Becoming an Accidental DBT Therapist

A Curious Professional Journey

I did not set out to become a therapist who utilized Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT). When I was in graduate school, I had hoped to become a therapist who worked mainly with married couples and families, which is where I put much of the focus of my training. I had taken a class that referenced DBT and had also heard what a nightmare clients with borderline personality disorder (BPD) were to work with. But since that was never going to be me (ha!), what did I have to worry about?

Turns out, quite a bit.

For my predoctoral internship I was matched with a clinic that specialized in working with families going through oversea adoptions. Often families who had successful adoptions would later discover that the children had attachment disorder. While at this clinic, I worked with various licensed therapists and families in a variety of modalities, including: individual work, EMDR, support groups, skills groups for the children and developmental assessments.

Attachment disorder is difficult to treat and the burnout rate among therapists who do this important work is high. The clinicians I worked with, and under, were passionate and gifted. I still bear a scar on my left arm from where a child who had become dysregulated bit me. In a conversation with my supervisor, he explained to me that many of these children with attachment disorder will grow up to be clients with BPD. This is not a population for the faint of heart, and while the success rate is not exactly through the roof, it was an important part of my development.

Fast forwarding to the end of my internship, I was out pounding the pavement, trying to find a job in the field without much success. A former classmate and friend of mine had recently interviewed for a job at a community mental health center. They were looking for an already-licensed therapist to train in DBT who was willing to work with BDP clients. My friend told me, “this job doesn’t pay for shit, so I’m taking a pass. Thought that you might be interested instead.” Funny right?

Despite the glowing recommendation from my friend, I applied. During the interview, the interviewer (correctly) noted my lack of experience with BPD. I remembered what my supervisor told me and responded that I had experience, I just worked with them earlier in the process when it was still seen as Attachment Disorder.

I never received feedback to know for certain if that’s what sealed the deal, but I had gotten the job. My friend had been right when he said it didn’t pay very much, but what it did offer me was training in DBT and that changed my life forever.

My Challenging Work with Sarah

For those not familiar with DBT, it is a skills-based modality with regularly assigned homework that incorporates concepts and practices drawn from mindfulness, Buddhism, Hegel, and basic methods of therapeutic validation. Many of these concepts are abstract, and often difficult for clients to fully grasp and embrace. It can be especially tough for those with developmental challenges typically associated with attachment and personality disorders.

For me to be able to explain them to these clients in ways that they could understand and implement in their daily lives, as well as during times of crisis, I really had to learn these concepts backwards and forwards, breaking each down to its essence.

One of my earliest clients, whom I shall call “Sarah,” was very hesitant to embrace these concepts. Partly, because they were difficult to understand, but Sarah had also been through a LOT of therapy before arriving at DBT. (DBT is rarely the first stop on a client’s therapy journey and as we say, “nobody gets to DBT by accident.”)

Therapy had yet to help her in any way she could appreciate. Her arms were covered in scars from many attempts at suicide and self-injury. Estranged from most of her family, she lived with her grandparents because no group home or assisted living facility wanted the liability risk. At the time, she proved unable to hold down a job of any kind. As such, Sarah’s world was small, and her human contact was limited to intermittent conversations with her grandparents, therapists, medical personnel, and DBT Group members during her frequent hospital stays.

During one session, we were talking about suicide and self-harm when Sarah stated that she was likely to die from suicide at some point, because what was the point of living if this was all there was to life? What would happen to her after her grandparents passed away? I replied that those were excellent questions. Her life as it was currently constructed was about survival and little more. Why would any therapist expect her to embrace such a life? For Sarah, being told that “things could always be worse,” was of little consolation. What was the point of staying alive when things could get worse?

One of DBT’s core concepts is referred to as “A Life Worth Living.” In essence, it asks the client what would have to change about their life so ideations like self-harm or trying to commit suicide would organically come off the table? Of course, we must survive before we can thrive, but what did thriving look like to Sarah?

Sarah said she wanted to be able to live on her own (or with occasional assistance that would come when needed), to have a job and her own money, and MAYBE (some pie in the sky stuff here) even have some friends! To her, that would be “A Life Worth Living.” I told her it was possible to have those things, but it is going to take work. DBT, like life, is like playing a sport. It requires clients to consider making choices that someone who could live on their own, hold down a job, and had friends would make. I challenged Sarah by asking, “are you making any of those choices right now?”

She reluctantly conceded that she was not. She could not fault her grandparents for not having faith she could live on her own; the paramedics were at their house at least once a month, if not weekly due to Sarah’s self-harm and suicide attempts. Her time in and out of the hospital and subsequent therapy appointments throughout the week, made it hard for her to hold a job.

I asked Sarah what she saw as the biggest obstacle to getting to her “Life Worth Living?”

“The cutting,” she said.

I agreed. If we could find other more skillful and adaptive ways to tolerate distress, the idea of her living on her own and being able to stay out of the hospital (and therefore able to work), seemed more plausible. That session was when Sarah committed to taking self-harm off the table.

This was no small commitment. Sarah used self-harm weekly for over ten years. Neither she nor I had any illusions that it would be easy for her. In a paradoxical way, self-injury had kept her alive as a coping skill on more than one occasion. She had a concept of how to resolve physical pain, while emotional pain seemed too overwhelming. In order for her to make this work, it was a matter of buying into DBT and its skills. Would the skills be as effective as a coping mechanism for her while keeping her safe? It was a leap of faith I was asking her to make – to put her trust in DBT and our therapeutic relationship. We were off.

Sarah’s Rocky Progress Forward

Gradually the ambulances stopped coming to Sarah’s grandparents’ house and while she never went to the hospital again, it was not a smooth, upward trajectory. There were setbacks, but one day without self-harm became a week which became a month, and then we were at her quarterly review. With her grandparents present, they attended many of Sarah’s appointments and reviews, Sarah proudly told them she had gone three months without hurting herself. She had been practicing her DBT skills (Distract, Self Soothe, Opposite to Emotion, Pros and Cons) and she had plans to share!

Sarah told them about wanting to live on her own and have a job. Her grandparents were pleased, surprised, and anxious all at the same time. These were big steps to take. While they praised Sarah for her efforts and progress it didn’t stop them from worrying. Sarah wasn’t derailed and instead offered to negotiate with them: if she could keep up this progress for nine more months and graduate from Stage 1 of DBT, would they support her? First in getting a job and second in finding a place to live?

As her therapist, I jumped in explaining that this seemed like a good Wise Mind (middle path between reason and emotions) compromise. Assuming she succeeded it would be a new experience with new kinds of stress and new opportunities for her to use her skills. If she could navigate holding down a job while using what she had been practicing, it would stand to reason she could do the same living on her own.

Her grandparents agreed to the plan – the smile it brought to Sarah’s face was one I hadn’t seen before. I wasn’t sure who was more excited at that moment, me or her! Being able to observe her having faith in herself and her future remains one of the most powerful experiences I have shared with a client. I did not know then what the future held, but I knew that DBT worked, and I could not turn my back on something that worked. From that moment on, I was a DBT therapist.

***

It’s been almost 25 years, throughout which I have worked with thousands of clients on achieving their “lives worth living.” I have seen clients who went from thinking about suicide almost every day to taking it completely off the table. Many were clients who now have healthy relationships and rewarding careers, just like Sarah. The work is challenging, and I am thankful for the support of a great team. The pride I take in seeing how hard these clients work on themselves is impossible to describe. They continue to make me a better therapist and I would not have it any other way.

Questions for Thought and Discussion

  • What serendipitous experiences have you had over the years that have opened interesting clinical doors for you?
  • In what ways are the core premises of Dialectical Behavior Therapy consistent with your orientation to therapy?
  • What are some of the limitations you have experienced or anticipate in the application of DBT principles and techniques?

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!

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. 

Psychotherapy with Dissociative Identity Disorder

“I call them the persons of my mind, my “pers,” Robin said, in reference to the split personalities she experiences due to trauma. “I talk out loud to them and I find it therapeutic, but I try to be careful because I know it can bother my roommate, and other people,” she said.

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The Long-term Consequences of Trauma

Robin had suffered severe trauma years earlier, and subsequently was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, with associated psychotic symptoms (voice-hearing and delusions).

She currently resides in a nursing home, where she receives care and treatment for a painful chronic medical condition that she keenly understands may be a terminal one. She also receives psychiatric medications, and she meets with me for psychotherapy.

Robin is intelligent and articulate, and able to think in rational and logical ways. The psychotic and dissociative features have a common origin in her traumatic experiences. Addressing split personality issues is only a part of the scope of our therapy conversations, yet will be the focus of this blog.

Robin had experienced much psychiatric care over the years, and she was fluent with professional terminology. I did not begin to directly address the split personalities, or pers as she calls them, until a trusting therapeutic rapport had been well established, and only after she had initiated comments that were directly including the pers in our conversation. We then began to discuss the therapeutic goal of reintegration of the personality fragments into the self, and to include the pers in conversations.

Robin would tell me how the pers were listening to and reacting to comments I was making, and she would convey questions they raised. “They like the way you talk to me, and to them,” Robin said.

Robin would sometimes mentally gather the pers so they might participate in our sessions. I would speak in a teaching way about the trauma she previously experienced, about the fragmenting impacts of trauma, and about ways that dissociative features could have a protective effect — at least at the time of the trauma. I would explain that the so-called split personalities were actually all parts of Robin, and that one purpose of therapy was to help them all come together again as one person.

“There is only one Robin,” I said. “There are no other persons or personalities inside of you that are not Robin. Parts of you, Robin, might be experienced as if being separate — but only because of the psychologically explosive impact of trauma. The task of healing is a gathering up of the parts into the whole — of learning to recognize and identify with those thoughts and feelings and memories that have seemed peculiarly different, due to shattering troubles.

Some pers would argue or complain to or about Robin because, “they feel frustrated being stuck in this nursing home, and they want to be out in the world doing things. They get mad at me because I can’t easily move or walk.

“I can feel the pers moving in my body, and sometimes others come in and enter the pers, and I can feel them in my body, and I don’t really know who they are or what they want,” Robin remarked.

We would talk about the pers as aspects of Robin’s own feelings — that she feels frustrated being ill, and restricted to the nursing home, for example. We spoke of how the “others” were Robin’s as-yet unfamiliar, or unconscious, thoughts and feelings, and that her bodily sensations were ordinary visceral elements of emotions (but feelings numbed by suffering for Robin or pushed away from awareness to the point of seeming to be other than self).

When her subjective experiences were considered as unfamiliar elements of her own thoughts and feelings, Robin could glean new understandings about the complexity of her reactions.

When providing psychotherapy to someone with dissociative identity disorder — like Robin — I have found it important to keep in the front of my mind, and for the client, that this is one person; one unfortunate person, yet one quite resilient and remarkable person. Robin suffered great misfortune, yet she has been quite resourceful in her coping and her capacity for growth. Her well-being has been served by our careful, gentle, and sustained reconsideration of her internal experiences, with the aim of “bringing it all back home,” as Bob Dylan said, or returning the many parts into the one whole.  

Katja-Writing: Being Author and Audience to Fictionalized Stories of Trauma- Part I

“Love of the Written Word”

Poem by Irene

I feel like singing, dancing, — yes, even weeping,

I feel like playing music, loudly rejoicing, — yes, even singing psalms,

I feel like exploring, re-experiencing, — yes, even dreaming,

Each time I look to the written word.

I feel special, chosen, — yes, even honored,

I feel pure, poetic, — yes, even pretty,

I feel happy, joyful, — yes, even worthy,

Each time I look to the written word.

I enjoy paper, pencils, — yes, even glue,

I enjoy stanzas, verses, — and rhyming too,

I enjoy letters, notation, — yes, even grammar,

Each time I look to the written word.

I fill with harmony, trust, — yes, even wisdom,

I fill with loss, sorrow, — yes, even wrath

I fill with zeal, loyalty, — yes, even love,

Each time I look to the written word.

This paper describes a writing-based, storytelling approach to engaging with the consequences of extreme violence and sexual assault in childhood. This approach emerged spontaneously during a therapeutic collaboration between myself, psychologist Christoffer Haugaard (Aalborg Psychiatric Hospital, North Jutland Region, Denmark), and Irene. We wish to provide an insight into how this approach arose, how we practice it, and what effects it appears to have. In doing so, we hope that others may derive some benefit from these experiences towards finding ways to live a life beyond trauma that maintains and empowers one’s dignity and humanity.

Irene is in her early thirties. Throughout her childhood, her parents had subjected her to a multitude of forms of violence, including rape and physical as well as psychological violence. Shortly after reaching adulthood, she started seeking help in order to deal with the traumatization caused by her parents. This eventually led her to contact psychiatric services. Prior to this, Irene had some experience with self-harm practices, but this was inconsequential. This changed dramatically upon becoming a psychiatric patient, after which extreme and even life-threatening self-harm was a persistent hazard (Irene has not performed self-harmed since 2015). She was diagnosed with a personality disorder.

The Early Therapeutic Relationship

I met Irene after she was referred to psychotherapy for the second time within the hospital. This was in early 2012 when Irene was in her twenties. By then, she had frequently been hospitalized on account of dramatic self-harm and suicide attempts over the previous seven years. We have had weekly meetings since then and up until the present. Finding a way to engage with Irene’s story proved to be a significant challenge in itself. The fact that I am a man made it no easier for Irene. Therefore, our collaboration has also very much consisted of a search for, and a testing of, ways of talking about matters of concern. We would like to begin by describing some of the history of how the approach to therapeutic conversations that we discovered emerged:

Christoffer: We were attempting to talk about your life, Irene. I was focused on understanding how the things you were subjected to through so much of your life had been a shaping force on your way of being, and how you had resisted that power and the violence. I think that sometimes led to rather divergent characterizations of your person, whether your past self should be regarded as wrong, selfish, dirty, and guilty, or alternatively be regarded as caring, intelligent, and strong-willed.

At that time, I began to write abbreviated stories about you to convey what it was that I saw in you. I remember you telling me that when you read those stories, you were seized by a strong urge to refute the veracity of my claims, as if the text was subjected to an intense criticism because I dared to propose a different perspective on your character to the dominant version. At some point, you named this urge to criticism The Shadow Side. It readily reacted against attempts to challenge the heavy and dark interpretation of your story and your moral character. I recall you forcefully bringing The Shadow Side’s refutation to my attention at one point regarding the significance of me referring to you by the pronoun “you.”

Irene: I could hardly read the texts when you referred to me as “you.” The Shadow Side, the judging side of me, got angry and became automatically defensive. It wanted to tear the paper apart and shout at you, but it knew nothing was to be gained that way. Instead, it scolded me for being so stupid as to talk to you or read anything from you. We talked about how it was nearly impossible for me to read anything that portrayed me in first- or second-person grammar, so you changed your text into the third person. It was still a tough read, but it was acceptable because The Shadow Side perceived a small victory in this.

Christoffer: The first time I wrote to you addressing you in the third person was in 2013. You made me aware of The Shadow Side, and we described it and tried to deal with it through 2014. Would you mind describing The Shadow Side as it was at that time to provide an impression for our readers?

Irene: The Shadow Side destroyed my possibilities by repeatedly telling me that I was too ugly for anyone to like me, too fat to have friends, too dirty to receive a hug, too stupid to give my opinion, too wrong to breathe, and more insults like these. It constantly brought my attention to similarities with my parents whenever I said or thought anything that could remind me of their cruelties. If I got angry, The Shadow Side immediately made me think that I was evil and therefore capable of becoming violent or otherwise mean-spirited. Even though I never became violent, it had me believe that I was. The Shadow Side convinced me that I had anger like my parents and therefore I was identical to them and their atrocities.

The Shadow Side was a merciless judge or a desperate prosecutor. It devised well-thought-out and devious methods of making me portray myself as stupid and unworthy. Every time the cautious Defence managed to argue well, the desperate Prosecutor convinced everyone in the court with 10 strong arguments to the contrary. Some were a little far-fetched and had no truth to them, but when you listen to something long enough it is likely that you will come to believe it.

The Shadow Side was always hard, indifferent to anything anyone else said and always awake and alert. It never took a break. The Shadow Side made me become hard and live my life in a self-destructive bubble. It made me harm myself so that I could cope with everyday life, keep others out so that I would not be let down, live a façade so that I did not fully realize the horrors, ignore possibilities for getting help so that I could be strong, and so on. The Shadow Side made me believe that I was insignificant, as if I wasn’t even alive. It always told me how wrong and useless I was. The Shadow Side was my thoughts, beliefs and actions. It took over everything and swallowed my identity.

Christoffer: We arrived at me attempting to write about a fictional person instead. Someone not you, but similar to you and having endured similar trauma. In 2013, I started writing such stories about a fictional version of you in the third person that I called Kate. These stories were surprisingly not attacked by The Shadow Side. They were allowed, and you were able to read them, and we could talk about them without The Shadow Side attacking the veracity of the facts in the story or Kate’s moral character. It also made it easier for me to write stories, because now that it was fiction, I had creative license and consequently didn’t have to worry so much about getting all the facts right. Instead, I could focus more on the moral of the story. You have told me that when you read these stories about Kate, you were able to have an opinion and feelings concerning the subject matter. It became possible for you to feel compassion for Kate in the story.

Irene: That is correct. Kate came alive through third-person stories.

Christoffer: In 2015, we were focusing on circumstances, events, and actions that have contributed to your survival and to the moral character that you have today [Christoffer and Irene looked through examples from her childhood with a focus on her ways of taking care of herself and her dignity, as well as her survival strategies]. There were many things, but two things are of particular relevance in this context:

Having an Audience

As a child, Irene was the one amongst her siblings who took care of most of the practical tasks on a daily basis, while her parents did nothing. At a young age, her parents charged her with the responsibility for cleaning the house, tidying up, cooking, doing the dishes, looking after her younger siblings, including comforting them, protecting them from violence and rape, helping with their schoolwork, washing clothes, tucking in her siblings at night, getting them up in the morning, getting them to school and so on. She was also held responsible for unjust chores, such as chores given to other siblings that they had neglected or avoided, in addition of course to the basic unfairness of being forced to do all the work parents normally do.

Irene was often given additional tasks on top of this, or their demands were increased with the intent of punishing or humiliating her. She was forced to live such a slave-like existence by means of threats of violence, humiliation as well as acts of brutal violence leading to physical injuries.

How does a 10-year-old child survive such circumstances? Irene did so by imagining she was the main character in a fairytale like Cinderella. She would make believe that all these exhausting, humiliating, and unfair chores were like Cinderella’s, and that she herself was a kind of Cinderella in a movie and had an audience that witnessed everything.

This audience understood Irene to be the main character of the story and felt sympathy for her. They could see all the injustice that was otherwise hidden from everyone’s view and never spoken of as anything unjust within the family. The audience saw what happened, understood the injustice and reacted to it. This type of fantasy contributed to Irene maintaining a sense of dignity and justice throughout her childhood.

Writing Stories

Irene only revealed to me that she had previously invented a similar writing practice for herself after we had already developed our method of writing fictionalized versions of her life in the third person. She had begun writing stories about a fictional alter ego when she was around 10 or 11 years old and had even made an illustrated story prior to having the skills to author a written narrative. Irene’s fictional alter ego was called Katja, and Irene continued to update Katja as the years passed. The latest additions were written when Irene was in her early twenties. I was quite amazed when Irene told me this. Had we reinvented a new version of a practice that Irene had in fact invented for herself many years before? Unlike Irene, Katja of the story fled her home and had adventures and faced dangers in the wide world, finally becoming a physician and married with children. However, this alter ego was more to Irene than a character of this unfolding narrative. She was also a sort of invisible friend and companion to her. Here is Irene’s poem about her, written in July 2018:

Who Is Katja?
Katja was once a little girl who fled from her home.
She is the girl who held my hand when mom yelled at me.

She played with me when no one else was around.
Katja was moved to a foreign land.
She is the girl who held me when I fell.

She helped me when life was hard.
Katja was subjected to horrible things by her own parents.
She is the girl that hid with me when dad beat me.

She whispered words of comfort into my ear when dad left my bed.
Katja hurt herself.

She is the girl who carried the pain when I cut my body.

She managed fear so that I could breathe.
Katja experienced many betrayals.
She is the girl who suffered with me when dad kicked me.

She gave me sustenance when mom starved me.
Katja was assaulted many times.
She is the girl who never complained when we were tortured.

She sang for me so that I could fall asleep.
Katja never grew up.
She is the girl who shielded me from evil.

She followed me my whole life as a side of myself.
Katja’s life is my life.

Looking back and wondering what may have inspired the character of Katja, Irene points to fictional characters that were significant to her in her childhood: Astrid Lindgren’s “Pippi Longstocking” and Katarina Taikon’s tales about the Roma girl Katitzi that she had seen on television (Use of the name Astrid in the stories about Kate is in tribute to Astrid Lindgren).

We did not consciously create a therapeutic method out of these elements, but we discovered in hindsight that these survival strategies seem to foreshadow the approach that we arrived at. For that reason, we have chosen to name our approach after, and in honor of, Katja. The step from me sometimes writing to Irene about a fictitious version of her that I called Kate (Both names — Kate and Katja — are short for Katarina, a name that means “The Pure.” What a fitting name!) and to the approach containing precisely those two elements described above didn’t happen until 2017.

The World of Katja-Writing

Irene had been haunted by several nightmares her entire life. They were connected to her childhood but were not simply horrifying memories on repeat. Some of them did indeed take place in her childhood, but they contained twists and events that belonged in other periods of her life and even contained events that had never happened in waking life. An example was a nightmare about her school years in which she self-harmed in a way that was not part of her life until later. It also happened that she discovered her parents’ violence in a dream, and that someone tried to help her, even though that did not happen in waking life.

Anticipating such nightmares prevented her from getting any proper sleep. She would wake up in shock every morning due to the extreme content, feeling as if the events of the dream had really just taken place. It took half a day to get out of this state of shock and it was difficult for her to relate to other people due to the nightmares. She would have this surreal sense of something catastrophic having just happened; by contrast, all the while the whole world acted as if nothing had happened.

This chronic lack of sleep resulted in periodically occurring depressive states that involved an increase in risk of self-harm and suicide attempts. This pattern had led to frequent hospitalizations for years, often involving physical restraint. Irene and I had been working since 2012 on escaping the emotional numbness she had experienced for many years, so that she could feel and react to these bouts of depression at an early point and reduce the intensity of these cycles. We hoped that this would lead to less dramatic hospitalizations and a reduction of the risk to Irene’s health and life. This part of our collaboration was quite successful.

In June of 2017, we were focused on finding ways of alleviating these nightmares. I had the idea that perhaps Irene could influence her dreams by bringing moods with her from the waking to the dreaming state and thus create a less devastating course of dreaming. Irene had said that she was sometimes able to become lucid towards the end of her dreams and then be able to influence the events to some extent. Could this be expanded so that Irene could act within the dreams or shape them? I suggested writing a kind of good night story to investigate if elements of such stories could be brought into the dream if Irene read it just before retiring. The nightmares felt indescribably horrible to Irene, and therefore she had not described them to me in great detail. Based on what impressions I had, I wrote a short fiction about the girl Kate, and let the story take a turn in which Kate fled her parents and sought refuge at the house of a kind woman living next door. This woman realized that Kate was a victim of violence and called the police. Irene took this story home to read before bedtime.

It did not work!

Irene had become annoyed and frustrated with my story. It did not succeed at all in describing the reality of an 11-year-old girl who is a victim of rape and violence from her own parents. Irene was shocked at how ignorant I was and realized that she had assumed that I understood a lot more than I actually did. I could do nothing but admit to this and say that my own life experiences had not equipped me to know what it is like to grow up amidst such violence. It became very apparent to us both that we were on opposite sides of a deep gulf in understanding and experience.

We came from very different life experiences that amounted to inhabiting different realities, each lacking insight into that of the other. She felt compelled to write a story of her own and wrote an account of the fictional Kate, based on one of her many recollections of being brutally beaten by her parents. Like me, she allowed the story to end with Kate running away with her younger sister. She then gave me this story to help me gain some insight into the reality that she knew only too well.

I admit that her story was horrible to read. It confronted me even more directly with what I already knew I did not comprehend: How can parents do that to their own child — or any child for that matter? It was painful to read and to know that it was based directly on Irene’s reality as a child. The story also taught me something of what it is like to be a child under such circumstances that I obviously had great difficulty imagining dependent on my own imagination and disparate life experiences.

For example, the sympathy she felt for her father as he kicked her again and again. Or how guilty she felt for every blow she received, as if she deserved it. And how most of her attention was directed at her little sister who was hiding nearby, and how Kate was preoccupied with keeping her parents’ attention fixed on her, so that her sister was not discovered. It was so painful and heartrending to read that I felt I could not refrain from some kind of response. But how? This was a fictional version of something that happened many years ago. I had the spontaneous inspiration to write a reaction to the events, much like a witness that sees all these things unfolding, but who cannot be seen or heard by any of the people involved until many years later. I read the story again, but this time I marked every place in the text that made me think, evoked an emotion — whether it was anger, despair, compassion, hope, or that provoked my sense of justice and morality — and made comments that were sincere, immediate, and spontaneous responses to everything I had marked out. I gave this, unedited, to Irene to read and then we talked it through at our next meeting.

Without knowing it, we thereby created a method that we would continue to use with a number of Irene’s nightmares and memories from several periods of her life, a method that uncannily seemed to contain those two prominent survival strategies from Irene’s childhood: Writing fictional versions of her life about an alter ego in the third person, and having a sympathetic and responsive audience, advocating for the protagonist of the story.

In August 2017, Irene decided to convert one of her recurring nightmares into such a story about the alter ego Kate, who had now become our shared version of Katja. We agreed to follow the same procedure as before: I would write down my immediate, unfiltered responses while reading the story and send this back to Irene.

An Example of Katja-Writing

Irene and I would like to share with you an example of this work as we believe demonstration is the best possible explanation for it. We also hope that the contents of the example may contain knowledge about the effects and the responses of a survivor of severe childhood trauma, sexual assault, parental violence, and horrification. We hope such knowledge may be of some assistance to others seeking to address such problems. This specific example is the second story of this kind that Irene wrote to me in August 2017, based on a recurrent nightmare. It makes reference to sexual assault and parental violence but does not contain explicit descriptions of such actions. It does, however, contain an explicit description of self-harm which might affect some readers and therefore reader discretion is advised. To read this material, we refer you to Part Two of this paper, which will be published separately.

How We Do It

Irene writes a fictional story about an alter ego going through something very much like real events from her life or an actual dream. I receive this story and respond to it in writing as I read it. The concept of responding that guides me is this: I read the story as if I were a fly on the wall, an invisible presence in the story as if it were reality, or like an audience watching a live documentary in the cinema. I take Kate to be real, but someone I can only reach with considerable delay. I respond as a human being and not a therapist delivering psychological interventions to some determined effect. I am a representative of humanity and a moral universe that is against violence and oppression and holds the person to be of fundamental worth, and life to be sacred.

When I have received such a story, I find the time to privately commit myself to it without having to hurry or be interrupted. I return the text to Irene with my comments and when she has read it on her own, we have a conversation where we go through it comment by comment and discuss the significance and meaning of it. Conversations emerge that are by no means limited by the story but go beyond it. Sometimes Irene writes a response to my responses. And sometimes I also write a response to her responses to my responses, creating a written record of effects and reflections emanating from the story. Such material has been an invaluable source of learning for me.

Effects of Katja-Writing.

The following is Irene’s account of the effects of working in this way for about a year:

Irene: Having this heap of accounts is evidence. Evidence for reality and existence. It is hard evidence of a history and a life. It is there — no matter what anyone else thinks. It makes it possible for me to be a person, and not to just have to fit in, in the eyes of others. These accounts give me a place to stand. It makes it possible for me to live and exist and find peace with myself and not have to “pretend” so much to other people, in place of the feeling that I always have to please others by approaching them, being polite and similar things. The heap of tales make up my life and give me the right to be — in my own way. This is a great change. Being able to feel that way just some of the time is unbelievable!

Living with these stories about Kate and the responses to them is a whole other way of living your life. It makes a very big difference. Everyday life itself becomes different. For example, it matters in daily life that I can say to myself that, “I am allowed and have the right to go and buy groceries.” This gives me a place to stand in life that makes it possible to be. My history still takes up space and haunts me, of course, but suddenly without being heavy and depressing. I can breathe.

All those things I have been called so many times, I have always just had to take it. These words tear one’s personality apart – one’s whole identity that you try to build up — and divide body and soul. It is ripped to pieces so that it is in rags and tatters, but the stories about Kate make it possible to sometimes accept myself.

Working with Katja-writing means that I don’t have to be the main character and carry all the burdens. Instead, it is “someone else,” even if it is about me. It is not remote, but there is more distance. It is almost like becoming part of the audience, and there it doesn’t hurt the same way. There is space to have an opinion about the story. When it is not “yourself,” then maybe you don’t need to keep your guard up to defend and explain yourself so much.

Reading the stories about an alter ego makes it possible to think about the content. It makes it possible to feel something, to see clearly, and to have compassion for the person in the stories. It sort of takes all the “noise” away so that you are able to look at something ugly, but at the same time relate to it. When it is written about someone else, then you can feel something without it being “wrong.” If it is written about me, then it is dangerous and forbidden.

The stories and the responses are enticing. They give me a desire to read them again and again, both inside my head as well as reading it aloud to myself. It is fascinating that it is your own story that you suddenly gain access to.

Katja-Writing and The Shadow Side

In October 2017, Irene explained to me something of the conduct of The Shadow Side when she read my responses to her stories. It had basically given us permission to do this writing practice and seemed to have an interest in it. Irene told me that she got the impression that The Shadow Side is like a frightened child acting in a violent and repellent way to keep everyone away. It doesn’t trust anyone. It had helped and protected Irene and she feels she has an obligation to it. Hearing Irene’s impressions of it, I began to feel sorry for The Shadow Side and desired to recruit it “on our team” rather than seeing it as something “evil.” Irene explained to me that it can take on many guises and speak with different voices, but she could tell that at its core, it is basically a frightened, rejected child.

Irene has kept a continuous diary of every conversation she has ever had with me. In May 2021, she decided to share an entry with me as part of a letter from her, concerning our work on the story Freedom:

“Around the summer of 2017 I suddenly felt a stomachache — in a good way. I started to look forward to reading Christoffer’s responses to my Katja-stories about Kate. I think it was when I read the responses to the story Freedom that I quietly smiled to myself. It was responses like: “Dear Kate. You protected your sister in this ugly night. That is what you did. Your love is so great that I struggle to fathom it. And the injustice is so great.” Did he just praise Kate? And if it was praise for Kate, then was it not also praise for me who survived that ugly night?

In the same text, Christoffer responded: “You are giving something good to your sister’s life, Kate…” Did Christoffer think that Kate did a good thing when she looked after Little Sister? In that case, would that also be what he would think of me, if he had been around at the time?

I smiled and got all warm inside — someone thinks I am doing well. That I did well when everything was at its most chaotic and I didn’t know what to do.

For some reason, I was not attacked by The Shadow Side when I read these responses to Kate. That was probably why — because they were for Kate. But I was Kate! The responses had to apply to me too! Apparently, that was all right with The Shadow Side, who began to empathize with me instead of acting like a harsh judge.

In a diary dated August 18th 2017, I wrote about a conversation with Christoffer:

“We started talking about those responses he has written for the first part of the dream. I asked him if he wrote these responses for ME or Kate?! He replied that it was probably for Kate, but that he was also aware that there was a certain connection between me and Kate. He told me that he didn’t try to analyze what was me and what was Kate but responded very directly to what the story said. I was happy with this. I made a point that I was not Kate and at the same time not not-Kate [This is similar to the ‘Insider Witnessing Practices’ of Epston and Carlson (1)]. So, he chose to respond in the same way. I felt gratitude that he could be so liberated and honest, without hidden motives about achieving something definite. That he was willing to share his immediate thoughts with me without reservation. I explained to him that by doing this, I actually felt that Kate was finally getting a response! Yes, and maybe I am getting it too through Kate, but that is really good, because when I reflect on all that has happened, then it feels so real and at the same time so unreal. Almost like Kate — or Katja.

I said that this in a way made the past easier to deal with. And that someone could react to it. I added that at home, I had imagined that I had to remove everything that didn’t fit into the story. Make it chronological and detailed — and as such write a completely truthful account of that time. I would not have been able to do that. It would not have been nearly as free — and it would have been way too hard. But th

Perfectionism in Highly Intelligent Clients: Therapeutic Strategies

In my therapy practice, I work with adults who have what I call rainforest minds. They are often, but not always, also called gifted. These are people with advanced intelligence and high levels of sensitivity, empathy, creativity, and intuition. They love learning new things and often have many interests. They may or may not excel in school. It can be hard for them to find friends or partners due to their intensity and intellectual complexity. In my many years of working with them, I have seen that they all experience one or both types of perfectionism. Understanding this distinction, along with the other particular traits that often accompany their rainforest minds, has helped me make progress with these clients who might otherwise feel stuck or lost in therapy but not know why.

These clients do not enter therapy because of their struggles with perfectionism or even for the challenges of being gifted. They come to counseling for the typical reasons: anxiety, depression, childhood trauma, and relationship issues. But, as I get to know them, and if I see they have rainforest minds, and the perfectionism that comes with that, I have these strategies ready to share.

Healthy Perfectionism

My clients who manifest “healthy perfectionism” set very high standards and expectations for themselves. They strive for beauty, balance, harmony, justice, and precision in many areas of their lives. This can look like obsessive research, overthinking, or many hours spent in order to find the perfect word, music, color, book, surgical technique, equipment, course, choreography, or whatever they are working on. It can look like continually raising the bar when they reach a goal, not out of fear, but out of the excitement of intellectual curiosity. It can look like the meticulous, detailed designing of an iPhone.

This type of perfectionism is not easily recognized or understood. It can be underappreciated by the client as well as by their friends, relatives, and therapists. But it is truly how humanity advances and great beauty is created. There are challenges that go with this perfectionism, though, when it becomes all-consuming, overwhelming, or misdiagnosed.

Therapeutic Strategies for Healthy Perfectionism

I have found offering the following “normalizing” strategies helpful when working with clients who experience “healthy perfectionism”:

  • Understand what healthy perfectionism is. It is not something you can change or should want to get rid of. See it as a strength. Imagine how the world would be if everyone had such a desire for depth, comprehensiveness, and accuracy. Appreciate this about yourself.
  • Let this striving for perfection feed your soul, even if no one else understands. Even if they are labeling you obsessive or neurotic.
  • Give yourself permission to feel emotional over a gorgeous sunset, a star-filled sky, an exquisite symphony, a towering cathedral, a stunning painting, or a perfect paragraph.
  • There will be times when you need to compromise to get something important finished. Prioritize your projects and let the unimportant items be less than beautiful or precise. Do you really need to spend hours on that 3-sentence email?
  • Recognize that others may not share your high standards. This does not mean others need to change or work harder. You may have a greater innate capacity to produce quality. Find patience and tolerance for others. At the same time, keep looking for others with rainforest minds so you can feel seen and understood.
  • Get feedback on your work from other people with high standards and similar expectations. Then, you are more likely to respect and believe what they are telling you.
  • Remember you can have excellence without perfection. Your excellence may, in fact, look like perfection to others.
  • If you produce something less than brilliant, it is not a failure.
  • Find ways to get intellectual stimulation. You need it, just like others need food and water.
  • If you are in school or at a job and have a deadline you must meet, try to evaluate your work through a different lens. Is this good enough for the situation? Will you still get an A even though it doesn’t meet your standards? How important is it that this be as thorough as you would like? Will anyone else see all of the connections you see?
  • Read Your Rainforest Mind: A Guide to the Well-Being of Gifted Adults and Youth. The chapter on perfectionism includes case studies from my counseling practice and many more resources.

Unhealthy Perfectionism

Anyone can experience unhealthy perfectionism from growing up in a dysfunctional family. Clients who have rainforest minds, though, might be perfectionists for additional reasons. As children, rainforest-minded clients who have developed “unhealthy perfectionism” were often ahead of their peers in academic abilities and achievements. If their parents and teachers over-praised them for how smart they were, or repeatedly emphasized their accomplishments, the children may have felt the acceptance and love as conditional, based on being the best, winning, and achieving at all costs. As they grew, this pattern morphed into an extreme fear of failure, procrastination, avoidance of difficult activities, and generalized anxiety. Early on, their sense of self became dependent on what they did instead of who they were and would become. If they did not achieve at the highest level, then, they felt worthless. This dynamic laid the foundation for heightened anxiety, pressure to achieve, fear of failure, and avoidance of intellectual challenges. It also often became disabling in adulthood, especially if not understood and deconstructed.

Therapeutic Strategies Offered to Clients with Unhealthy Perfectionism

I have found the following to be very useful in working therapeutically with clients who are struggling from the impact of “unhealthy perfectionism”:

  • This is complicated and usually starts at a young age. Take time to unravel the threads of how your perfectionism began and allow for slow progress. You do not need to blame anyone for over-emphasizing your intelligence. They were probably not aware of the impact it might have. It can be hard not to overreact to a highly articulate or a cognitively advanced young child.
  • Strive for wholeness and balance instead of perfection.
  • Put more emphasis on the process versus the product. Measure your success by effort, enjoyment, complexity, opportunities for growth, learning, or meeting new people.
  • If you have a loud inner critic, spend time with them in a journal. Start a dialogue. Ask them what they need. What are they protecting you from? What can you do that will allow them to step back?
  • Avoid all-or-nothing thinking, such as that something is either perfect or a failure. One error does not make the entire project a failure.
  • Remember you learn more from your mistakes than from your successes.
  • Failures make great stories for holiday gatherings, memoirs, and TED talks.
  • Learn about the growth mindset that Carol Dweck writes about in Mindset. Being smart is not an either/or proposition. You may have strengths in one area and weaknesses in another. Even though you may have been born with a high level of intelligence, you can always change and grow. It will be important to explore new areas where you risk mistakes and failure.
  • Read the book Procrastination by Burka and Yuen. It provides an in-depth look at perfectionism as it relates to procrastination.
  • Break down projects into small steps if you are overwhelmed. Make a list of the steps then set either a minimal goal or a time limit to get you started. Give yourself small rewards as you go.
  • If you are used to easy A’s or quick success, you may panic if you run into a challenge. Know that this is common when you have a rainforest mind. It does not mean you are no longer smart if something is difficult. In fact, it is a good thing to have to struggle. Think of it as giving your brain an upgrade!
  • Make a list of self-soothing tools if you are often anxious. Check out apps such as Calm and Headspace. Read The Anxiety and Phobia Workbook by Bourne.
  • If you are the parent of a child with a rainforest mind, place more emphasis on their traits such as their compassion, empathy, and love of learning instead of their achievements. Rather than say “You’re so smart,” give specific feedback such as, “Your story has some fascinating characters, tell me more about them.” Encourage their curiosity and kindness. Ask how they feel about an accomplishment or what they might do differently next time. Avoid generic praise. Find opportunities where they have to work at something over time, such as learning a musical instrument, a new language, or a sport. Listen deeply.

***

Perfectionism in our clients is often seen as something to avoid and that is always problematic. And yet, for someone gifted or with a rainforest mind, it is not that simple. In fact, there are often two specific types of perfectionism in these clients that need understanding, explanation, and strategies. The reasons for perfectionism in this population are more complex, as are the solutions. When a therapist sees this in a client and explains the patterns and difficulties through the lens of the rainforest mind, change is possible, in ways that might otherwise be overlooked or dismissed. It can make all the difference. It certainly has for me in my work with these complex and fascinating clients.

On the Continuum of Real to Imagined Abandonment

Real or Imagined Abandonment

Real or imagined abandonment. I read the words out loud in time with my ex-fiancé Dan’s index finger as it moved along his computer screen. The DSM pages that had been all too familiar to me since graduate school felt like a loved one’s obituary following a car accident. The term borderline personality disorder has fit many of my clients over the years and, at the risk of sounding cliché or contrived with “some of my best friends are,” well, some of my best friends have shown signs of BPD. And I have experienced these signs in myself. While my long-standing self-diagnosis of Complex PTSD has often felt like a badge of honor, attachment issues have always been my true Achilles heel. The dull ache of a relationship’s potential for derailment and deterioration has been etched on my mind and present in the throbbing headaches that often settled between my brows. Headaches and worry became as familiar—and as distressing—as red lights and waiting in line.

A glass of ice-cold water in the face could not rival the moment when the man you love asks you to read the word “abandonment” in conjunction with all the associated components of borderline personality disorder, the condition that is the zenith of the experience of pain-by-abandonment. BPD is a testament of pain. Just the phrase stirs in me that same kind of sadness as whenever I look at old family photos, watch the movie Of What Dreams May Come or listen to the song “As Tears Go By” by Marianne Faithful.

My whole body trembled as I forced myself to remain standing steadily enough to continue reading the rest of the diagnostic criteria out loud. We were technically in his living room, which sometimes felt like our living room, standing in the aftermath of one of our all-too-regular fights.

My tears, the white flag of surrender, bonded us. Again. I fell into the warmth of his familiar, coffeeshop-scented Saturday sweatjacket and strong heartbeat as his arms tightened around me, his hands first locked on the middle of my back, gently patting me until finally finding their way to my face in order for him to gently pull the hair away from my tear-bleached eyes until those tears finally stopped.

After a childhood derailed by my parent’s and stepparent’s drug use, along with the twists and turns of moving in and out of assorted relatives’ homes, I had earned my black belt in therapy patienthood by the time I was twelve. And while my vocational pathway was not a carefully pre-planned collaboration but a mystery left for me to solve on my own, I condensed what I knew of life to that point and studied counseling psychology in order to become a therapist. My torturous family history prepared me well to hone in on the essence of what those around me were feeling and what their state of mind was. My direct familiarity with how invalidation stung empowered me with a stance of caution in my work that, paired with curiosity, became a starting point for my work with clients through which I could offer validation and encouragement. With caution, I could spare clients from the therapeutic experience of being pathologized for circumstances that were beyond their control.

The adages of the shoemaker’s children having holes in their shoes or the hairdresser’s hair never quite looking good always seemed to ring true for me. In my personal life, I could not access my own therapy skill set. The never-ending question “What would you tell one of your clients?” was posed like clockwork by those well-meaning people I confided in during moments when my pursuit of comfort overshadowed practicality.

Understanding another’s life is risky business, even with the best of intentions. As a therapist, I have asked clients struggling with abandonment issues to try to make sense of the very same message Dan was trying to convey to me after our most recent fight as he attempted to quiet my own abandonment fears. Even our own couples therapy sessions, which initially seemed promising, resulted in my pained response to Dan’s distancing, deafening silence; with that, those sessions failed to yield a secure structure for the relationship we had co-created.

Why was Dan immersed in his phone at all times, especially right before and during that very therapy session, why was the therapist not acknowledging this, why did we have a constant rotation of bonded togetherness followed by cold detachment, without any seemingly clear catalyst? Why was this the one relationship on any level that I could never figure out? And, most of all, how could a union hold so much potential and goodness, only for me to then feel fleeting and irrelevant to Dan before cycling back to calm and contentment?

The deeper my intimate feelings for Dan became, the more urgent it seemed for me to safeguard our relationship by vigilantly monitoring its emotional climate—and his commitment to me. Priority one was seeking out potential threats along with warning signs of betrayal, loss of interest in me, or perceived slips in my relational ranking compared with his family, friends and co-workers. While Dan brought me into his family fold and once said he would make me part of whatever he was part of, he also said he wanted to protect me from the meanness of the world. And there was always something about his whiskey bar associations that felt like exactly that—the meanness of the world. I suspected that he interpreted my stance as that of the insecure and controlling female who wanted to dominate her guy’s friend time. I’d argue with him that even a broken clock is correct twice a day, but our relationship security, or at least mine, repeatedly seemed to plummet until my frustration turned to rage, and I was then the screaming woman ranting about a few hours at a bar or a house party planned for the weekend. Validation became too emotionally expensive, no matter how much I wanted to participate in making my point of view clear and appreciated for its well-meaning intent.

My favorite quote in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, “What we are talking about is not what we are talking about,” always seemed to apply during one of these moments. What I was focused on was not what I was focused on. I had my appointment book, my pen-to-paper lists always at the ready in order to securely defend my position of insecurity. And I had my “tangible and legitimate” complaints. His nephew didn't want us to marry or be in a relationship; Dan treated me differently after his nephew called or they spent time together. His friends wanted to see him often and I wasn’t fitting in, his work was demanding, his mother needed him on Sundays. These were real reasons for stress for me, but they weren’t giving us the real reasons for our seemingly predictable conflicts. Even his fluctuating treatment of me felt impossible to describe, except for my feelings about it. Life was the equivalent of reading accurate directions for finding a building, but still not finding its entrance even after circling the building with a Quonset light overhead.

Focusing on Survival Can be a Liability

“In your childhood, you were forced to live a borderline life,” I once said to a client who responded by saying how true it was. The image of baking a cake with the needed ingredients came to mind. Past events, such as her father not showing up to pick her up from the first grade on his various visitation days and a mother who was always traveling for work, were like toxic ingredients in her upbringing used to bake the cake of her later pain, problems, and pathology.

With similar clients, I have been able to offer understanding and to then use this to set goals, but I could never quite develop the same traction in my own relationship with Dan. With my clients who were trauma survivors, I always felt like there was a clear linear strategy that guided the order of our work—first, build rapport; second, accumulate recent history and present life circumstances; third, explore assets and resources, such as friends, talents, finance, hobbies; fourth, assess liabilities, including symptoms, people, events, debt, health; and last was the hook, the motivation. What was it in their darkest and most painful eleventh hour that motivated them to seek the safety net that kept them from hitting bottom and giving up? Could they share this with me? And could I help them to recognize that I valued this very private and fragile inner faultline they’d given me access to?

For trauma survivors, the asset of being good at surviving and focusing on keeping the safety net secure can also be a liability. I have to carefully keep this in mind with my clients. The risk is that the frame of therapy, along with my validation of their status quo and past pain, can become too much of a lifeline. If this happens, a client who is accustomed to getting by on little comfort and relatedness from others may become too comfortable to take social and emotional risks outside of therapy. Here is where the balance of minimal confrontation over avoiding fun or healthy risks must be met with continued acknowledgment of their survival skills and circumstances.

Cindy, my smart and savvy managing director client, was often reluctant to go to her company's happy hours. She emphasized how different she felt from her coworkers because of her family background. She resented the feelings that came up for her whenever others spoke about their lives but, at the same time, she hated feeling alone. Curiosity about others helped create an emotional bridge strong enough for Cindy to give the happy hour—and others—a chance. While she didn’t find much to feel compassion about, she continued acting curious until doing so took her focus from herself and onto the social world around her. Cindy liked this feeling. We named it “Moment Therapy.” We then established a Moment Therapy Quota, where she scheduled three moments per week where she would attend an event that she could bring curiosity to, and through which she could begin to cross the bridge to a safe connection.

Sacrificing Sanity for Connection

My client David wanted his wife to be on his team. He often returned home well after dinnertime, which was upsetting to his wife and led to conflicts. He felt distanced from her at those times but felt more at peace and secure in their relationship whenever he bought her jewelry. Six months into therapy, he described this cycle as one of conflict, followed by estrangement and then presentation of the jewelry, much like a cat triumphantly bringing home its catch of the day to its owner. Then all of a sudden, presents no longer worked. He would try to help around the house, even when he wouldn’t get home until 8 PM, even though his wife was a self-described stay-at-home pet-parent. He always felt like he was failing her until finally, when he would start to give up, she’d turn around and embrace him.

David’s scenario evoked memories of my relationship with Dan, particularly when he would hang out with his friends in whiskey bars. I believed that Dan's relationship with these particular friends was ripe for trouble and fueled my own insecurities, I could just feel it. Being around them made me feel the way I did many years before when I did my internship at a state-run drug and alcohol facility. While some attendees did hard work and were honest, there were also the court ordered system-savvy patients who offered little more than mock compliance at best. The whiskey bar hangout of his friends was a breeding ground for gambling and other so-called hobbies that pair accordingly with sinister people masquerading as friends. Some of the whiskey bar guys were okay, some very likable and even charming, but the setting was rough and some of them were rough with it. Dan had an ability to access people with a combination of book and street smarts. This did not include the people from this whiskey bar party-based petri dish. I believed that I had a right, an obligation, to share my concerns with urgency. The problem was that I was a one-trick pony. My mind had its doctorate in domestic trauma, but not in the imperfections of regular life. I couldn’t communicate to Dan my concerns with an emotional delivery that didn’t push him away.

With my clients such as David, I easily described their behavior as blocking old punches in real time. They typically appreciated and quickly understood this phrase and worked on compiling a weekly list of such events where the analogy applied. Many eventually learned to recognize their pattern of reacting from past conditioning as if it were happening in the present. We would then work on finding the similarities within each event and then the meaning—the core essence that they were responding to. Once my clients demonstrated security in feeling validated and were comfortable challenging their impressions, we questioned the meanings they assigned to the events and wondered together if they could be exchanged for other, less destructive interpretations. Did the original meanings still feel accurate? Or were past meanings from past events being recycled, like a hand-me-down-sweater from a relative that never quite fit and nevertheless compelled wearing during visits from them?

The Illusory Promise of Diagnosis

While I permitted Dan to highlight my flaws in our review of the DSM, I remember having fantasies in which he underwent psychological testing which would provide us with some insight into his behavior and relational style and move the focus from me to him. Dan and I would sit holding hands as a team, ready to face the results as the psychologist spoke. In the calm of this fantasy office, the psychologist would reveal a truth about Dan that lay hidden from him and me that would explain so much about our quixotic relationship and offer it hope for survival.

Asperger’s Disorder—Marked impairment in the use of multiple behaviors such as eye-to-eye gaze, facial expression, body postures and gestures to regulate social interaction, a lack of social or emotional reciprocity. Encompassing preoccupation with one or more stereotyped and restricted patterns of interest. A psychological diagnosis is an odd thing to wish for anyone, let alone your significant other. But more than anything, I wanted answers for why Dan felt out of reach when we were together, why even our phone calls could deteriorate into mini verbal landmines, and why I couldn't somehow find some way to get us to have a shared emotional experience, a mirrored sentimentality of love and life or home and hearth. Something so seemingly trivial as a kiss outside a restaurant where we had just had dinner could be risky. I would be heading home, and Dan wanted to stop off at the bar. I’d make a silly, playful comment about parting being such a sweet sorrow, and Dan found it irksome. Finally, I’d call him out for not caring. “It's not true, Pamela.” That's what he would say to me whenever I accused him of not loving me or wanting me. I missed him much of the time even when we were together, and somehow, I would blame myself in the process. After all, it was me with the diagnosis, not him! Yet when he would leave to meet his friends, I felt like the warden helplessly watching a prisoner escape. I wanted something—anything—a diagnosis to make our reoccurring disconnect make sense. I wanted a diagnosis to take on wearing the hat of the culprit. I wanted a diagnosis to blame, something instead of Dan and me. And though I had my own challenges to still work through, I wanted the diagnosis to belong to Dan.

In retrospect, and into the present, the clarity a diagnosis promises is illusory because ultimately, we all find a way to do what we want in life, especially within our closest relationships. Actions speak the loudest, by themselves. Under the refracting and distracting prism of diagnosis, explanation, or etiology, as we professionals call it, still falls woefully short of explanation. Emotional matters like attachment and love cannot be solved solely by looking at someone’s actions or solely through the lens of a diagnosis. Even combining a person’s actions and their diagnosis doesn't promise all the answers. Nothing can offer that promise, not even time.

Sometimes a diagnosis is validation, affirmation, confirmation. Sometimes, a diagnosis tells a patient, “You've been heard. And here is tangible evidence.” In working with couples, if we all get on the same page as to agreeing about the specific problems and, if then, each is capable of articulating the other’s point of view as well as their own, then we can effectively talk about symptoms of a disorder and what each is experiencing. The result is a combination of mutual personal responsibility and empathy.

Jane felt anxious every time Ben didn’t call on time. The two had recently married after a year of dating. Both were in their early forties. It was Ben’s second marriage and Jane’s first. On the heels of Ben’s ultimatum that Jane seek therapy, she called me for an individual appointment. Following an initial double session, per Jane’s request, I scheduled a session for both her and Ben.

The two sat together on my couch and eagerly faced me. They looked prepared, Jane wide-eyed and Ben holding a notebook and pen. Jane was clear that she was looking for understanding from Ben about her recent behavior, however, she then said that even she didn’t fully understand why she did the things she did. Her latest self-identified “stunt” was shutting off her cell phone and checking into a hotel room when Ben failed to call as scheduled. Jane had waited an hour for Ben to break from hanging out with his friends. By the time an hour passed with still no phone call, Jane made herself unavailable until the middle of the night when she came home.

Ben was not experienced with therapy, but said he was open to trying anything in order to save his marriage or come to terms with another divorce. The last part of his statement led to a marked change in Jane’s physical appearance. She became almost feral, in what seemed a ready- to-pounce position. I let the therapeutic silence communicate my acknowledgment of what Ben said and how Jane reacted. Each looked uncomfortable but ready to continue, waiting for my lead.

We agreed that the initial goal was for Jane’s experience of Ben and life in general to be understood—not declared right or wrong, sustainable or not, but solely to hone in on uncovering what her life and her interactions with Ben felt like. We agreed that our focus did not mean Ben was less important or was exempt from responsibility for contributing to their problems and that, in time, we could shift the spotlight to him. We also agreed that I could take license to use psychological material to help strengthen the meaning of what we would be uncovering. They accepted my request to be seventy-five percent clients and twenty-five percent psychology students, learning terms and doing assigned research online.

Fantasy (and Reality) Therapy

Many people plan fantasy vacations, ones that they never take but experience internally at the mere sight of a palm tree or the fleeting sound of notes from a favorite song. In my mind's eye, I used to picture a therapy session that never happened. A session where Dan went alone and met with a male therapist about ten to fifteen years older, just enough to earn the status of wise older brother. Instead of the therapist taking a passive position, providing a psychoeducational lecture on boundaries and intimacy or encouraging Dan in an unfettered, free association-driven monologue, Dan would be challenged to explore his own role in our tumultuous relationship and not engage in diagnostic finger-pointing at me.

My fantasy therapy session for Dan would also include his feeling the same pain I experienced whenever that familiar and predictable disconnect occurred, and deeply breathing into and accepting his own role in that painful process. After a moment of therapeutic silence, Dan would be encouraged by the therapist to describe the disappointment he felt when his father was preoccupied with work and his own financial struggles to the point that he was unavailable for his family, and the disappointment when his first wife started working long hours and decided that married life was interfering with her career. Where was the pain, the abandonment that Dan felt from his own father and later his wife? Letting my fantasy tape roll, the therapist would highlight Dan’s experiences of having felt let down by his own parent and, later, his spouse, and how those painful feelings and memories played out in his future relationship with me. Empathy would follow, and we would be freed to have a relationship grounded in mutual understanding and respect, and the relational skills needed to weather whatever storms lay ahead.

***

The most valuable part of the fantasy therapy session with Dan has been the way that I have since then been able to apply it in both my own personal life and in my therapeutic work. I have learned how it is essential to help clients, particularly those in tumultuous relationships, to understand the other’s point of view. How the emotional upset in one must be met not with withdrawal and distancing, but with even greater empathy and attempts to remain connected. I have come to appreciate that raw and deeply pained emotional and angry outbursts can be, and often are, pleadings for acknowledgment, validation, and acceptance. I have also come to appreciate how avoidance and distancing are just as credible forms of emotional expression as anger and sorrow. With these insights, hard-earned through my own subsequent relationships and my own therapeutic growth, I have had more to offer clients who are playing out similar cycles of withdrawal, anger, and re-connection within their relationships. Where I might have previously rushed to diagnose the shut-down client, in the shadow of my own experiences with Dan, I now lean forward with far greater empathy and hope that they can learn to do the same. I have also learned the importance of expressing my own pain whenever the specter of abandonment rears its ugly head in my intimate relationships, and teach my clients the importance of remaining whole, even when feeling fractured.

Metaphor and Early Warning Systems in Psychotherapy with Narcissistic Patients

The other day, my patient Jeremiah was explaining that he could not sleep because he felt “blackmailed” by a former employee who was demanding excess severance pay. He was in what we had come to identify in our clinical work as narcissistic rage, feeling that the employee’s demands were an assault on his sense of self. But we both knew from prior work that his rage was typically triggered when he felt he had done something wrong that contributed to the situation, which brought with it a sense of shame, a common narcissistic dynamic.

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Jeremiah’s use of the word “blackmail” was the key—you can only be blackmailed if you believe or feel that you have done something wrong and can be compromised if that information is revealed. Once we figured out what he felt guilty about, Jeremiah could acknowledge that he had a choice about paying the severance or not. In our subsequent work, the term “blackmail” has become a shared metaphor. We both now understand that it means he feels forced to give someone something that he does not want to give but feels in danger because of his guilt.

I have found that creating and maintaining a working alliance is difficult with patients suffering from narcissistic and/or borderline personality disorders. However, developing shared metaphors and creating an early warning system has been very useful in my therapeutic efforts with these particular patients.

In psychoanalysis, the core concept of transference is based on a metaphor—the patient is responding to me as if I am their parent. Within that macro-metaphor, a multitude of micro-metaphors emerge in psychotherapy—both the patient’s and my own. There is usually a great deal of unconscious material to be mined from the patient’s metaphors (e.g., the analysis of dreams is based on interpreting unconscious metaphors). The therapist’s use of metaphors is also important, because it can betray countertransference and/or can be a tool to cut through the patient’s resistance.

I have come to appreciate that these shared metaphors create what Winnicott called a “transitional space” in which the patient’s and therapist’s unconscious and conscious overlap. At its best, psychotherapy takes place in that metaphoric, or play, space. The therapist’s job is to bring the patient into a state of being able to engage fully in the metaphoric, as-if scenario—to play. With narcissistic patients, I have found it particularly difficult to develop enough trust for them to be willing to play, which requires a degree of unmonitored spontaneity, vulnerability and trust. Sometimes, when Jeremiah and I are in that play space, I forget that if I go beyond the mirroring response and make an interpretation, I might trigger his narcissistic rage. However, having inhabited that play space together over a course of years, we have developed an early warning system.

Our warning system is reciprocal—sometimes he warns me that I am treading on dangerous grounds, while other times I warn him I’m going to say something he might not like. After ten minutes of inhabiting the same play space we may have a warning interchange as in the following:

Roberta: Maybe you got drunk to get Diana to break up with you?

Jeremiah: Please be careful here.

Roberta: What just happened?

Jeremiah: I don’t want to end the session feeling the connection between us is broken.

Roberta: What did I say that threatened to break our connection?

Jeremiah: You’re making me feel ashamed.

Roberta: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. [I could have focused on his shame but thought repairing our connection was primary.]

Jeremiah: I know. I’m okay. You can go on now.

In this interchange, Jeremiah gave me a warning that he experienced what I said as a shaming response and that he was in danger of sinking into narcissistic rage.

At other times I give him an early warning:

Roberta: I want to take a risk here.

Jeremiah: Yes, it’s okay. Go ahead.

Roberta: Do you think you are experiencing your partner as if he’s your brother?

Jeremiah: Yes, I can see that. Yes, that’s right.

By warning Jeremiah that I was going to make an interpretation, he was more able to tolerate it. The warning neutralized his potential experience of humiliation.

***

I have come to value the therapeutic play space in which patients and I use various metaphors to deepen our connection and their self-awareness. The use of shared metaphors with patients like Jeremiah has allowed me to create a safe creative space for our analytic work. This has been particularly important with narcissistic patients with whom I have been deeply challenged to create a working alliance. Since these patients have a special sensitivity to injury and shaming, I have made good therapeutic use of this early warning system to reduce the chances of the rupturing the working alliance and increasing my patients’ resilience when it is broken.

Successful Intervention with a Family Impacted by Treatment-Resistant BPD

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is one of the most difficult psychiatric disorders to treat, the main reason being that it affects the entire family. Thus, effective treatment requires working with as much of the family as possible in a coordinated effort. Multiple professionals are also often involved, which adds to the need for coordination of resources. Further adding to the complexity of intervening with families impacted by this disorder is the fact that there is usually significant resistance to the treatment by one or more parties.

Treating families impacted by BPD also requires specialized therapeutic skills. I have found that many techniques that are effective with other diagnostic groups are not only ineffective with BPD, but may actually make the disorder worse. This is why most of the families who present themselves to me have already been exposed to numerous therapists and treatment modalities by the time we meet, leaving them exhausted and disappointed. In many cases, large amounts of money and other resources have already been spent, also leaving them jaded and skeptical. These families are very often on the brink of their breaking point.

Am I expected to produce a Hail Mary, or am I just another soon-to-be-discarded and/or disappointing clinician in their minds? This is a very high-pressure situation for a clinician, and for this reason I suggest that colleagues only take on such situations if they have specialized skill in treating this disorder or other debilitating personality disorders. A full illustration of all of the specialized skills needed to work with these families is beyond the scope of this paper. For expediency, I will focus first on four tools that I have crafted and found to be highly useful in treating families impacted by this disorder. These tools are described below and will be illustrated in a case study that follows.

Useful Tools

Manage Expectations

This applies to the patient, the family, the other professionals, and yourself. Healing and growth are processes and not singular, disconnected events. All participants in the intervention should be told overtly that this process will take months, if not years, to reach an optimal outcome. I generally tell patients and their families, “Things will most likely get worse before they get better.” This prepares everyone for the inevitable resistance while creating a future milestone measured by increased cooperation.

Protect, Protect, Protect

You must protect the patient, the family, the process, and yourself. A key, and possibly the most disruptive, feature of BPD is the client’s lashing out at others when frustrated. Many families allow this behavior to provoke them into participating in disruptive behavior by shouting back or threatening. The therapist must provide some basic level of safety to the process and all who are involved in order to avoid disruption of the therapeutic work, often manifested by one or more parties’ walking out.

As a therapist in this situation, you are at very high risk for being triangulated into the family dysfunction, in which case this lashing out may be directed at you. Your chair should be the closest to the door, and you need to prepare to split up the group if you cannot deescalate conflicts with all present.

Modeling

You have to teach the family how to cope with disruptive behaviors such as lashing out, triangulation, codependency, and self-mutilation that are common with BPD and rare in other disorders. This is where the specialized skills come in. Each of these disruptive behaviors requires its own set of coping mechanisms. This is where conventional methods can backfire. For example, healthier families can share diverse opinions without the divisive effects of triangulation. In families with BPD, encouraging sharing of diverse opinions is likely to lead to further polarization and increased conflict, thereby worsening rather than improving the situation.

Starve, Do Not Feed, the Monster

The monster is the disorder, the BPD, not the sufferer. The family must bond together with the sufferer and the professional team to fight it. While traditional therapeutic methods encourage compromise and flexibility as solutions to conflict, these methods may feed the monster or make the disruptive and disturbing nature of the disorder worse in families with BPD. The emotional dysregulation caused by the BPD often escalates into rapid, impulsive acting out towards self and others. Introducing compromise, flexibility, or, worse, compliance, reinforces that lashing out will get at least some of what you want. This will increase the frequency and intensity of the lashing out. Conversely, withholding all possibility of acquiescence because of the lashing out starves the monster and sets the stage for the introduction of more socialized, and hence more successful, strategies. This is consistent with basic behavioral principles.

Case Study

The following is based on a real case, but with many details changed in order to protect identity.

Mary Zohn called me about her 19-year-old daughter, Rosa. She had been referred to me by her therapist because although her daughter was in treatment with a therapist, things were getting much worse at home and the family was in crisis. I agreed to meet with her and her husband Charlie for an intake.

The Zohns showed up at my office with two thick files that documented difficulties with Rosa since the beginning of high school. Since that time, Rosa had experienced steady deterioration despite multiple treatments with several different professionals. They explained that although she was intelligent, she had ongoing difficulty functioning in a school environment. She often missed classes and rarely completed assignments on time, if at all.

In her frustration with school, Rosa began engaging in other less productive and more self-damaging activities such as sexual promiscuity, substance abuse, and excessive computer video gaming. She began staying out late, and then overnight. Her room was dirty and her hygiene was regressing.

The Zohns began confronting her about her poor school performance and unhealthy habits. They tried to set limits. This was associated with screaming conflicts that ended up with her sometimes leaving for days at a time, and often included self-destructive behavior such as cutting and going days without food and water in protest. Her parents were becoming increasingly concerned about her health.

They were also becoming increasingly concerned about her influence on her younger sister. Rosa was the middle child of three girls. Her older sister, Wilma, did very well in school and had a good job. She was self-supporting and lived in her own apartment about an hour away from the family residence. The younger sister, Bertha, was in middle school and struggling with a learning disability and social issues at school. The Zohns were very concerned about how Rosa’s behavior would affect Bertha’s struggles.

Initial Interview

What precipitated their reaching out to me was that Rosa had been arrested with her boyfriend for possession and distribution of narcotics. Following are some excerpts from my initial interview with the Zohn’s:

Dr. Lobel: What is Rosa’s current legal status?

Mary: She is out on bail.

Dr. Lobel: What is she doing with her days?

Charlie: Supposedly she is in school.

Mary: She is enrolled in college but we think that she does not attend classes.

Charlie: She leaves every night pretending to go to school but she goes to see her boyfriend instead.

Dr. Lobel: How do you know that?

Charlie: Because she is getting incompletes in all of her classes and she doesn’t come home until 4 AM.

Dr. Lobel: How does she get to school?

Mary: She drives herself.

Dr. Lobel: She has a car?

Charlie: We got her a car so that she can go to school.

Dr. Lobel: But she is not going to school, right?

Mary: We don’t know for sure.

Charlie: Yes, we do. This is the 3rd semester I am paying for, and she hasn’t even earned two credits.

Dr. Lobel: So, you pay her tuition and buy her a car to go to school. She doesn’t go to school and you continue to pay her bills?

Mary: Are you suggesting that we should cut her off?

Charlie: I can’t do that to my daughter.

Dr. Lobel: You mean stop enabling her?

Charlie: What do you mean?

Dr. Lobel: Under the guise of paying for school you are enabling her to engage in unhealthy and illegal activities with her boyfriend.

Mary: We have discussed this before, but her therapist has recommended that we try not to stress her out; that we should give in to the small stuff so that she does not get dysregulated.

Dr. Lobel: How is that working for you?

Charlie: Not good.

The Zohns left the initial consultation a bit shaken by my recommendations. Up until this point, therapists had recommended walking on eggshells around their daughter by reasoning with her, trying to be flexible and forgiving, and overlooking Rosa’s outbursts and acting out.

Second Consultation

Three months later, the Zohns contacted me again. Rosa had been arrested. This time she had been driving while intoxicated and crashed. The car was totaled, and she was charged with driving under the influence (DUI). Fortunately, she was not significantly injured.

They came in for another consultation. They explained that they had come to realize that they were indeed enabling her, feeding her monster, and that they needed guidance. They didn’t know how to say no to her and follow through consistently. We agreed that we would meet with her together in order to help them to set up some healthier boundaries. Most notably, this included the plan that resources such as money and transportation would only be available for the pursuit of healthy activities.

I asked the Zohns whether they were on the same page regarding what was right for Rosa. They shared that they often argued about whether or not to be “strict” with her and how strict to be. I told them that they must be united in the setting and reinforcement of boundaries and that I would help them with this. They agreed. I suggested that I see Rosa individually before we again met as a family so that she would not feel ganged up on. They agreed, but she did not.

First Family Meeting

When the three arrived for our first session together, I asked Rosa to come in by herself for a few minutes, and she agreed. Here is an excerpt of our meeting.

Dr. Lobel: Do you know why your parents asked you to meet with me?

Rosa: They just want to control me. They irritate me constantly.

Dr. Lobel: How do they do this?

Rosa: They are constantly on my case. I don’t do anything right. They want me to be like Wilma. They have always favored her. I can’t be Wilma so I am a disappointment to them.

Dr. Lobel: In what way do they want you to be like Wilma?

Rosa: Smart, beautiful, and successful. That is not me.

Dr. Lobel: What do you think prevents you from being successful?

Rosa: Them. They nag me all the time and then I can’t concentrate on my studies.

Dr. Lobel: That’s why you don’t go to class?

Rosa: Yes. I get so upset I just want to get high. I would rather be with my boyfriend.

Dr. Lobel: What does your therapist suggest?

Rosa: She has tried to get them to back off, but they can’t stop themselves.

Dr. Lobel: What would you do if they were not bothering you?

Rosa: I would get a job.

Dr. Lobel: Have you ever had a job?

Rosa: Yes. Several.

Dr. Lobel: How did that go?

Rosa: I usually work for a while and then they start hassling me.

Dr. Lobel: At work?

Rosa: Yes.

Dr. Lobel: Out of the blue.

Rosa: They get all upset if I am late once or twice or if I call in sick.

Dr. Lobel: And then you get fired.

Rosa: Yes. But the reason I am late or sick is because of my parents!!

We brought the parents in. We all agreed that Rosa needed to take a leave from college while she resolved her legal issues and living situation and began to more directly address her mental health challenges. We then introduced the idea that Rosa’s access to resources, such as a car and money, would be contingent on her manifesting healthy behaviors. Her parents agreed to support healthy behaviors rather than unhealthy ones. Rosa began yelling at her parents and at me, stating that this was little more than additional control and would make things worse. She stormed out of the meeting. As she came in the car with her parents, we were confident that she would not be able to go far, so we finished the hour by offering suggestions as to how to respond to her agitation. We reviewed the “form before content” tool. This basically required that Rosa speak in civil tones, or the conversation would stop.

Dealing with Resistance from Rosa’s Therapist

The following Monday morning, I received a call from Rosa’s therapist, Ms. Hartman, who wanted to know what was going on in our meetings that was so upsetting to her patient. She expressed that Rosa was “triggered” by the meeting and it was making her sicker. I was expecting this call. Here is an excerpt of our conversation:

Dr. Lobel: What about our meeting did Rosa find triggering?

Ms. Hartman: She felt ganged up on.

Dr. Lobel: Which part made her feel ganged up on.

Ms. Hartman: You and her parents trying to control her.

Dr. Lobel: Did she give you any specifics?

Ms. Hartman: No. She just said that she was so triggered she had to leave.

Dr. Lobel: She appeared to get agitated as soon as I said that her parents would support healthy activities and not support unhealthy ones. Does this contradict what she told you?

Ms. Hartman: No.

Dr. Lobel: I imagine you must be working with Rosa on increasing her tolerance for frustration and difficult situations.

Ms. Hartman: Yes. I specialize in Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT). I think she also takes medication.

Dr. Lobel: We are trying to help Rosa take responsibility for her choices and behaviors and she is having difficulty tolerating it. Can you help her accept that she has to accept responsibility for herself while giving her the confidence that she can do so in a healthy way and grow from the experience?

Therapy Begins

Several meetings with the Zohns followed, in which we created a contract through which Rosa could benefit from all of the resources her parents had to offer if she used them for healthy pursuits. She got a job and prepared to resume her studies. She agreed to maintain sobriety. The sticking point was the parents not wanting her to be alone with her boyfriend, as they felt his influence corrupted her. We agreed that he could visit her at the family residence but that the Zohns refused to have their vehicle or their financial support to be used to spend time with him. She very reluctantly agreed.

I also inquired as to the status of her pharmacotherapy. She apparently had a psychiatrist who prescribed a combination of medications that included psychostimulants for attentional difficulties, a mood stabilizer, and an antidepressant. She refused to take the mood stabilizer and antidepressant but wanted to continue with the psychostimulants. The psychiatrist refused to treat her under these circumstances, so she was getting Vyvanse prescriptions from her pediatrician. I suggested that she consult with another psychiatrist, as I thought that the stimulant alone was adding to her emotional dysregulation. She saw a psychiatrist and agreed to work with her on a more therapeutic regimen.

Rosa seemed to stabilize for a few months and was moving forward on our plan, until, that is, when the testing began. Her parents noticed that she was not always at work when she said that she was at work. They suspected that she was seeing her boyfriend. They also found evidence in her bedroom that she was vaping marijuana again.

Mary and Charlie met with me to discuss their fear, apprehension, and guilt at holding to their boundaries. They feared confronting Rosa, which they knew they needed to do, and they feared for Rosa as well. They did confront Rosa, who denied everything. Then Rosa disappeared.

She went to work one day and did not return. The Zohns contacted her employer the next day, who confirmed that she had not shown up for work. They tried to contact her via cell phone, but she “ghosted” them (refused to answer). They were pretty sure that she was with her boyfriend, most likely using drugs and engaging in other unhealthy and risky behaviors.

I met with the parents a few times over the next few days. They were very frightened and questioned our plan. They contemplated texting her and allowing her to do whatever she wanted if she just returned home. I discouraged this and explained that this would be a major setback. I told them that she and her boyfriend did not have the resources to survive on their own and that she would have to return home eventually. She had nowhere else to go.

We began preparing for her return with the understanding that the Zohns’ home was not viable as a therapeutic environment for Rosa and that she was in need of inpatient treatment. I encouraged the Zohns to research options and prepare to have her admitted promptly when she returned.

It took about a month. Rosa missed one of her court appearances and was again arrested. She called from the police station. The Zohn were prepared and let her know her options. She had no choice but to agree.

She was admitted to an inpatient facility that specialized in BPD and substance abuse. She stayed for three months and then transitioned to a sober living residence near her parents. She stayed there for six months, during which time she got a job, resolved her legal issues and embraced sobriety with the help of a Twelve-Step Program and a good sponsor. She went from sober living to the university.

Conclusions

In this case, BPD had not only metastasized throughout the family, but also infected the professionals involved. Approaching Rosa’s treatment from an individual perspective was not successful, because her disorder caused her to manipulate her environment into a codependent mess that enabled her to stay sick and get sicker. The only way for her to recover was to assemble a team that included her entire family and all providers working together and consistently.

Intervening in a system impacted by BPD, as in this case, required specialized skills and the willingness to confront all aspects of the patient’s treatment, including enabling providers. This was often like stirring up a bee’s nest. Great care had to be taken to protect these providers by not making them feel negligent or naïve while at the same time engaging them in a consistent therapeutic process. It was critical to anticipate resistance, even by the professionals who attacked me for challenging them. I didn’t take it personally and haven’t, which has proven to be an effective tactic. I explained to them my process and expectations in non-accusatory terms and showed them their value in the coordinated healing process.

In looking back over the case, I knew I was going to be seen as a snake-oil salesman, met with skepticism and doubt. I had to effect a paradigm shift. I also expected things to get worse before they get better. And they did. I reminded myself that as a clinician. I had to stick with what I knew: with the treatment plan, with the best techniques at my disposal.

I also knew that if this approach failed, there would probably not be another chance. Rosa would lose her only lifeline, and the family would all suffer. I reached the point of no return. I was fully committed and I had to see this case through, no matter what. I have treated families like this countless times over the years, but each case is different and each path its own.

If you are going to venture into this challenging treatment domain, conviction is critical, and still there will be no guarantees.

Long-Term Psychotherapy and BPD, Part 2: A Dialogue on Trust


Question: What do you call a homeless horse with a Borderline Personality Disorder?

Answer: Unstable.
 

Introduction: What We Did

In this, the second of a two-part essay, we (Anne, the client, and Trish, the therapist) seek to share multiple perspectives of our co-writing collaboration, a process that we developed to inform our long-term therapeutic relationship’s new focus on Anne’s diagnosis of borderline personality disorder (BPD). Following on from Part 1, in which we detail the ways in which long-term therapy with Trish has had a powerfully positive impact on Anne’s (treatment for) BPD, this second part—begun 5-6 months after the first—moves into the “how” of our co-authoring experience. Through collaborating, Anne is able to practice better interpersonal relationships, which we identified in Part 1 of this essay as crucial to “building a life worth living.” The epistolary dialogue format (as in Part 1) models the importance of trust in the therapist/client relationship, especially for those with BPD, which for us has been built in a range of ways through creative collaboration. In Part 2, we explore the risks and benefits of this dialogic trust-building collaboration, and recognise the investments of all parties involved in the treatment of those with BPD.

In mid-2020, in the midst of Australia’s COVID lockdown, Anne was asked by a friend who edits a psychotherapy journal to contribute an article on their recent diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). That process is detailed in Part 1 of this essay. In Part 2, we unpack how collaborative writing is impacting our therapeutic relationship, and how humour has played a powerful role in building trust. Our creative collaboration has also raised a number of questions and negotiations, including: What risks were identified? How were these processed and resolved? How has maintaining our dual roles improved our therapeutic relationship?

We explore not only what has changed in our therapeutic relationship due to our creative collaboration, but also what has happened underneath the changes and how co-authoring (or other creative collaboration) might be useful to both therapist and client. We consider why we came to write together, the power of attuning and attending, and shifts in the therapeutic atmosphere that can result in increased trust—most powerfully, a more expansive view of each other that seems to enhance our work “in the room.” For us, humour is a “way in,” a way for us to extend the safe space of the therapeutic exchange into different kinds of relating, a movement that leads to increased trust.

We share memes and jokes about therapy, BPD, and any other topics that need to be decompressed, which establishes a common irreverent sense of humour that solidifies the trust built over time. Common factors theory suggests that the most important influence on therapeutic change is the strength of the alliance between therapist and client. Looking beyond technique and intervention, how does what happens in the room affect our co-authoring, and how does our co-authoring affect what happens for both of us in the room? As before, we use a dialogic approach to give voice to both perspectives.

Trish (she/her): I remember several months back, you had had a bad couple of days, and you were feeling particularly isolated. I wanted to reach out in some way, so I sent you a video clip showing Pepper (my therapy dog, who has been a part of our work together) magically being able to speak through a phone app, asking how you were feeling. I hesitated several times before I sent it but did it in the end. Ultimately I think it achieved what I hoped—a moment of connection through humour, extended by you, when you sent me a video of your dog replying. This happened before the idea of writing of our first article was even on the table, but there we were, extending our therapeutic alliance beyond the counselling room and into a creative/visual space.

Anne (they/them): Our psychotherapeutic relationship is predominantly a one-way listener relationship, framed by your professional training and the terms of our engagement. Is the incessant talking of the therapy client and the never-ending listening of the therapist a false centring of the client in a way the world doesn’t uphold? Like you said the other day, the few times your own selfness comes out in sessions, the client often overlooks it and is like, “Yeah, so anyway, back to me”—which, sadly, I can totally see myself doing! What if you were to say to me, in a session where I might do that, “Hey Anne! I just said something about myself, and you totally ignored it.” It might be hard for me to hear, but that is exactly what happens in real life. And what would that mean for you as a “therapist-ever-becoming” who considers what might be possible when a client is so caught up in their own woes that they miss the you-ness? A you-ness that might be able to push them further toward better interpersonal relationships?

Trish: You came in with your American swagger, already a devotee to New York style of psychotherapy, where not everyone there might have their very own barista (it’s a Melbourne thing), but they certainly have a therapist. You seemed to be willing to take a chance on me, despite some differences that might have gotten in the way. We seemed to click, conversation flowed and continued to flow in subsequent sessions. We discovered things that connected us in shared experiences in our lives apart from the mutual age bracket we found ourselves inhabiting, both having been high school teachers, both loving dogs in the same devotional kind of way. But maybe it was mostly that I really liked you as a person—your inquiring mind, your desire to make sense of things, your wry humour, your ability to narrate your life from the couch in such a way that I was drawn into the story and cared deeply about the author. Your paid work took you away on a regular basis, often for weeks or months at a time, but you would appear again at my office and we would resume. Before I knew it, we had been doing this for a couple of years and entering the realm of long-term therapy—not new to you, but not guaranteed for me, for two reasons: Australians are not so familiar with this way of receiving (long-term) psychological support, and for me as a therapist sitting outside of the Medicare system, there were no financial structures in place to subsidize the work, at times a disincentive for prospective clients. But it has always been my preferred way of working, as one who has found a fit with the relational emphasis of therapeutic work.

When therapists get together and wax lyrical about unconditional positive regard, they rarely see this as a reciprocal idea. It is considered as something bestowed on the client, flowing from a compassionate therapist. But when it is present in the therapeutic space in its fullest capacity, it emerges out of a mutual desire for the therapist and client to see each other as the best that they can be. I want to help you and I want to be seen as someone capable of that. You want help from me and need to believe that I will not let you down. I keep getting to show up again; I can say I won’t give up on you, and you give me the chance to do that through your own acceptance and trust of me. So is this shared unconditional positive regard?

Anne: I was not surprised to find out that you were a teacher—you remind me of the best teachers I knew during my 11 years teaching in high schools. I can see why the kids would be drawn to you: your sense of humor and down-to-earth vibe instantly put me at ease. Yet one thing I’m seeing in myself through the BPD diagnosis and range of treatments is how transactional I can be: i.e., you are my therapist, and because I pay you, you should be like x. Today when we were talking about you, it occurred to me that if we are talking about mutuality, it has to include a kind of benevolence in me for you, too. It doesn’t mean you have to disclose personal details as I do, but I think the interpersonal, relational mode I was talking about does mean our therapy sessions could be a space where I try out caring more about the other.

You are not just my therapist because you were there and I said yes. You also said yes. I have not just stayed—you have stayed. You have said that you feel you can help people and maybe there’s a question in there that goes beyond me just “feeling better.” I don’t literally affirm to you that you DO help me. You do. And I don’t think I affirm you or acknowledge that in the way that you do for me. What does that mean or look like coming from client to therapist? I think I would like to try some kind of “attending to” you in our next session, as a kind of practice of my learning better how to attend to others, in a non-transactional way. It feels freeing to think of improving my interpersonal skills through getting out of my own needs and trying to live more in others’ experiences or needs. I’m not sure exactly what that looks like in our therapy sessions, but I do think this is evolving in a direction in which I can practice caring for someone without it being based on my own needs, even in therapy. Which is still part of my growth in response to my BPD diagnosis.

But why did we keep writing together, and how has it increased each person’s feeling of “being seen” in a more fulsome manner? Initially, it made sense for Anne to ask Trish to co-write the article for the psychotherapy journal, given she is Anne’s therapist and had played such a profound role in Anne’s diagnostic journey. But what we found was something more than a narration of how long-term psychotherapy might help those with BPD.

Trish and Anne started co-writing online while maintaining fortnightly therapy sessions, as face-to-face sessions had been prohibited by home isolation. During this time Anne was also completing their Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT) program remotely, which had life-changing effects. We also acknowledge that we are producing writing that is going to have a public audience, and that now that shapes our creative collaboration in important ways.

We have tried writing separately and then sharing what we had written at a later point, as Irvin Yalom and his client “Ginny” did in Every Day Gets a Little Closer (1), but ultimately returned to co-authoring in a shared Google doc that has a satisfying interactivity and vibrancy. One aspect of the collaboration that emerged from the beginning is the humorous banter that we both enjoy. It is present in our therapy sessions, too, but not to the extent that it has bloomed in our tracked comments while writing together. So alive was that back-and-forth that we tried to include the tracked comments in the final draft of that first article, but it didn’t feel right; the spontaneity was lost once the time stamps and overlaps in the marginalia were formalised into the body of the essay.

The fluidity of being able to write into the same document, and comment on each others’ and our own writing, seemed to form a big part of the energy of the shared work. Trish identified “rooftop moments” and other important insights that emerged in the writing. We both flagged passages that brought tears.

________________________
(1) Every Day Gets a Little Closer

Trish: Anne, you pose such interesting questions about this creative process and why it works. It takes me back to our earlier discussions as we explored the issue of the power dynamic in the client-therapist relationship. It is a strange beast because it seems like it is both needed and rebelled against simultaneously. Sometimes, as a client, you want me to firmly take the reins and show you the way, and at other times you are aware that as you bare your life to me, I keep mine under wraps. You step into a vulnerable space and I have a boundary that keeps me safe. And I want to offer support and guidance but reject labels like “expert” and get cosy with terms like Yalom’s “fellow travellers.” “Do you think our writing together altered an established power dynamic?” For in that space I saw you as the authority and looked to you to have the answers on how the work would come together. I completely trusted that you would take us to where we needed to be with our first article. How does it feel for us to exchange leadership roles as we move from one space to the other? I encourage you and affirm your resolute commitment to wellness, as you face the parts of you that still flare up at times and remind you of the hell that is other people. (2) Then you encourage me and applaud certain passages that I write. You take note of my hesitancy and respond with patience and curiosity, perhaps in a similar way to how you do with your own students. So we redefine the terms of engagement. We allow the spaces of therapy and writing to co-inform one another, as this most human of relationships draws on all of its strengths to bring out the best in each of us. As Yalom (3)  reminds us:
 

This encounter, the very heart of psychotherapy, is a caring, deeply human meeting between two people, one (generally, but not always, the patient) more troubled than the other. Therapists have a dual role: they must both observe and participate in the lives of their patients. As observer, one must be sufficiently objective to provide necessary rudimentary guidance to the patient. As participant, one enters into the life of the patient and is affected and sometimes changed by the encounter. In choosing to enter fully into each patient’s life, I, the therapist, not only am exposed to the same existential issues as are my patients, I must assume that knowing is better than not knowing, venturing than not venturing, and that magic and illusion, however rich, however alluring, ultimately weaken the human spirit.


________________________
(2) No Exit and Three Other Plays
(3) Love’s Executioner and Other Tales of Psychotherapy


Trish: In a recent supervision session with my supervisee James, who works at an in-patient setting, we were reflecting on how patients there form a trusting alliance with the staff. James happens to be blessed with a benevolent warmth, and his presence is therapeutic before he even opens his mouth. He shared his thoughts about the negative impact on patients if they experience the mental health professionals as taking a position that is “above” them—whether that be in the way they dress or speak, or in the attitude that they convey—“I could never be in your shoes.” For James, what is important is the recognition that we can all find ourselves pushed beyond our capacity to cope and experience being unwell. That we need to have a willingness to “also see myself in their story.” Anne, it got me thinking about what you wrote in our first article—that BPD is a disorder of separation. And I wonder how it is possible to trust anyone if you feel so distant from them? As we grapple with understanding how our writing together built trust, it dawned on me that this process has been highlighting the ways in which we are similar rather than different.

Psychiatrist to his nurse: “Just say we’re very busy. Don’t keep saying, ‘It’s a madhouse.’”


When psychotherapy has an interpersonal focus, it can be described as paying attention to the interactions between client and therapist, as well as providing an opportunity for practising a more satisfying relationship that then gets taken into the real world of the client. So what is going on in our writing process, including in the comments? We agree it’s an alternative form of “the real world,” organically appearing out of the mutuality of the co-creative work. Through the collaboration, Anne starts to see Trish as a “fuller human being” with her own wants, needs, ideas, resulting in more trust of Trish. Trish reports seeing Anne also as a fuller person, in their element, strength and power, a kind of agency. We both express how the increased interactions are not necessarily about more stories of our personal lives, but rather an experience of “a different me.” For us both, we have an increased sense of how the other is with other people.

Anne asks Trish questions like, “How does it feel to be a subject with a client? To take up space?”

We both ask, “How much is too much?”

Trish has been thinking a lot about this in the last couple of days, about self disclosure as the therapist, and bringing more of the “real self” into therapy. She says,

 

I thought about your saying that you saw me as a ‘fuller human being’ through the writing process and it made us wonder what that would look like, i.e. to have Trish the fuller human being in the therapy sessions. There is always a risk that something may not work out the way you want it to. Including this collaboration.


For Trish there is tension about whether Anne could still trust her to help them in the therapy space if they see her vulnerable and feeling out of her depth in the writing space. This feels risky but also highly challenging to how she sees herself as a therapist. Trish’s previous self-image as being authentic and honest is tempering with the recognition that there are parts still held back. This important self-examination leads Trish to grapple with the boundary of what becomes known, foregrounding always that whatever she offers of herself still needs to be of therapeutic value. The added role of “collaborator” has both personal and therapeutic benefits for Anne. A healthy intimate relationship means both can safely be vulnerable with the other and know it can be held and ultimately strengthen the relationship, not damage it. The therapeutic potential is that if this happens with Trish, it can strengthen with others in Anne’s life.


Anne: I find it challenging to trust people who remain “distant,” as a therapist may appear, because it feels like rejection and elicits feelings of vulnerability. Navigating these secondary co-creative roles is tricky but feels reassuring to me, and the trust between us seems to increase. In therapy sessions, I am the one with issues, difficult feelings, vulnerability, who looks for support and understanding. You are the one who listens and focuses on how best to meet the needs that I express. So how is it that despite us writing about the therapy, our roles still shift? I often take the lead in the co-authoring, which is not surprising given my professional expertise. I am able to share information with you, Trish, around the process of writing together and send you co-written autoethnographic articles as examples—a classic example of table-turning, you tell me, when we reflect on the times you have sent me articles of a psychological nature in relation to our therapeutic work.

Psychotherapy is often described in the person-centred school as a respectful, collaborative, teamwork-like approach. In this way, the client-therapist team builds their alliance and works together, but—and this is a major distinction—it is all in the service of the growth of the client. And fair enough, given there is a fee attached. But it would be a deception to suggest that the therapist does not grow as well, or, as Yalom says, is not changed or affected by the work, or doesn’t think about the client beyond the therapy hour. How much of this knowledge is—or should be—available to the client? Do they even want to know?

Trish: Anne, you made a comment about not realising how much was going on “behind the scenes” in our sessions. This was probably in response to my talking about a certain approach I might take with a certain goal in mind. Do you think it is helpful for a client to know that what their therapist is doing is reparenting them, or providing empathic attunement, or providing a secure base that was lacking in childhood? I just can’t imagine a client caring about the what, as long as it works, but when I think about talking with other therapists about this work and leaving my clients out of the conversation, it seems ridiculous! I find myself imagining a conversation with fellow therapists:

Me: “Hey therapist colleagues, let me tell you about this great intervention I did the other day in a session…”

Therapist colleagues: “Oh cool…but how do you know it was great? Did you ask the client?”

Me: “Well… no… but, it’s in this book I read.”

Therapist colleagues: ‘“Yeah but how do you know it actually helped the client?”

Me: “Um… well, they probably don’t know it helped them… but… oh, shut up.”


Anne: I wonder at the disjunct between therapists’ acknowledgement that clients need to feel that you are not “above” us, are not inherently different from us, versus how infrequently clients seem to feel this sense of equality, accessibility, or sameness. As in James’ commentary above, I recognise the commitment in you, Trish, and others, to convey a sense of solidarity with clients; I also recognise what you have suggested many times, that clients do need that sense of being held, that the therapist is “holding things together” so that we can be vulnerable. Where is the balance between feeling this as hierarchical, and feeling in it together?

Trish: Anne, you are right that the balance is hard to find, particularly if there isn’t a dialogue between client and therapist about what is actually happening in the space together. As Yalom and others have often noted, it can be hard to know what helps in therapy, and I think quite often a therapist will have a different idea to the client about what was helpful, useful, or powerful in any given session. Sometimes a client will say to me, “When you said that thing last week, I found that really helpful.” And often I think, “Well actually, I didn’t quite say it like that, and it’s not what I meant, but OK. But didn’t you like it when I said this bit? You don’t remember that? Damn, I thought that was the good part…”


Cracking Ourselves Up: Enhancing Trust with Humour

Question: How many psychotherapists does it take to change a light bulb?

Answer: Probably just one, as long as it takes responsibility for its own change. This could be called having “a light bulb moment.”


Laughter has always been part of our therapeutic relationship, and we wonder as we go along what doorway this has opened to increasing trust. Our joking in the document is more frequent, but also a bit different in nature: more feeding off of one another, whereas in the room it’s a bit more measured. We are curious about the many roles humour seems to play between us in our dual roles. We discuss how—in the room—humour can also be a mechanism for deflecting, or keeping things on a more superficial level, and in this way is not always welcome. Nevertheless, once we begin our online interaction, the spontaneous humour grows. Trish writes of a time when she took a holiday and arranged for another staff member at the agency where she worked to see her clients if needed. The audacity of counsellors leaving clients in order to have some leisure time doesn’t go unnoticed by Anne in our track comments in the first article:

[Anne: how dare you LOL]

[Trish: How very BPD of you :)]

[Anne: LOL GUFFAW I think we may have a stand up routine by the end of this.]

[Trish: I know right? The side comments are almost as interesting as the article!!]


In this exchange, our shared humour strikes at the heart of the very condition that has caused Anne such anguish, and yet creates a moment of freedom as the heaviness of the label is discarded, all the while noticing that humour and pathos are indeed good friends. We agree that one reason both our irreverent humour and the creative collaboration work well is because it has emerged out of our pre-existing therapeutic relationship of almost six years. The trust and foundations were there before we altered our relationship, and Anne notes that widespread perceptions of BPD make it likely that such humour about the disorder would be hard to share with a therapist in a less established relationship.

One wall we have mutually hit together is a feeling of “too much”ness after the first essay, when we decided to continue writing together as well as still maintaining therapy sessions. The dual roles and time commitments of both soon felt too demanding, and we were able to talk about that openly and put some boundaries around it.



Trish: Anne, I recall that experience of “too much”ness was precipitated by your writing into our shared document about a dream you had had about me. I commented on how much was in the dream to be examined, but it seemed to be therapeutically, not creatively, relevant. Back then I wondered whether the writing together was blurring the therapeutic line in a confusing way. But now I think we see the line and we choose to walk along it courageously. I see an image of a tightrope walker, holding a long pole for balance. I wonder what the pole is representative of in our work together?

This experience caused us to recognise that we needed careful negotiation around how much and when we enact both roles: for example, do we collaborate while Anne is still a client? Do we have writing sessions and therapy sessions in the same week/month? After a time, we started to realise that they were folding back into one another in an iterative process that was becoming productive for both the writing and therapy, but we continue to monitor the efficacy of maintaining both roles simultaneously.


“Being Seen” through Creative Collaboration

Through humour especially, we both express a powerful feeling of being seen by the other, in deeper if not new ways. The feeling of “being seen” is, of course, a major part of the value of psychotherapy to a client, and was a strong part of Anne’s experience of therapy with Trish before the co-writing started. We decide to explore bringing some of this “whole person” or more interactive dynamic back into our therapy sessions, admitting that neither of us are quite sure what this will look like. We discuss how we might chip away at the “one-wayness,” the illusion of the therapist having no needs, feelings, investment. We consider questions like:

Is Trish always therapist Trish, even when we are co-writing?

What in that therapy space is different or the same?


It is confusing for us both at times, often in different ways.


Trish: I wonder, “Well what IS bringing more into the room?” I believe that my emotional responses are already an act of bringing myself. It is my standard practice to share things like “I’m aware that I’m feeling quite sad as you tell me this.”

We wonder together: what if we were writing a novel instead, or painting a picture? We are writing about our therapy, not something else, so it reinforces the therapeutic relationship. We reflect on the fact that Trish is also a teacher and practice supervisor, and in those roles she encourages her students to be prepared to walk the talk, to consider the ethics of asking clients to go further than they’ll go themselves. We begin to acknowledge our investment in each other.

Of course, our creative collaboration presents challenges as well as benefits. What if it dissolves, runs out of steam, or there is a creative rupture? We discuss the value of this changed way of working, despite the risks. We discuss whether writing about this will be of benefit to other client/therapist teams, and, if this multi-directionality in our sessions doesn’t work for all clients, whether it is still a worthy experiment to share publicly.


Anne: One reason why I have this trust of you is because you have hung in there, not rejecting me, through so many difficult times. And why wasn’t my treatment of you as challenging as so many others in my life? My hard behaviour, I think, is triggered by feeling rejected or judged. But rejection and judging is part of life. So how does unconditional acceptance (“unconditional positive regard”) by you help me handle rejection in the real world? One of the ways I’m suggesting is to regard you with care as a whole person, not just a “therapist.” That is, not just “there for me.” In thinking about this over the last little while, I believe the improvement in much of my behaviour comes from my starting to regard others as whole human beings with their own needs and validity, whether they reject me or not, meet my needs or not. How can I increase my ability to put myself aside and regard others in a less transactional way? If I were to do this with you in our sessions, what does that look like? Certainly not your therapy, or therapy about you. But maybe it’s more like, “How does it feel to you when I just talk the whole session?” or “Do I hurt your feelings?” or “Am I boring you right now?” Maybe attending to you (and others) is holding the dialectic of “My feelings are hurt right now, but I can also attend to your hurt feelings at the same time, or even first.” Part of improving my interpersonal relationships, I think, is being able to perceive my impact on people.

Trish: The process of writing the article with you has provoked me to re-examine the firmly boundaried position of this understood one-way process. No person-centred therapist wants to be a blank screen, and I have always believed I bring my genuine self to the therapy process with clients. Being willing to be more explicit about my internal responses to things you might say to me, rather than hold some therapeutic high ground as I bracket them off, seems like an important way forward.

We agree that it should be as intentional as setting some ground rules for the experiment. Trish suggests regular check-ins, like asking “How is this going right now?” Anne wonders how productive setting ground rules or negotiating terms of relationships might have been in other relationships or friendships, too; maybe with such agreements those relationships would have gone better. Trish suggests to Anne, “See? You are now connecting what we are doing in therapy to your life in the real world, i.e. negotiating with people around the types of interactions you have—what works for both. So here is therapy on the page.”


Mutually Revealing

One day after a co-writing session, Trish scribbles some notes, including:

Explore in what ways (even without Anne knowing) the relationship between us has been therapeutic:

  • Corrective emotional experience
  • Being there
  • Not abandoning
  • Staying with

…and that these things build trust.

Trish: I believe that so much of what a therapist does with clients is to provide a corrective emotional experience. When there is abuse or neglect or misattunement early in life, the therapy of care and unconditional positive regard gives the client the feeling of what it is like to be held. So for you, Anne, maybe some of that was to not have to listen to someone else and validate them (in the way you did for your adoptive mother) in order to feel worthy. That you get to have the experience of this for yourself. In some ways, it is not so important that it isn’t the “real world” but the world of the therapy room. The emotions are real. That I attend to you is real. And you don’t have to be “good” (thanks, Mary Oliver) in order to feel this. And feeling this with me might then motivate you to know that it is possible, and that maybe you can also feel it in your “real” life.


I have been thinking about this quite a bit over the last few days, and I have formed the belief that we needed to do this work (i.e. corrective emotional experience) before we could move into a space of being more overtly interpersonal. Trust is needed for that. I have often wanted to challenge some of my other clients with Borderline features to have a look at certain aspects of themselves and their behaviour that might impact other people, or even me, negatively, but I have found that there is a risk of their fragmenting. If someone already has a fragile sense of self, a suggestion that they could do something differently can be experienced as “I am a bad person.” So it is interesting that we are contemplating this experiment of giving the space between us more attention. Perhaps you feel secure enough in our relationship now to let me challenge you. If I let you see that I have reactions to what you do or say, that it actually affects me, I believe that you can hold this information and stay intact.

Anne: I have been thinking a lot for the past five days about my saying to you to “get over it.” One thing I’ve noticed with myself (is it the BPD?) is that sometimes I don’t intend to, but I am still quite harsh. I have always laughed this off as my New Yorker brusqueness. But is that an excuse for rudeness and not wanting to change? I’m sorry, Trish, that I spoke to you in that way. This is my being accountable interpersonally, even in a therapy session. I meant to encourage you. And I do think you are fearless in going to these places that are not the norm in the Australian context, and I love that and was trying to encourage you, but it came out in a rude and insulting way.

Trish: Twice now you have thought you might have offended me or been rude to me, and twice I have not felt offended or hurt. I wonder what you saw to think that you hurt me? An expression on my face, perhaps? Something in my response? Actually, I feel that on both occasions you were suggesting that maybe I could be more—an invitation to think big. And yet you think you were being dismissive or hurtful. I remember your saying recently that sometimes you find it hard to tell whether some communication between you and others is rude/aggressive or not. And then you might have to backtrack and check it out. I promise if you are nasty to me, I will tell you at the time and we can work out whether you meant it or not. You were witnessing my own discomfort with ambition. You didn’t cause it, you’re not the bad guy in this scenario. I am noticing and appreciating how you are thinking about the impact your words may have had on me.

Anne: I think it’s important to me that both of us acknowledge that there is fear perhaps around my BPD, because it is not only a disorder of separation, it is also a disorder of dysregulated emotions and behaviours. Through our work together and the safety of that, I am becoming more able to acknowledge the harms I have done to others and myself, harms that I can now feel regret and sadness about. That includes times I have hurt you in our work together, too, Trish. This doesn’t mean I won’t lash out (again). And as safe as I feel with you, we both know I have lashed out most often against those who are closest to me. So I recognise the courage it takes for you to continue to show up when you have witnessed so many of my hurtful behaviours to others, and sometimes experienced them yourself. That is brave, and I recognise the risk to you.

It is good and important to work together to improve my ability to calibrate my impact on others—to perceive it more clearly, perhaps—but also to model to other therapists that someone with BPD may be frightening or erratic, yes, but we can also be deeply reflective, resilient, empathic, courageous, and hungry to change. And we can care about you, even when we are mired in our own pain. And that this care for you can provide an important window to re-engaging with a world that is sometimes overwhelming for us.

Trish: You talk about acknowledging our fear around your BPD, and I wonder if it is the same for us both? You fear that you will still injure others, including me, despite how far you have come. I also fear that you could hurt me, too, might lash out at me despite the safety of our relationship. And as our therapeutic connection deepens, I take my place as someone at risk of being hurt by you. So how do we hold this fear in a way that makes sense? It brings to mind the dialectic of the work. Where there is fear, there is also bravery; where there is safety, there is also risk. And of course, as always, there is the knowing and the not knowing. It is inevitable that we hurt or disappoint the people who mean the most to us. We will do wrong, it is the nature of the imperfect relationships in which we all engage. And that brings us back to trust. With trust we are able to stay in touch with the resilience and perseverance that we see in one another, which makes repair and recovery possible. So when you care for me, and for others in their turn, know that what you are doing is an ongoing process of recreating a secure base that is at the very heart of what we all yearn for when we love and feel loved in return.


Epilogue: Returning to Embodiment—March 2021

Anne: I’m glad I came to your office today. It has been a long time since we have shared space, and so much has happened in the interim, with COVID and multiple lockdowns. I was aware of you again as a changing human person, and the affective intensity of proximity. I think one reason I felt moved today was not just about the content we were discussing, but about the relationship and the exchange. It is, as Tara Brach would say, sacred ground, where people feel seen and heard. It’s so powerful. That room is a powerful sacred space for me.

Do I have anxiety about going backward, now that my DBT has finished? Disappointing you? Being disappointed by you? Of course! That’s every relationship, surely. Today I just felt moved by the proximity, the laughing—so much laughter!—the attending, the eye contact, the ambient noises, the longevity, the commitment, and the hope, even when I can’t find exactly who I am. And also the power of the room itself. That familiar room—the white blinds, your desk, cup, computer. The little table by the couch, the bin. Pepper had died during lockdown, and I felt his absence so strongly in the room. The environment matters, and I can see it now as another expression of you, of another way of your “bringing yourself” to your clients.

Trish: Yes, it was pretty powerful being together in person today. There was a certain energy which may well have been about how long it has been since we took up the chair and the couch, or perhaps about the added layer of the creative space that we are sharing as we write, knowing that our words on screen find calibration with the ones we speak to one another. Were you more aware of me than you have been in the past? You have said you wanted to be able to hold space for others while you navigate your own emotional space. I think I noticed a subtle shift—while you certainly wanted some thoughts from me about what was going on for you, there was something different, more of an ease in you and a space created for me. And somehow I felt that even though I didn’t really have a clear answer for you, I was still offering you something, and you saw that (and subsequently wrote about it). This work together is making me examine myself in the most profound way, and if I want you to do it, then I will, too. Maybe I am also trying to find out exactly who I am when I am in a therapeutic encounter with you. I know one thing, I will trust the journey.

Anne: I was more aware of wondering what techniques you may have been using, and why. That relational aspect that I had never really thought much about before our co-authoring. I assumed the therapist just showed up and it was a one-way thing. I’m enjoying this change in my awareness: not only in terms of acknowledging what you are bringing, but also for me, thinking relationally about you. You exist. You are thinking and feeling things, not just absorbing. I also think we had a lot more eye contact yesterday than usual, that was something I was aware of. And also the laughing… Why do you think we laughed more yesterday than usual? My perspective is that it was just a bit of happiness to see you again, and also I felt you laughed more than usual and that felt like a kind of openness from you.
 

***
 

As recently as 2015, at the end of Creatures of a Day, Yalom  (4) reminds us that even in the United States, these kinds of relational accounts are all too rare and
 

not generally available in contemporary curricula. Most training programs today (often under pressure by accreditation boards or insurance companies) offer instruction only in brief, “empirically validated” therapies that consist of highly specific techniques addressing discrete diagnostic categories… I worry that this current focus in education will ultimately result in losing sight of the whole person and that the humanistic, holistic approach I used with these ten patients may soon become extinct. Though research on effective psychotherapy continually shows that the most important factor determining outcome is the therapeutic relationship, the texture, the creation, and the evolution of this relationship are rarely a focus of training in graduate programs.


For Trish and Anne, this focus on our creative collaboration allows a deepening of trust and strengthening of our relational dynamics. Trish (and sometimes both of us now) uses many of the suggestions Yalom offers for calling attention to the bond between patient and therapist including: doing process checks, inquiring about the state of the encounter during the session, Trish’s asking if Anne has questions for her. Through creative collaboration, trusting in the here and now becomes multi-modal and multi-directional in ways that can offer new forms of corrective emotional experience. It has also firmly established a secure base, the core purpose of strong and trusting client-therapist relationships, never more important (and challenging) than with clients with Borderline Personality Disorder.
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(4) Creatures of a Day and Other Tales of Psychotherapy