishing safety?
  • Do I feel physically, emotionally, sexually, relationally, spiritually, or financially unsafe? Do I feel any other type of unsafety?
  • Do I know what I need to support my actual safety and feelings of safety? If so, can I communicate these needs to my clinicians and those in my support system?
  • Can I prioritize my need to feel safe enough over my participation in intense emotional processing interventions such as forgiveness?
Reflections for Clinicians Clinicians working with survivors can ask themselves the following:
  • Do I believe my client’s safety is vital in their ability to progress in recovery?
  • Have I assessed my client for all forms of safety (physical, emotional, sexual, relational, spiritual, financial, etc.)? Am I continuing to assess their safety at all stages of their recovery?
  • Does my client always feel unsafe, or are these feelings triggered by something or someone?
  • Am I helping my client reestablish both actual and feelings of safety?
  • Am I prioritizing my client’s sense of feeling safe enough before introducing processed-based interventions such as forgiveness?
* Reprinted with permission from You Don’t Need to Forgive by Amanda Ann Gregory copyright © 2024 Broadleaf Books

A Unique Mental Health Conference That Supports People With DID

Stationed safely behind my exhibit table at the annual Healing Together conference in Orlando, I observed the attendees milling about the hall. Their dress ran the gamut from business attire to resort wear, to outfits that seemed like Halloween costumes. Some were dressed as children, with ribbons, sparkles, young-style dresses, and fanciful headgear. Others looked like animals of one sort or another. A few pushed carts filled with stuffies or were with emotional service dogs. The weekend-long meeting, then in its 12th year, had just begun, and people were congregating at the snack and non-alcoholic beverage bar. Watching them greet one another enthusiastically, I surmised most were returnees. It was 2022, my first year at the conference, and I knew no one. The outfits disconcerted me most. I understood that they were an expression of dissociative identity disorder (DID), formerly called multiple personality disorder—the focus of the meeting—but I had never seen such an unabashed display, even in support groups.

Inside the DID Support Network

The conference is sponsored by An Infinite Mind, a nonprofit that aims to increase awareness of and education about DID for three constituencies: people who have DID, their supporters (family and friends), and professionals (clinicians and researchers). The hope is that greater understanding of the condition will counter myths and stigma, enable people living with DID to navigate their lives and treatment more effectively, and broaden clinicians’ skills and knowledge. Most medical conferences that offer Continuing Education Units (CEUs) invite presentations from professionals only. The board of An Infinite Mind invites them from all three cohorts, believing each can learn from the others. As someone living with DID—now 82, I was misdiagnosed as schizophrenic in my 20s and didn’t learn I had DID until my 40s—I was there to give a talk about my experiences and to promote my memoir, Losing the Atmosphere.   

Having spent decades trying to hide my neurodivergence—necessary for my dual careers as a librarian and an I.T. systems analyst—I was uncomfortable the entire weekend, though I went through all the proper motions: I spoke with people who stopped at my table, sold books, and gave my talk. In the weeks following the meeting, I tried to make sense of my reaction. In a way, I was like a dog acclimated to living with humans suddenly finding itself in a field of dogs. But where an actual dog would have joyously connected with its fellow creatures, I didn’t dare mingle. Like the legendary sailors who tied themselves to the mast so they wouldn’t succumb to Lorelai’s song, I remained tethered to my exhibit table. Yet something about the meeting drew me back the following year. I was a little more relaxed then, but it wasn’t until my third year, 2024, that I felt completely at ease, able to fully absorb the power of the conference. I would later learn that my timeframe was not uncommon.

A few hours before the 2024 doors officially opened, I entered the exhibit hall with my cart of books and handouts and began looking around for a table with my name on it.  

 “Hi, Vivian! Welcome!”

I turned. “Hi, Jaime!” I said to the founder of An Infinite Mind and the mastermind behind the Healing Together conference.

“Can I give you a hug?” she asked. My hesitation must have been obvious. “An elbow bump?”

We bumped.

She inquired about my train trip from New York, then said, “I know you don’t like crowds, so I put you at the end, near the crafts corner.”

“Thanks.”

She remembered. I was pleased. My first two years were during the Covid pandemic, and I worried about getting sick.  

A pre-school special education teacher, Jaime Pollack received several misdiagnoses, including schizophrenia, before she learned, in 2005, that she had DID. Her search for information about it led her to meet other people with the condition, and, in 2007, to start a peer-led support group. She soon realized they shared similar challenges, chief among them the lack of accurate information. There was an abundance of books and journal articles for clinicians and scientists but little for people who had DID—about what it felt like, how to manage day-to-day situations, how to find appropriate treatment. Believing she could be of more help filling this void, Jaime changed focus and started An Infinite Mind. 

“This is our biggest conference ever,” she said now, pride in her voice. “Would you believe we’re 400 in person and 300 online? From 26 countries! There’s even a group here from Australia!”

“Wow!”

“And people say DID is rare!”   

As I made my way to my table, I felt an inner calm, despite being nervous about my talk the next day. I had come home.

My exhibit set up, I walked around to see what else was on display and to greet people I knew from previous years. There were a few other memoirs, various therapy practices from around the country, a short educational film about DID, workbooks to help you get in touch with your internal parts, DID-themed crafts, a DID writing program, artwork and jewelry created by people with DID, and more.

When the doors opened, the familiar Disney-like parade filled the hall, but now I saw it as a glorious celebration. At Healing Together, you didn’t have to keep your inside selves hidden if you didn’t want to. If your body was 60 but you felt 8, here you could be 8. If a part of you was nonhuman, perhaps an animal, here you could be that animal. And if you were conservatively dressed, as I was, that was OK, too.  

Yet this was a serious conference. My presentation would be one of more than 40 that weekend, a mixture of those based on lived experience and those based on science. A sampling:

  • What One Therapist Wishes She Had Known Seven Years Ago about Treating Clients Who Live with DID
  • One Body, Multiple Eating Disorders
  • Healing from Toxic Shame
  • So, You’re in a Relationship with Someone Who Dissociates. What now?
  • PTSD and DID: Physiological Adaptation in Response to Trauma.
  • When Your Therapist Is Your Whole World (This was my talk, about becoming dependent on my therapist as a step toward healing, then eventually moving on, with my therapist still important but no longer my whole world.)  

All three cohorts were welcome to attend any of the presentations. The only cohort-specific events were the optional lunchtime chat-and-chews. There were four groups:

  • People living with dissociation and dissociative identities
  • Supporters of people living with dissociation and dissociative identities
  • Therapists with dissociation and dissociative identities
  • Therapists who treat dissociation and dissociative identities   

These get-togethers took place simultaneously, so if you identified as belonging to more than one group—there are professionals and supporters who dissociate—you had to choose.

When the first Healing Together conference, held in 2011, was in its planning stages, clinicians discouraged Jaime from going through with it. Bringing together many people with DID could create an unstable situation, they said. Jaime and the board of An Infinite Mind board didn’t agree. Largely plurals themselves, they understood the issues and knew how to address them.

DID is usually caused by ongoing childhood trauma at the hands of someone the child knows well. The trauma can be physical, sexual, emotional, or spiritual. It can be neglect or unpredictable behavior on the part of a caregiver. (For me, it was a combination of physical and emotional trauma and my parents’ unpredictable behavior.)  

Some traumatized children wall off knowledge of the trauma and the feelings associated with it. The resulting lack of awareness allows them to live seemingly normal lives. The splitting is not intentional. It kicks in automatically, a kind of psychic immune system, shielding the child from emotions like pain, anger, terror, shame, and feeling betrayed that would otherwise overwhelm. The child’s internal system may have multiple splits, with each walled-off part, or alter, playing a different role in protecting her. The parts may be of varying ages and sexes; some may be aware of the others, some may not.

This dissociation serves a purpose while the trauma is still ongoing. It becomes problematic when the child grows up, moves away, and is no longer being traumatized. Dividedness is not necessary for the adult’s survival, but her alters, stuck in the past, don’t know that. They are much like the Japanese holdout soldiers who hid in the jungle, ready to fight, long after World War II ended.

The board of An Infinite Mind understood the dynamics of dissociation and switching, particularly the effect of triggers, which can “wake up” alters holding disturbing memories. This is similar to veterans with PTSD who hear a car backfire and react as if they are on the battlefield. The alter who surfaces in response to a trigger may not know what year it is or where they are. What the person with DID most needs when this happens is to become grounded. This means knowing that they are in the safe present, not the unsafe past.

Some ways to facilitate grounding are walking a labyrinth, doing crafts, journaling, and activating the five senses: taste, sight, touch, smell, and sound. The following notice appears on the first page of the 2024 Healing Together agenda:  


Throughout the conference, you can visit our calming and grounding area when you need a break. There are art activities, a quiet space, sensory items, and a walking labyrinth.

Creating a Safe Space

The conference is made into a safe space in other ways, too. The exhibit hall, presentation rooms, and grounding areas are accessible only to those who have registered. No random guest in the hotel complex can wander in. Each presenter is instructed to begin their talk by announcing that it’s OK for attendees to walk out. Confidentiality is stressed. Most presentations are recorded; a few are not, because the presenters asked that they not be. The recordings are available for several weeks after the conference ends, so people can listen to sessions they did not get to attend or re-listen to others. Attendees are on their honor not to share the recordings with anyone who was not at the conference.

One effect of the safe-space bubble is that people with DID, whether dressed conservatively or conspicuously, get a taste of what it feels like to be neurotypical. We can converse in our native language. “We flew in yesterday” is DID-speak for “I flew in yesterday.” We can mention “littles,” and it is understood we are referring to the child parts inside us. We can talk about a particular alter having “body-time,” and everyone knows it means that alter was “out,” or “fronting,” i.e., that was the alter interacting with the world at that moment.

Like Brigadoon, the mythical Scottish village that comes to life one day every 100 years, Healing Together is a place where, for one weekend a year, people with DID get to be mainstream. It’s the attendees who don’t have DID who feel “other.” More than a few people who stopped at my table felt the need to justify their presence by saying, “I don’t have DID, but my daughter does…,” or “I don’t have DID, but I’m a therapist…,” or “I don’t have DID, but I’m buying the book for…”

People living with DID have many hurdles to navigate. One is the diagnosis itself. A fair number of clinicians, believing the condition is rarer than it is, don’t recognize it when they see it—outside of this meeting, people with DID do not generally “dress up.” Someone with DID spends an average of seven years in the mental health system before receiving the correct diagnosis. (For me, it was 30 years.) In fact, DID affects between 1-1.5% of the population. For comparison, schizophrenia affects 0.25-0.64%, and autism 2.8%.   

Another hurdle is finding a therapist. DID is about creating internal silos. Therapy involves breaking down the silo walls so information and feelings, however painful, can be shared among alters. Not many therapists are experienced in doing this difficult and lengthy work. (The search for a therapist with DID expertise took me six years, bringing me into my 50s.)

Still another hurdle is stigma, in large part generated by sensational media portrayals of DID. Among many examples are the 2003 mystery/thriller Identity and the 2016 horror/thriller Split. A physician I once consulted for digestive problems changed from cordial to fearful when he found out I had DID. First, he asked me to wait outside while he made a phone call. Then his receptionist said I could go home, and the doctor would mail me his recommendations. I subsequently sent him an article about DID I had written for New York Magazine, along with a note explaining that people with DID were no more apt to commit violent crimes than anyone in the general population. He apologized by mail, saying my article taught him a lot, but I chose not to see him again.

At Healing Together, people with DID, regardless of how we are dressed, have ordinary conversations, attend meetings, and participate in Q&A sessions as if we are just regular people, which we are. By the end of the weekend, it struck me that I hardly noticed the outfits anymore. And if I closed my eyes when I was talking to someone, I wouldn’t have known whether they were a person with DID, a supporter, or a professional, unless they chose to tell me, or unless they used plural pronouns while referring to themselves.

Though I could have used the grounding area during my first two years, I was too overwhelmed by the conference to seek it out. But in 2024, when my pre-talk nervousness escalated, I made my way to the crafts table. I didn’t know what I was going to draw until I saw a flower appear on the paper that was the hallmark of six-year-old Emily, one of my alters. Feeling calmer, I made another and posted both above my table.

I wasn’t happy with my talk. My pacing was off, and I had to skip the middle and jump to the end to stay within the time frame. Ordinarily, I would have found it hard to hold my head up afterward, yet I continued to be buoyed by the conference and enjoy interacting with the attendees. It wasn’t until the train ride back to New York, with 24 hours of rolling landscape as a buffer between Healing Together and the “real” world, that I understood why.   

***

I consider myself mostly healed—I have reached the stage of “functional multiplicity,” where my DID does not interfere with my having a full and satisfying life in the non-multiple world—but I had never before experienced an environment where I didn’t feel at all different from other people. It was also an environment where, despite my talk, I felt I mattered. Several times during the weekend, people told me they heard me speak in prior years, or had read my book, or had given a copy to their therapist. A feeling common in people with DID is that we are inherently less than, or not as worthy as, “regular” people. In me, that feeling is often buried so deep I am not aware of it. But for the entire weekend, I felt easy in my body in a way I hadn’t known was possible, as if a burden I didn’t know I was carrying had been lifted. Gazing at the trees whizzing by my window, I realized the burden was shame.  

Healing Together is a space where those of us with DID can think of ourselves as having dissociative identities. Full stop. The word “disorder” has no place in the description, being inappropriate for the remarkably creative way our psyches shielded us from the effects of trauma. It is a serious meeting with a generous sprinkling of light moments. My favorite from 2024: When introducing the keynote speaker, Jaime asked attendees to raise their hands if they had dissociative identities. Many hands went up. “So, there’s actually a lot more people in this room than are in this room,” she said to laughter and applause.

I look forward to hearing her introduce the 2025 keynote. 

***



My table in the exhibit hall of the Healing Together conference




The two flowers I drew at the crafts table.  

Editor’s Note: An excerpt from Vivian Conan’s Losing the Atmosphere can be found on Psychotherapy.net. 

Spilling Over Modernity’s Borders and Boundaries: A Decolonial Story About Alzheimer’s, Family, and Migration

“¿De dónde eres?” My friend’s 9-year-old niece asked me shortly after we were introduced to each other during Christmas. This was in Bogotá last year at my high school friend’s place. She sat next to me, leaning slightly toward me. Her question seemed fueled by a kind of curiosity that two strangers at times share when wanting to rush through the unfamiliar and quickly find a common place from where to discuss matters of much greater importance, like her Christmas presents. It must have been around 15 years since my high school friend and I last knew about each other’s lives. Various life circumstances might have contributed to vanishing from each other’s lives—including living in two different countries—until whenever the day was going to come for us to meet again and pick up our friendship right from where we left off to catch up on whatever many years in between.

My eyes shot open and met her curiosity, sensing all over my body the shock of her question. Did she unwittingly render me foreign to and within my homeland? I wondered.

“Pues de aquí. De Bogotá. Rola 100%!” I said to her, stating what for me was the obvious.

“Es que hablas diferente.” She further explained.

“¿Y tu?” Le pregunté,” pretending to ignore the state of my body, and attempting to reciprocate an interest in our origins.

“De acá.” Me respondió, while organizing her Christmas presents for their exhibit.

My friend overheard our conversation. On the way to the kitchen, she provided some context to resolve her niece’s confusion and to create mine.

“Ella es de aca pero hace mucho que no vive aquí por eso habla así.” my friend explained with the tone of certainty of an irrefutable conclusion.

“Así cómo ???” I yelled in horror; but she had now gotten lost far back in the kitchen as the Christmas host.

Like many, I became well acquainted with the origin question as an immigrant, hence actual foreigner to the sociopolitical and material history of my host country, the United States (U.S.); as well as with the experiences of those who although were born in the United States are inadvertently or intentionally rendered foreign in their homeland by others. This is, when informed by discriminatory singular and monolingual principles about nationals and foreigners from a land. Having left Colombia as an adult, in the U.S. the socio, geo, and body-political history of Latin America/Abya Yala I carry, materializes not only in my accent but in my interactional manners, phenotype, epidermis, and knowledges, which intertwined with local racializing practices, continuously mark the well or ill intended curiosities of the inquirers, nationals or immigrants alike, about their assumptions about my foreign origins. Regardless of their intent, in foreign soil, I share my origins with my chest filled with air, trying out a new sense of pride in the diaspora evoked by its nostalgia, not quite reaching patriotism but maybe darn close to it, if I were to speculate on what incarnated patriotism would be like:

“From Colombia.” I usually respond to that question and sometimes I point at my wrist when I wear its colors.

Re-entering: From Here and From There Migration Experience

During the last couple of years, I have been spending more and more time in Bogotá than I ever have since the early 2000’s when I left. My mother’s health and increasing loss of memory called for it. Although no doctor would diagnose her with Alzheimer’s in her late 80s, that was the family’s narrative about that part of my mom’s life and our relationship with her still to this day. Her four daughters were no longer living in Colombia. My three sisters and I migrated to the U.S. at different times during our adult lives, for different reasons that required no explanation. Mom and dad raised us during the Colombian armed conflict, intensified by the international drug war and the U.S. intervention.

In a country living and enduring the ongoing wounds of war, poverty, and state neglect, as it is the case for many countries living through long-standing conflicts around the world, as I recalled, for many Colombians across various socio-political circumstances, since birth, the idea of leaving Colombia becomes part of what it means to live in Colombia, aspiring for refuge elsewhere. Violence humiliates the homeland and elevates the non-realizable promises of foreign land. Those of us who realized the idea of leaving Colombia represent the 6% of the population who currently live outside of the country—primarily in the U.S., Spain, and Venezuela. According to the Migration Policy Institute, Colombians are the largest group of South American immigrants in the U.S., representing 2% of U.S. immigrants. Colombian migration to the U.S. has increased three times as fast, from 144,000 Colombians in 1980 to 855,000 in 2022.

During our lives in the U.S., mom would come to visit for various periods of time, visiting with each one of us across states. My dad traveled once, which was more than enough contact with U.S. soil for him, given his politics. We would stay in contact through daily emails or texts, otherwise. Also, from time to time, I would travel to Bogotá for a long weekend or so for a visit. Before migrating, and all throughout the Covid pandemic, my oldest sister lived with and cared for mom in Bogotá until the impending heart-wrenching decision finally came knocking at the door to meet the four of us face to face.

The emotional intensity, and dedicated care my sister and her children had been providing mom with for the last few years had proven to be no longer sustainable for either of them. Con cabeza fría, we had to make the overdue decision, even against mom’s wishes that she no longer remembered. Mom needed to be relocated to a specialized nursing home for her proper care. She had outlived friends and close relatives. My father died back in 2008, and we heard that mom’s last living sibling, the oldest, Alberto, was still alive but bedridden in deteriorating health conditions. He died not too long after mom moved to the nursing facility.

My relatively advantageous immigrant conditions afforded me alternatives that only so many immigrants in the U.S. have in similar circumstances, with aging parents still living back in our home-countries. I began traveling to Bogotá regularly during the last year before mom died, spending months at a time with her while working remotely. My sisters would visit when able. Daily, morning and afternoon, raining or not, I would walk back and forth to visit mom at the nursing place in the north area of Bogotá from the small place nearby I rented during my stays. I would pick up on my way some kind of dessert for my mom’s sweet tooth that memory loss had forgotten to forget. I became very well acquainted with mom’s co-living folks and their visiting families; and also the nurses, aids, physical therapists, and cooking and cleaning staff, majority women, to the extent that exceptions for their visiting hours became the new visiting hours. It was through their lives—the only people I had close contact with at that point in Bogotá—that I re-entered a sense of living a life in Bogotá, although still having more than one foot in my immigrant life in the U.S., to which I remained virtually connected through a laptop.

Through life at the nursing home, I reintegrated myself to the familiar tensions of the Colombia Nation-State’ s sociopolitical heartbeat, revealing along the signs of the 24 years that have passed and have transformed both the country and my politics in the diaspora. The tensions were palpable. On the one hand, the advantageous circumstances of the families who could afford their relatives to live there were visible. And, on the other, so were the injurious sociopolitical conditions and longstanding neglect by the Nation-State toward the lives of the people working there. Although responsible for the care of the facility’s residents, they had to do so while undergoing living conditions that seemed to cry out in state neglect. This was one of the other jobs they needed for their survival and the survival of their family.

Some of their children were being educated under precarious conditions in public schools. Evictions from their home were more tangible month after month. The impeccable makeup of some of the women working in the kitchen kept hidden the marks of patriarchy’s hands from the night before, some of which was documented in futile police reports as well as in her self-defense fingernails imprinted on his skin. Their clothes served as curtains behind which their bruised bodies were concealed, while their bones would heal from their forceful impact against the wall, or the push down the stairs. Their children were their witnesses. According to the Colombian newspaper, El Pais, between May of 2023 and 2024, 149.017 family violence incidents and 630 femicides were reported in the country. Limping, the women would arrive on time at the nursing home after a 3-hours-long commute from the south of Bogotá to care for my mom with the best of dispositions possible. Story after story, the nostalgic Nation-State Colombia of the diaspora that I was so proudly holding tight to, wearing it on my wrist, and expanding my chest, started to melt throughout my body, transpiring through my skin, forming a polluted stream of outrage that took off running through la Avenida 19, running all the red lights, turning toward la Autopista Norte, eventually merging with Bogotá River, considered one of the most contaminated rivers in the world, according to WSP.

My relationship with mom that year was not exempt from a sort of re-entering experience. It was similar to how my re-entering to a life in Bogotá was. On occasion, mom would seem as if she could see in my face sort of a familial resemblance but not quite family. I was beginning to feel that way about everyday life in Bogotá although not linked to a matter of memory but migration. I recognized aspects of what I remembered was my homeland out of the unrecognizable features of the obvious changes since I left. I was able to discern some things but not others with my renewed borderland eyes as a Colombiana inmigrante en the U.S.

My life from when I lived in Colombia during the late 1900s met with my life as an immigrant living in the U.S. since the beginning of the 2000s only to discover they had already met over two decades ago and have become inseparable since. My memories from Colombia were never left behind. On the contrary, they carried me through the making of a new life in a new land. After all, we can’t separate ourselves from the history that makes us. I have been living both lives simultaneously, through a multiplicity unfolding either in Colombia or the U.S.

A sense of foreignness within the familiar, and a sense of familiarity within the foreign helped me discern the experience of dwelling in the borderlands, which my friend and her niece also brought out in the open during Christmas, when I reconnected with them months after mom died on March 29, 2023. The borderlands became a point for reflection on what it was bringing forth—difference—to ultimately transcend modernity’s definition of difference as fracturing borders or boundaries since the conquest of the Americas—the colonial difference. Walter Mignolo has written extensively on this topic.

The colonial difference refers to a hierarchy of separation (for control purposes) through the development of borders or boundaries that create races, cultures, Nation-States, identities, languages, genders, etc. Modernity’s colonial difference fractures the bones of the communal into hierarchical separate pieces whereby those lower in the hierarchy can be thrown down the stairs or against the walls of separation that it created. Thus, my friend nieces’ question about my origins, became a recognition of difference stemming from my 24 years in the diaspora crawling up my Colombian accent to renew it within a sense of plurality. My renewed accent marks a difference that does not have to be of borders, exclusion, fracture, or separation, but of relationality and connection out of what it means to live relationally, or in more than one world simultaneously.

I have heard many stories, mostly from Mexican, Chicanxs, Mexican-American, or Texanes, about their experiences when returning to their homelands in the Nation-State of México. They shared being made to feel that they do not belong on either side of the border: “not from here, not from there,” “ni de aquí, ni de allá [neither from here nor there].” I understand this to be a symptom of modernity’s logic of criminalization by difference and punishment when crossing the border. Anything that does not represent nationalism on either side of the border, thus promotes monolinguality, monoculturality, or singularity, is destitute and criminalized. On the contrary, from the borderlands of my experience, I am thinking about immigration interrogating the borders while being interrogated; thus, opening at the same time possibilities to rethink the fracturing premise of separation modernity promotes into being “from here AND from there, simultaneously, thus relationally.” This revised premise eases my body when facing the origin question by Colombians in Colombia.

Rendering the Familiar Unfamiliar: Radical Listening

More often than not, mom did not know exactly who I was, or when and where we may have met at some point in our lives. Only a couple of times, she recognized me as her youngest daughter, “marce,” as she used to call me. Although she never forgot her name, Gloria, she did not know where she was nor recognized her own image in the mirror. Sometimes I was her youngest sister, and other times, she would address me as her nurse or aid. When I would rub her hands, the touch would call her to reposition her hands and to start giving me instructions on how she wanted her nails done that day. When I would pass my fingers through her hair, sometimes she would address me as her hairdresser, or quite firmly in a tone I did not recognize, she would push my hand away demanding that I do not touch and mess her hair.

As much as mom did not remember that I was her daughter, I did not always fully recognize mom in the body and interactions of the 89-year-old woman living in the nursing home—except during her brief inconfundibles momentos [unmistakable moments] of humor here and there. This was not surprising to me, having learned about similar yet different stories from folks from various backgrounds with parents living with Alzheimer’s or dementia, not only in my therapy work. My family was now living through those stories but creating our own. Our story is also likely to be my story about possibly inheriting from mom a life with Alzheimer’s yet to manifest, at least as far as my memory can tell thus far.

Although not surprising, witnessing mom’s increasing experiences of discomfort, suffering, and loss of conversational abilities was at times hard. Yet, unexpectedly, under such unfortunate circumstances, not being remembered by mom at times opened alternative relational possibilities. But it required radical listening to recognize these as possibilities and through the rather overwhelming presence of Alzheimer’s. I have learned radical listening from various perspectives that I carried with me every day to the nursing home during my visits. These include perspectives on borders, memory, history, and aesthetics shaped by my lived experiences as a bilingual immigrant, my understanding of Narrative Therapy in English as a family therapist, and mostly by my engagement with the decolonial project from Abya Yala y el Caribe in Spanish and Spanglish as a member of the civil political society. These are perspectives that have shaped not only my family therapy work but my life as I write here.

Cognitively speaking, Alzheimer’s configured mom and I as strangers, no longer family. We became foreigners to one another. Most interestingly, however, it rendered us foreigners to modernity’s concept of the family. As an immigrant, working and living in community with immigrants in the U.S., questioning, revising, expanding, or delinking from the westernized idea of family has not been uncommon. Migration is a context for the necessary renegotiation of our ties and kinships within the context of voluntary or involuntary separation, and deportation. For example, during the current administration in the Nation-State of the U.S., during the last four years, nearly 4.4 million people have been deported to more than 170 countries according to the Migration Policy Institute.

Mom and I became foreigners to the western idea of the family settled and promoted in Colombia, and many other parts of the world, through Catholicism, heteronormativity, patriarchy, capitalism, and their institutionalization of relationships. As one of mom’s four non-adopted or non-in vitro children, our half a century-long enfleshed relationship was governed in great part by humanized fracturing assumptions of reproduction, motherhood, productivity, and gendered relationships founded on who gave birth and who was birthed to constitute a family. Thus, oddly, Alzheimer’s liberated us, not from accountability for all the headaches I caused mom over the years, rather, from thinking ourselves, and listening to each other, through the institutionalization of boundary-based relationships, its imposed social expectations, and Nation-State’s laws whereby the western family has been instituted as some sort of a social mandate. If I were to take a guess, these sort of institutionalized human laws and western concept of the family might be the sort of conundrums that would make la Pachamama, Madre Tierra, shake the earth. Mom’s forgotten aspirations for my life and my sisters’, which included growing up to become Colombian mothers, with good husbands, and decent, healthy, economically independent (from men), and hard-working women, were no longer shaping our relationship.

Deinstitutionalized by the unfortunate circumstances of Alzheimer’s, thus no longer being a Colombian mother and a Colombian daughter in the modern sense, we learned each other and cared for each other otherwise, sometimes minute by minute. The fracturing logic of the family boundaries planted by modernity was removed. Thus, I understood care to be instead about honoring the relationship with the person I owed my existence to in so many ways in addition to giving birth to me. As a family therapist, I am attentive to what the global and western concept of family imposes on relationships in an exploration of what sort of relationships are possible otherwise or in addition to.

My relationship with mom was unpredictable and in constant movement. It was to be discovered by dwelling in the moment of its expression. We had to discover who we were, a cada momento (every moment), according to the memories invoked and received as they came, no matter what. Was I the hairdresser, the woman who does her nails, her sister, one of my sisters, her nurse, or any other character out of my mom’s history? I could not arrive at the nursing home with certainty of who I was, but with clarity of where my existence—and my sisters’— came from. I became someone only through the act of being with mom and our memories, some of which we invoked together.

We connected through the ever-changing moment of the circumstances that brought to life some of the memories of what we were made of. The circumstances I am referring to were for the most part sensorial. The senses evoked sparkles of memories, interconnected with other memories, both hers and mine. The taste of the daily desserts, my touch, the temperature of my hand over hers, the boleros we listened to, the noise from the novelas on the TV we stared at, pictures of her younger life, the colors and textures of my clothes, my gray hairs, the co-living folks’ speech or appearance, the birds’ colors and their singing having Bogotá’s traffic as their symphony far in the background, as well as the colors of the flowers around us when we sat outside in the garden evoked memories intertwined. Those memories that have shaped, among other things, our half a century relationship, not only formed our lives but who we were to become moment by moment. I realized I was mom’s sister, por ejemplo, only in the brief moment that she saw me as her sister. Undoubtedly, we were radical historical and relational beings.

I can’t help to think about how social relationships, including relationships within the context of westernized therapy look like when we are to arrive at the encounter with someone else not with certainty (or doubt of) of who we are as therapists but with clarity about where we come from—as historical beings. This shifts away from the mainstream conceptualization of the therapist as an empty (no history) interventionist, solely performing according to the regulations of the institution and professional Eurocentric theories to be good or effective therapists. As historical therapists, instead, we become available to engage and receive the encounter with another, attending carefully to our histories, intentionalities and how we are shaped by the experience of the encounter. Thus, similar to who I became when visiting mom, who is the therapist is not independent from the encounter with who consults. The therapist becomes a therapist in the encounter with the person who is consulting. This shift requires an initiative to des-institutionalize the therapist, and to foreignize westernized therapy perspectives that situate an ahistorical therapist.

The Sensorial Grammar and Temporality of Memories

As mom’s cognitive abilities continued to deteriorate, it seemed as if for those of us around her, her presence in this world began to disintegrate into oblivion. She was talked about, no longer engaged with, her body moved from one place to the other, and words were put in her mouth, at times necessarily. Her existence was for the most part reduced only to her possibilities, or lack thereof in her present, in the here and now. Although her body was present, the growing absence of thought, reason, and the ability to access frameworks of intelligibility to express ideas in the present moment seemed to cast doubt on her very existence. Hence, if we were to recognize mom’s existence and vivid presence in this world, it required us—decolonially speaking —to overcome modernity’s spatial (here), temporal (now), universal assumptions. It also meant to cast doubt on the overemphasis on cognitive function, (capitalist) productivity, modern storytelling (or framework of intelligibility), and conversational skills as the only ways of being or existing. Then, it became more possible for me to continue to relate to mom, to learn from her, and to be transformed with her.

I came to understand that the sensorial had become the grammar of our communication, through memories. Mom’s life was unfolding through her bits of memories that situated us in their respective temporalities. Although evoked in the present, mom’s slivers of memories were transgressing modernity’s contemporary framework, its universalized linearity—past, present, and its spatial metaphysics that places the present as the monopoly for the principles of what is real and represented as real. She brought me into her life to take part in events that were happening before I was even born. When some of the aides or co-living folks would overhear our conversations at the nursing home, however, it was not uncommon that they would mistakenly “correct” mom’s temporality when instructing her about their (modern) sense of time—the time most of us operate under. They would persist in telling mom what year, place, and person she was, alluding to the calendar present even though it did not match the temporality of her memories. I could see in mom’s face deep concern and confusion by their efforts. She was in complete disbelief and shocked by how wrong and confused they were.

“What are they saying?” She would ask me.

Thus, even as an unborn person, unquestionably I was mom’s companion through the pieces of her history from a time that for folks in the nursing home and in the majority of the Eurocentrically educated world, was not chronologically feasible. Both of us experienced those brief moments often to resolve whatever concerns she may have had, at times involving her parents and siblings—my grandparents, aunts and uncles, all biologically dead—and her childhood home in La Candelaria, in Bogotá’s historic downtown. She worried if we had locked the house after we left, or if we had brought the keys with us, if we had enough time to eat dessert and get home in time before her younger sister, Estella, would get there, or Alberto, her oldest sibling, would pick us up. It seemed as though the sensorial grammar of our communication implicated mom’s entanglement with what decolonial theorist Rolando Vázquez calls a relational idea of time and space that doesn’t have either a geometrical, chronological, linear, or circular understanding of time like modernity marks reality.

I got a sense of the temporality of mom’s memories not by asking mom her age, since she no longer had reference to that kind of time-thinking. Modernity’s temporality—defined by calendar date, clock time, age, or generations—were not determinants for tracking her stories or a reference to time. Instead, it was the people who featured in that memory and its setting that gave me a reference to the time of the events, making them feasible. Her experience in the present was happening through her history—that is, through her memories from a time when her parents were alive, she was living in la casa de La Candelaria with her siblings, and I had not been born. Hence, there were no westernized life span or human developmental theories that would serve as frameworks to interpret her experiences.

Instead, the vegan cheesecake de maracuyá of La Despensa, the bakery around the corner of my rental, would bring to the surface memories that contained mom’s lived experiences with their own temporalities in no specific order. Events would unfold through particular relationships and their settings. Her memories jumped from one moment to the other according to what the cheesecake called for, and I jumped along. Following her memories was more helpful than listening to them from assumed theories of time, stories, and development. I would say, decolonially speaking, that relational time re-dignified mom’s existence that modernity’s capabilities of erasure through its overinflation of cognition, the contemporary idea of time, and the metaphysics of presence had rendered it suspicious. For modernity, Alzheimer’s had placed mom in an evacuated present time—with no history. She was seen as living in an empty time like Walter Benjamin’s because all that counted as a measurable reality was no longer mom’s reality. Thus, on the contrary, from de-modernity, I would say that by radical listening to the plurality of mom’s lived experiences in their own terms that modernity destitutes through erasure, the senses restituted.

Sensorial Invocation

One of the settings or temporal references that would come up quite a bit in mom’s memories was the colonial casa de La Candelaria of my grandparents. It was the house where mom and her siblings were born and raised until she married dad. This was also the house that kept many explanations of the scars still visible in my body—head, knees, and face by roller skating throughout the house from one patio to the other, running up and down, and playing with my sisters on the swing set by the large fig tree in the back patio still standing. Every weekend mom would take us to visit our grandparents. The house was finally sold to an Italian man much later after my grandparents died. He renovated it into a hotel, maintaining its colonial architecture.

Late afternoon on Sundays when Bogotá’s traffic would be more bearable, I would drive mom from the nursing home to la casa de La Candelaria. The first time we got there I was dying of anticipation for the memories and experiences we were about to live together and for what I was going to learn about mom’s history once she would see the house and the colonial neighborhood. I was hoping that seeing the material presence of the house we have visited several times, through her memories, imaginatively, from the nursing home, would call upon a flood of pieces of memories here and there, unleashed from Alzheimer’s and running loose through La Candelaria’s narrow streets, passing through la Catedral Primada were she married dad, right across from the presidential residence, el Palacio de Nariño.

Overjoyed, I would yell out calling and pointing out various landmarks of our shared history through the neighborhood. I had not been there in years! It was extraordinary to be back. To my surprise and quite a bit of disappointment, my persistence in calling upon mom’s memories was futile. The house we had been at through the memories evoked and configured from the sensorial grammar of our relationship was not the material house of la casa de la Calle 11 con 2nda in the year 2023, nor its representation. It existed in a different temporality.

Over a year after mom died, cousins on my dad’s side, my sisters, and I were finally able to arrange a time to meet in Bogotá and drive to my dad’s family farm in Sasaima, one hour away with no traffic, to bury mom’s ashes. She is buried next to my dad’s, my paternal aunt’s, and paternal cousin’s ashes. They are overlooking the mesmerizing landscape of the Andes mountains, surrounded by the farm’s variety of lush vegetation that my dad had a deep connection to. The scars on my body that la Casa de la Candelaria could not explain, the farm in Sasaima could from rolling down the hills, swimming, and barbecuing with my sisters and cousins during the various trips with dad’s family growing up. Unlike the scars of the women working at the nursing home, these were privileged scars of a life from the minority in Colombia also living in the midst of Colombia’s armed conflict. Privileged and all, even so, neither la casa de La Candelaria nor the farm in Sasaima were exempt from becoming sites for violence where kidnappings took place of an aunt and cousins on both sides of the family while I was still living in Colombia.

During our day or weekend trips to the farm growing up, at lunchtime the family would get together and sit around the large dining table to eat what the land offered–herbs, vegetables, and fruits among other foods. We were always served delicious vegetable soup with cilantro. In the diaspora, I have experienced being at that table and sipping soup with cilantro millions of times. Cilantro calls on that memory. In a split of a second, cilantro opens the door for me to enter into that moment although I am on U.S. soil. It brings me to the sensing of the taste of food, the light coming from the wood windows, the touch on my skin of Sasaima’s humidity in the mid 70’s, and the crackling sound of the straw woven mats. I can’t recreate that experience otherwise. I’ve tried. I can see static images but can’t experience the sensation of being there that cilantro brings to life.

Returning to the farm in 2024, I was amazed by being at the same table, eating the food of the land, and soup with cilantro. I couldn’t believe it. It did not take me too long to realize though that it was a different “coming back,” it did not feel the same as the experience of the memory from the diaspora. It was as if the memory linked to cilantro existed in a life with a different temporality, in a parallel reality, yet intimately connected to the material farm. Just like mom’s experience of driving by la casa de La Candelaria in 2023, the vividly sensed farm within my connection to cilantro also belongs to a reality that was embedded in a different temporality, and therefore a different relationality. It is a place I can no longer drive to on my own—no matter the traffic or the day —but I can taste my way to it.

In connection to a decolonial premise, I would say that la casa and the farm exist in memories that do not subscribe to an understanding of modernity’s contemporary, its linear temporality, and notion of reality as presence. Although I would say that our memories surfaced in the present as expressions from a relational time, relationally, not always on our own volition, but under certain circumstances, such as sensorial. According to Vázquez, these memories, like all our memories, live in a plurality that is always moving. Hence, memories are not chained to a particular date or someone’s age in a dead or static past, for example. In that sense, these memories are not representations of the material in the present—mom lived certain moments of her day at La Casa de la Candelaria while being at the nursing home, but could not recognize the material house on Sundays when we drove by.

Our lived experiences live in our memories and grow their own heartbeats, giving us life. We are made of memories, collective memories, with their own lives, sensings, and times. Our existence comes from those memories. Thus, it might be more suitable to say that memories are beside us. They are not deep in history but wide in history, next to us or in front of us, accompanying us, guiding us, and constituting our lives, even though they do not always show up in the present, unless relationally and sensorially called upon.

Like my memories, mom’s seemed to be interacting with other memories, perhaps being that the reason why it was possible for me to join her in a moment in her life when although I had not been born, memories of my aunt, uncles, grandparents and the house better helped me to be there for her and with her. Therefore, although mom’s ability to recall events that took place in the nursing home that morning, an hour ago, or last week kept dwindling, her memories interconnected to mine and our senses kept alive aspects of what she had lived, shaping how she lived, and continue to live through us, her four daughters’ memories and the memories of all she had contact with, perhaps even before she was born.

Her existence spilled over modernity’s placed boundaries of her skin to re-exist via her relational memories in a relational time that has kept her alive after her biological death. Mom got to re-exist, inadvertently putting doubt to and rendering suspicious for me modernity’s persuasive cognitive driven and over inflated perspectives that previously rendered mom’s life doubtful and suspicious, when her life was reduced to be only cognitively spoken about.

Re-existence: Restitution by De-institutionalization

After getting over my disappointment from my mom’s unexpected response to La Candelaria, I chuckled a bit and rolled my eyes while driving back to the nursing home before it got dark. “Really?” I thought. Although I had been experiencing and learning from the ongoing and uncertain movement of my relationship with mom, and attentive to what the unpredictability that each bit of memory would offer to us, my over-a-decade of experiences as a therapist, academic, and researcher—Eurocentrically trained—couldn’t help it but to show up.

I realized that I had begun to identify a pattern of response from mom to “study it” and identify its conditions or context. I tried to generalize it by manufacturing similar conditions for the sustainability of the pattern of response. I wanted to replicate it. In doing so, I was attempting to manipulate mom’s response at my will by driving her to la casa. Ugh! I was guided by my own assumption and best intentions to create a “happy” moment for mom. I am fairly confident in saying that this is somewhat similar to modernity’s logic of knowledge production in therapy.

Based on the therapeutic model’s theory of change—or what the therapist believes (based on research) makes people “happy” (well, stable, healthy, or problem free etc.), interventions are identified with expected outcomes (via research or clinical case examples) to be replicated (mostly to a homogenous population). Such interventions are technified or manualized for easier distribution, consumption, and implementation for others to use with the persuasive generalized promise of delivering an outcome of change to help a-historical people. I am afraid that by doing so, I was imposing a boundary between the subject (investigator) and object (mom) to arrogantly identify sensorial tools for change, to technify and manualize our relationship based on modernity’s arrogance to self-define what is good for others.

Very gladly so, unintentionally perhaps, mom sort of delivered a candid middle finger—not the first nor the second in her life—at my attempts at technifying our relationship. I received her delivery happily. I had re-institutionalized our relationship, losing sight of the possibilities that come from the borderlands, memories and their sensorial grammar, relational time, and defamiliarization from modernity’s logic of erasure.

Mom’s implicit middle finger reconnected me to our lived experiences to sense more clearly what institutional practices do and fracture, like the institutionalization of the land, bodies, relationships, healing, and histories. Thus better discerning deep connections—being from here AND from there—to my home-land, in various relational times, my languages, and relationships with the people I owe my existence to, the food the land offers, the Andes where my parents ashes are spread, la casa and the farm along with their explaining histories, the Bogotá altitude, the strangers in the street, the acquaintances of the bakery around the corner, and the long-time friends and the people they owe their existence to. These are the sort of experiences that contribute to de-institutionalizing my work as a therapist and training therapists, to begin conceptualizing our work first and foremost from the histories that make us.

Author’s Note: I want to thank Jill Freedman & Gene Combs at the Evanston Family Therapy Center and their 2024 training cohort for listening to my reading of an earlier version of this story, which helped me revise it. 

Legendary Psychotherapists Share Their Secrets to Longevity

The Pioneers of Psychotherapy Lived Long, Productive Lives

Several years ago, I authored three books and a string of articles featuring contributions and interviews with some of the greatest therapists in the world. At the time, I searched for commonalities that might be relevant. Recently, I revisited those commonalities and noticed one factor, seemingly unrelated to the psychotherapeutic process, that stood out: advanced longevity. This subject seems to be of increasing interest today.

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By examining the experts featured in my books and articles, and adding a few more world-class therapists to the mix, I reached a striking conclusion. Simply put, many of these professionals enjoyed or continue to enjoy extremely long and productive lives. Here are some examples:

  • Albert Ellis lived to be 93 and completed his interview with me at age 89.
  • The father of CBT, Aaron T. Beck, made it to 100.
  • Muriel James, who penned the transactional analysis and gestalt classic Born to Win, lived to 101. For context, only 0.027% of Americans reach 100. Muriel was 86 at the time of our interview.
  • Ray Corsini, editor of Current Psychotherapies and one of the top psychologists of the last 150 years, was 94 when he passed away.
  • Suicide and thanatology expert Ed Schneidman lived to 91. Did you know Edwin Shneidman coined the term “suicidology”?
  • Career counseling guru Richard Nelson Bolles, author of What Color is Your Parachute? the best-selling career choice book of all time, lived to 90.
  • William Glasser, the father of reality therapy with choice theory, died at 89.
  • Viktor Frankl, the creator of logotherapy and a Holocaust survivor, lived to 92.
  • Robert Firestone, the father of voice therapy, was 94 and still active as I wrote this blog, but sadly passed away prior to its publication.
  • Irvin Yalom, an expert in group therapy, humanistic therapy, and death and dying, is 93.  

The Masters Share their Secrets to Longevity

If this phenomenon is the norm, what is responsible? Just what constitutes the magic bullet? Is helping others beneficial for the helper? Is listening and empathy advantageous to human physiology? Is it frequent sitting? (Certainly not according to any expert I have ever heard!) Is it getting up from the therapy chair, simulating an air-squat repetition performed at the beginning and end of each 50-minute hour fountain of youth? Have therapists stumbled onto their own brand of interval training? Could the benefits come from the intellectual stimulation from thinking and analyzing client behaviors?

When I asked Ellis about his secret to remarkable longevity, I jokingly asked if he had the water at his institute spiked with vitamin E or something. I inquired if he was into herbs or cranking out crunches while his clients shared their tales of woe. Was it the REBT thinking that kept him youthful?

Ellis shared that he had good heredity. His mother and her whole family lived into their nineties. His dad lived until age 80 and was one of the earliest to die in his family. Ellis insisted he didn’t use anything special, just worked on his emotional problems and avoided upsetting himself about things. He added that learning new things, helping people, and engaging with music kept him going.

But could the secret lie outside the therapy sessions? Or to put it a different way, could the answer be found in what therapists do when they are not actively engaged in the practice of psychotherapy or after the point in their career where they are no longer seeing clients?

Consider my exchange with Muriel James a while after our interview; when I inquired about whether she was still doing individual and group therapy, she told me she had branched out.

“What do you mean, branched out?” I asked.

She explained that she would get up early surrounded by a cup of java and about 50 history books. (Did she say 50 books? Yes, Howard, she said 50!)

She had discovered, at least at the time, that female history authors were discriminated against and therefore she was writing the texts using a male pseudonym. Talk about practicing what you preach. In my mind Muriel was using Born to Win self-therapy 2.0.

Yes, some luminaries in our field left us too soon, and for the 1000th time, correlation is not causation, but this phenomenon is certainly something to ponder. Just ask any therapist!

Questions for Reflection and Discussion

What are your impressions of the author’s connection between success and longevity?

How do you stay focused and sharp as you age in your clinical career?

Which one of these elder statespeople do you admire and why?  

Michelle Jurkiewicz on Gender-Affirming Psychotherapy with Children, Teens and Families

Lawrence Rubin: Thanks so much for joining me today, Michelle. You are a psychotherapist in private practice in Berkeley, where, among other things, you specialize in gender-affirming mental healthcare for children, teens, and their families. Did I get that right? 
Michelle Jurkiewicz: Yes, you did.
LR:
we have the gender affirmative model, and then we have gender-affirming care
What exactly is your gender-affirming model as applied to clinical work with kids and teenagers? What does that mean?
MJ: We have the gender affirmative model, and then we have gender-affirming care. The gender affirmative model is a way of thinking about and understanding gender diversity, which applies to everyone. It’s based on the premise that gender diversity is a normal and healthy human variation, that people have the right to live in the gender that feels most true to them, without criticism and discrimination. And it’s also based on the idea that there’s not a preferred outcome in terms of a young person’s gender, whether that’s transgender or cisgender. There’s not one that’s preferred.

Gender-affirming Mental Health Care with Children and Teens

LR: And you said that’s different than gender-affirming care.
MJ: Gender-affirming care is informed by the gender affirmative model. When we talk about gender-affirming care, especially when you hear about it in the media, it’s often referring to medical care. But gender-affirming care often takes place amongst an interdisciplinary team.

So, if you’re talking about puberty blockers and gender-affirming hormone treatment, then that is something that even as a psychotherapist, you would be working in conjunction with an endocrinologist or pediatrician, likely a social worker. There are various members of the team.

The main way the gender affirmative model works with children and teens is the way that the therapists themselves are holding the space for a child to be able to explore who they are and be who they are, as well as increase what we call gender literacy. In the most basic sense, gender literacy is increasing an understanding of the sociocultural norms of gender roles and stereotypes, and what potential consequences there are if you step outside of those boxes.

We want children to be able to be themselves and explore who they are while also—in age-appropriate ways—making sure that they understand the world that they live in and that not everyone necessarily understands gender diversity.   

LR:
the main way the gender affirmative model works with children and teens is the way that the therapists themselves are holding the space for a child to be able to explore who they are
What is your particular role in that network of professionals that converge in working with a kid or a family around gender and gender transition?
MJ: There’s not as much need to be in contact with young children before puberty unless there’s something else going on. Then, of course, like any child, we would be in touch with pediatricians and other relevant professionals.

But when a child enters puberty, and there is the question or desire for puberty blockers or later for gender-affirming hormone treatment, the gender centers require an assessment from a mental health provider, which they take into consideration. It’s one piece of the whole picture of whether this is the right thing for the child. The psychotherapist’s job in those instances is to share your thoughts about whether, in your professional opinion, that is the best next step for this child and family.   

LR: So, they will take your input, based on your observation and your work with the child and family, into consideration before the team decides, although I imagine it’s ultimately—hierarchically—it is the physician who makes the decision.
MJ: Well, the parents ultimately, but yes.
LR: Is this evaluative process with pre-pubertal clients what you refer to as your holistic evaluation?
MJ: We typically think of the holistic evaluation even prior to that. But in terms of specifically with pubertal kids who are seeking gender-affirming medical care, we’re referring to taking everything that we possibly can into consideration. And that means that we work very closely with parents as well.

So, we’re looking at all aspects of their history. We’re looking at how parents feel about it because it’s important that if this goes forward, we have the parents’ full support.   

LR: While we’ll chat about the family a bit later, I would imagine at this juncture that dealing with parental ambivalence would be an important part of that holistic evaluation.
MJ: I think oftentimes, parental ambivalence is addressed and worked with even prior to this evaluation. 
LR:
the gender affirmative model does not advocate for specific psychological testing
I would hope so. For those psychometrically driven clinicians out there, are there specific inventories or questionnaires, psychological tests, so to speak, that would be part of an evaluation?
MJ: The gender affirmative model does not advocate for specific psychological testing. Prior to the gender affirmative model, the child had to undergo a whole battery of psychological tests. We don’t do that anymore.

There are various screeners and batteries, and things like that that some clinicians use to help them get a child’s gender into focus. I personally am not using those so much because I feel like I’m well-trained and I have a lot of experience, and that, through my conversations with children and their families, I get a very good picture and don't need those batteries.

I will say, though, that I am an advocate for more research in that area. I think there are some people that are working on a more standardized evaluation process, of course. But I have not found that useful in my own work.   

LR: I guess when you’re talking about gender-affirming care, you are already outside of standardized notions. You’re already considering not just the psychological makeup of the child, but the whole ecosystem. To then try to empower some instruments to carry the burden of decision making almost seems antithetical. 
MJ: I agree. I think the tension is around insurance companies.
LR: And then there’s the issue of liability. If the clinician is going to be called into court, psychometrics may be desired, or even demanded. In the course of your typical evaluation, what are you looking for historically, developmentally, in a teenager? In other words, what are some of the markers you are looking for that give you a sense that this child has always been on this path?
MJ: That’s a good question because I think what we’re seeing is shifting, and it used to be that the kids that we were working with came out when they were very tiny, and they maintained that identity until puberty, and then they accessed gender-affirming medical care.

I think now we’re seeing more and more kids come out later, in which case, when we’re looking at their history, we’re not necessarily looking for stereotypes, such as they played with stereotypical toys of the other gender, or they wore clothes of the other gender—although we do gather that information, but it’s not a required piece of their history.

If we’re going to introduce gender-affirming medical care, we’re looking for some sort of sense that this has been a consistent and persistent identity, especially once we’re talking about gender-affirming hormones. Because puberty blockers have not been shown to have long term adverse effects once they’re stopped, that could happen potentially more quickly if a child is in a lot of distress and puberty is right then and there. But that doesn’t mean then that that child would necessarily go on to gender-affirming hormones.

We are looking for some sort of consistency in their identities. We’re developing this pathway in conjunction with medical providers, which requires that the child is, at the same time, learning about the risks and benefits in a developmentally appropriate way. In some ways this is asking them to take on something we don’t typically ask of cisgender kids in terms of their medical care, but it does mean that a lot of times these kids know a lot.   

LR:
if we’re going to introduce gender-affirming medical care, we’re looking for some sort of sense that this has been a consistent and persistent identity, especially once we’re talking about gender-affirming hormones
They’re informed.
MJ: They’re very informed, and that’s a necessary piece of the process.
LR: Why does WPATH (World Professional Association for Transgender Health) recommend that while evaluating these kids, you look for, if not rule out, autism spectrum disorder? What's the link that they think must be examined there?
MJ: If a child is on the spectrum, it does not disqualify them from gender-affirming care. However, what WPATH is addressing, and what I’ve seen in my own practice, is that there is a huge correlation between gender diversity and being on the autism spectrum. The most recent statistic I’ve heard is that about 10 to 12% of gender diverse children are also on the spectrum. That’s huge compared to the regular population of kids.
LR: As a clinician, and perhaps intuitively, what do you think the connection is?
MJ: I don’t know, but my best guess, and the way I think about it as of this moment, is that a necessary piece of being diagnosed on the spectrum has to do with social differences, the way that one reads cues, the way that one responds to others and interacts with others. And so, I wonder if children who are on the spectrum feel less inhibited by social norms around gender, so they have naturally more freed up space to take it up. 
LR: Do you have to sort of screen for, if not rule it out before proceeding with transitioning?
MJ: We don’t inhibit a child from proceeding because they’re on the spectrum. But what we do need to be screening for is the hyper-focusing and rigidity that often accompanies spectrum-related behavior. We need to make sure that that’s not what’s going on with gender.
LR:
here is a huge correlation between gender diversity and being on the autism spectrum
Are there any myths you’ve come across about these gender diverse kids who are searching—and is ‘searching” a good enough word? 
MJ: Gender exploring! I think that there are many myths, and one of the ones that comes to my mind immediately is the idea that kids can’t know their gender if they’re gender diverse. They’re likely to change their minds later, so we should not really be listening too much to what they’re saying. We have to wait a while. I think that’s a big myth.

I think another myth, which is part of our bigger culture, and we all hold it and have to work on it, is that being transgender or gender diverse in some way is less ideal than being cisgender. And that’s a big shift in thinking. That’s something that I am monitoring within myself. Oh, and then there’s the myths of the gender affirmative model, that it’s just a fad or a kid might say they’re transgender because they're trying to fit in with peers, or that being a gender-affirming therapist means that if a kid says they’re transgender, the therapist is going to immediately write a letter and say yes, puberty blockers. Yes, hormones. In reality, these are decisions that are very carefully sorted through and that take time.   

LR:
another myth, which is part of our bigger culture, and we all hold it and have to work on it, is that being transgender or gender diverse in some way is less ideal than being cisgender
Is that second myth related to what you refer to as quieting the gender noise in the clinician’s head?
MJ: We all have a gender. We all grew up with expectations. We all hold biases about gender. And that’s what we think of as gender noise. Gender noise, the myth that I was talking about, was the myth that somehow being cisgender was preferred or more ideal, and that’s just been stated as fact, basically, for as long as we’ve known in Western culture. That’s a more difficult one for some people to really shift around. And even when we shift around it, I think if we’re really not paying attention, it can be easy to slip out of that. This is especially so if I’m not monitoring my countertransference, monitoring my own biases about gender.
LR: Makes me think that gender noise is on one end of the spectrum of therapists’ presence with these kids, and severe unchecked countertransference is all the way at the other end, and there are so many points in between where that noise can impact the therapeutic relationship.
MJ: I want to make one more point about gender noise based on something I’ve noticed in my practice with cisgender people. I’ve had several cisgender male clients who have expressed a lot of stress and even angst around masculinity with questions like, “Am I measuring up?” or “Am I too masculine?” Does that mean they’re aggressive? Just trying to sort out for themselves what it means to be a man and what is okay and not okay. And I would say even that is gender noise.
LR: What is that male bashing concept typically attributed to the dangerousness of hypermasculinity? 
MJ: Oh, toxic masculinity?
LR: Is that what you refer to when you say a cisgender male might come in worrying that they’re just a little too beefed up emotionally? 
MJ: Some of them worry if they’re even doing masculinity correctly. Like, are they masculine enough? There’s such mixed messages out there right now and I don’t know that historically, I have had so many male clients talking about these issues as I have in the last couple of years.
LR:
we all have a gender. We all grew up with expectations. We all hold biases about gender. And that’s what we think of as gender noise
I wonder if the males who come in worrying about their masculinity is more of a function of their education level, their intelligence, their sensitivity, and if they are sensitive to ‘am I being too masculine,’ then that sort of answers its own question.
MJ: Exactly, exactly. And I think the Me Too Movement, along with toxic masculinity, has brought these topics to the forefront.
LR: Not to mention the politicization, but we’ll save that for another conversation. How does gender stress differ from gender dysphoria? 
MJ: It’s a good question. When I think about gender dysphoria, in the most basic sense, it’s the distress that someone feels when their gender identity does not match the gender designated to them at birth. And gender dysphoria, often, but not always, can show up around their body, like, not wanting certain body parts they have, or wishing they had body parts they don’t have. Feeling like their face, or their bone structure, or body shape, or genitals are wrong. The distress is very internal.

You don’t have to be gender dysphoric to experience gender stress. You could feel very comfortable with your gender identity and your body and all of that, but on a regular basis, encounter situations based on your gender that cause stress. For example, if you’re a trans girl, and have to choose between men’s or women’s bathroom, the very process of going to the bathroom can become stressful. That would be gender stress even if you’re okay with who you are, and your body, and everything.  

LR:
when I think about gender dysphoria, in the most basic sense, it’s the distress that someone feels when their gender identity does not match the gender designated to them at birth
How have the gender issues that have been presented in your practice changed over the last 20 years?
MJ: They’ve changed quite a bit! Early on, most of the children that were brought to me around gender were assigned, or designated male at birth and were wanting long hair and to wear dresses and play with dolls, and they were saying that they were girls. Their parents wouldn’t really know what to do at that time. They would have questions like, “Is it bad to let my little boy wear a dress or play with dolls?” or “Do we affirm that and say it’s fine,” or “Do we change pronouns or a name?”

These were little kids that usually ranged in age from 3 to 6. But sometimes they were older, but almost always they were quite young. Early on in this work, I didn’t really ever have a parent bring a child who was designated female at birth when they were little. The way I understood this was that the girl box, so to speak, is a lot bigger than the boy box. It was, and maybe still is okay for little girls to cut their hair short and play with the boys and be good at sports. But it was not seen as okay for a little boy to wear a dress.

Over time, this has shifted. And as I touched on a little bit earlier, while we still see those young kids, they’re not coming to our offices as frequently. I think because parents have more awareness out there and perhaps parents aren’t as worried when the kids are little and they’re going to kind of see what happens and support their kid in the meantime. Parents might only bring their kids into therapy when that kid is nearing puberty and they’re starting to sense stress in the child about a changing body.

The other difference that we’re seeing is that kids come out later. I have many families that bring a teenager to me who has come out as transgender, post puberty. We never used to see that, and now we’re seeing it more and more. I see that pretty equally among “designated male” at birth or “designated female” at birth. But when we start to talk about who is showing up for medical treatment, there is a greater number of designated female teens showing up for hormones than there are designated male teens.    

LR:
parents might only bring their kids into therapy when that kid is nearing puberty and they’re starting to sense stress in the child about a changing body
Before we shift gears, is there anything else I should ask about the kids?
MJ: Not so much specific questions, but I guess what I would say about the kids themselves is that some of these kids absolutely know who they are. Regardless of how certain or sure they are of their identity, what we know these kids need is family acceptance, and family acceptance does not necessarily mean, “oh, my kid’s trans, so let’s go get hormones.” They need to know that families have their back, and ideally that communities, teachers, churches, have their back and love them no matter who they are.
LR: In your book, you said that if depression and anxiety develop, it’s likely due to negative social responses, so treatment should be aimed at helping and healing the surrounding environment. Are you saying that effective intervention for the child or teen means that the clinician must work with the family?
MJ: We do help the child, too, but I feel like the root of it is not necessarily about their child’s gender as much as it is about the parents’ response to their child’s gender expression. If we think about just anxiety and take away the gender piece when we’re working with an anxious child, we often find that we have to work with the parents as well. You know, there’s something going on at home, or there’s ways the parents can do things differently to help work with us, to help treat the anxiety. We were not just treating that in isolation.

So, in that way, it’s not that big of a leap to think about it as you’re starting with the family. And somebody doesn’t have to be out there being super politically active if that’s not what they want to do. But the way that they are holding gender in mind and interacting in the community, in their own communities, for example, and raising awareness, I think is huge.   

LR: Do you go to the school in the course of working with a particular child and family? Do you go to churches? Do you go to community centers? What is the extent is your work outside of the therapy office?
MJ: I think gender-affirming care is a team effort. We’re lucky here because we have people at UCSF’s Child and Adolescent Gender Center, where there’s an educational specialist. And if the family wants, that person will go with the family to the school and advocate on the child’s behalf.

If the family doesn't want to bring in an educational specialist, I know about creating a gender and educational gender plan. I can offer information to the family if they feel like they can address the school themselves.

That’s basically about having a discussion with administrators about whether there is a safe person for this child to go to if something were to happen. What bathroom is this child going to use? Do they have access to one that feels safe and comfortable to them? Whether teachers are informed or not, whether the kid is out to peers or not, those sorts of things are talked about amongst the adults to create a plan to support the child at school, for example.   

LR:
I  think gender-affirming care is a team effort
So basically, extending the office to include all possible support members to extend the safety of the office into the world that they actually have to live in.
MJ: Exactly.
LR: What about the kids who express gender stress, even gender dysphoria, but don’t want to, or aren’t committed to chemical intervention? 
MJ: We’re seeing this a lot. I think this is one of those myths out there that transgender and gender diverse children and teens necessarily are seeking out medical intervention. Because that’s not true. It’s a subset that wants medical intervention, and even within that subset it has to be determined to be the right next thing for them.

There are many, many young people who identify as gender queer, non-binary, or even as a trans girl or a trans boy who have no desire for medical intervention. They love their bodies the way that they are. And so, there’s that piece, and then in terms of the journey piece like we talked about in the book, is that gender journeys are something we’re all on throughout our life, right!?

Even as a cisgender woman—and being a woman has been an important identity of mine—but how I experienced being a woman, and thought about being a woman, and expressed my femininity or lack thereof at 20 years old is very different than how I do it now in my 40s. So, there can be shifts in how we express gender, experience it, and then there can also be shifts in identities.

That happens over time, and so we don’t think of there ever necessarily being an end point in terms of a gender journey, although there may of course be an end point in therapy when kids are doing well, and they’re not needing that level of support.   

Gender-affirming Work with Families and Beyond

LR: What are some of the clinical challenges that the parents have brought to you, or the families? Because it’s not just parents, it’s also siblings, maybe even the extended family.
MJ: There are so many if we got into specifics! But I’ll start general first. When a child comes out as transgender or gender diverse in some way, it impacts the entire family, especially the family unit living together. And siblings have a range of experiences. Sometimes it’s not an issue, and everything’s fine, but other times, the sibling may go to the same school. This sibling may either feel they are a target, or they may actually experience being a target, like being teased for who their sibling is, or they may fear that that is going to happen, even if perhaps it doesn’t. Siblings might not understand and might need support in even understanding what this means.

However, I think parents struggle more than siblings do, partly because we’re finding that young people just tend to have more flexible minds around gender than us adults. One particularly difficult thing is that every parent has dreams for their children and ideas about who their child is, who their child is going to become. When they realize that there’s an aspect of their child where their gender is something different than they’ve imagined, there has to be a reworking of those dreams and expectations. Oftentimes, there has to be a lot of grieving and mourning for what they thought that they would experience with their child, or what their child would experience in life.

There’s often anxiety for parents about how the world is going to accept their child. They may ask, “Is my child going to be hurt in this world because of who they are?” Then there’s the stress of extended family. I’ve worked with families where things are going really well within the nuclear family, but the thought of telling grandparents feels really dicey out of fear that the grandparents aren’t going to understand.

Or I’ve worked with families who are religious, and their particular church or synagogue is not supportive of gender diversity. This is a community that the family loves and relies on, and they’re having to face the harsh reality that they may need to move out of or disconnect from this community in order to support their children. Or they wonder if there is a way for them to bring education to those communities and to help them to grow and expand to accept their children for who they are. So, it's a lot of pieces that parents are holding.   

LR:
here are many, many young people who identify as gender queer, non-binary, or even as a trans girl or a trans boy who have no desire for medical intervention
What family factors have you experienced that might undermine successful intervention with the child, or do those families simply not come to therapy?
MJ: Rejection is the biggest thing. If parents are absolutely like, “this is not true, it’s not real, I’m not even going to discuss this with you,” that is the worst-case scenario, and we see those children do very poorly. That’s where we’re seeing the highest rates of suicide. The highest rates of runaways. And once these children run away, they’re at greater risk of victimization than their cisgender homeless peers. So, we know that the biggest protective factor is family acceptance.
LR: Are the transgender kids accepted in the broader LGBTQ community, or do you find it depends on the community? 
MJ: It’s actually kind of complicated. In my experience, some older adults or adults in general‚ not young adults, but middle age and older in the LGBT community can be quite non-accepting and surprisingly dismissive that these identities are real, coupled with the belief that it’s sexual orientation and not gender identity.

I would say that we see less of this within the younger members of the LGBT community, like adolescents and young adults. I think there’s still some cases

Embracing Technology in Counseling: Innovative Tools for Enhanced Client Support

In recent years, technology has become more pervasive, entering many fields, including, for our purposes, counseling. And for better or worse, it has provided innovative tools that enhance therapeutic experience and offer new, convenient, and accessible avenues for clients to access a variety of mental health supports. From telehealth sessions to digital resources and AI-driven interventions, the possibilities are vast and increasingly accessible.

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The Importance of Technology in Counseling

In the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, telehealth has emerged as a key instrument for the delivery of mental health services. It offers clients flexibility and accessibility, removing barriers such as geographic distance, transportation issues, or scheduling conflicts. Telehealth platforms allow for face-to-face interaction through video calls, creating a space for meaningful therapeutic engagement. This approach has been particularly beneficial for clients who feel more comfortable in their own homes or who may struggle with anxiety related to in-person meetings.

Email and secure messaging platforms provide an invaluable extension of the counseling relationship. Clients can now send a secure message through a client portal. These tools allow clients to reach out between sessions for support, clarification, or to share progress in a timely and secure manner. This continuous line of communication can help maintain therapeutic momentum and provide timely interventions when needed. However, it's crucial to establish clear boundaries and guidelines around digital communication to ensure both client and counselor well-being.

But the real big one, the humdinger, is artificial intelligence (AI). It is emerging as an asset in the therapeutic process. AI-driven tools can assist in creating personalized therapy homework assignments, offering clients tailored exercises that align with their treatment goals. For instance, AI can suggest cognitive-behavioral strategies, mindfulness exercises, or journaling prompts, providing clients with structured ways to work on their issues outside of sessions.

Moreover, AI can serve as a practice partner for clients working on interpersonal skills. For example, a client preparing to engage in conflict resolution with a spouse might use an AI-powered chatbot to role-play scenarios. This practice can help them build confidence and refine their communication strategies before addressing real-life conflicts. While AI cannot replicate the nuances of human interaction, it offers a safe and controlled environment for clients to experiment and learn.

So, yes, the possibilities might just be endless, but I would like to give you one, real-life, actual example of a client using technology for their benefit.

Technology as a Lifeline for Bipolar Disorder

One case involves a client of mine diagnosed with Bipolar 1 disorder, who used technology to build a support network. Recognizing the importance of communication and preparedness, she created a detailed Google Drive document outlining her mental illness. The document included descriptions of her symptoms, warning signs of a potential episode, and specific suggestions on how her friends and family could support her during difficult times. Additionally, she listed emergency contacts and step-by-step instructions for what to do in a crisis.

This proactive approach has had a hugely positive impact on her life. By sharing the document with her close friends, she empowered them to better understand her condition and respond effectively when needed. This not only provided her with a sense of security but also strengthened her relationships with her support network. The ease of access and the ability to update the document as her needs evolved demonstrated the power of technology in fostering a supportive and informed community around her.

I found this use of technology by my client helpful for a number of reasons. There’s a level of sober self-awareness that a person needs to have if they struggle with Bipolar 1. The nature of the disorder comes with manic highs where sometimes the trigger of an upswing can be identified or even anticipated. But this is not the case for everyone. Sometimes the upswing comes without warning and takes over someone’s life with destructive consequences. If that is the case for one of your clients, planning and brutal honesty is critical.

I am in the habit of saying to clients, “forewarned is forearmed” (I stole this from one of my graduate school professors). Meaning, I want clients to be honest with themselves about how powerful their symptoms can be, and how they are not always in full possession of their mental faculties during the onset of an episode. Therefore, it is imperative they plan for those times. And to primarily focus on preemptively equipping their support network with information and resources on how to support them when they struggle to care for themselves. This wisdom applies itself broadly to clients struggling with a variety of mental health disorders, not just Bipolar 1.

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There is wisdom in knowing your limitations and preparing for difficult moments. For clients who struggle with chronic, persistent, and severe mental health disorders, they absolutely need a strong support network. I strongly encourage my clients to think about the strength of their support network as a measure of their recovery, maintenance, or long-term wellness plan. And, thanks to technology, fostering and empowering that support network is easier than ever.

Questions for Reflection and Discussion

What challenges have you experienced bringing this level of technology into your practice?

What reservations do you have integrating AI into your clinical practice?

What techniques and methods would you like to learn moving forward?