Well, it's here. The "most wonderful time of the year," according to Andy Williams.
I call it the "holiday corridor," that rush of days that starts sometime after the last Halloween pumpkins have been tossed, and kicks into full gear along about the week before Thanksgiving. And, while it does have many wonderful connotations, from the perspective of the therapist's chair, it's also a time when my clients--and friends and family, for that matter--report rising levels of stress.
In the next few posts, I'll be talking about recurring issues that many of us are faced with during the holiday season: expectations we have, realistic and unrealistic; holiday stress, from without and within; what happens when the family gets together; ghosts of Christmases past: our roles with parents; and, the inevitable "shrinking day:" when 24 hours seems to go by in a blink.
There's also what I call "general holiday fatigue." I can remember when the holiday (specifically, Christmas) season was officially launched on the Friday after Thanksgiving. I have blurry memories of bundling up and riding in my mother's Ford to the Sears parking lot, waiting for Santa to arrive via helicopter. It was late November, cold (often snowy on the east coast), and Christmas arrived in a scant 30 days or less.
Now, our exposure to everything "holiday" (the politically correct moniker now) can start as early as mid-October. Yes, on any given evening of TV watching, Halloween ad "boos" are now interspersed with holiday ad "ho! ho! ho!s" At worst, it confuses children. At best, it's an annoying reminder to adults.
But back to Christmas fatigue. In my former advertising career, a statistic we bandied about with clients was the fact that, on average, human beings were bombarded with about 300 "messages" a day from different sources. At that time, those sources did not include Internet/mobile pop up ads or emails. It's likely that the number of messages is somewhat higher today--and rising. By my unscientific estimate, by the time we have weathered the holiday corridor, if we are exposed to even, say a conservative 100 messages a day, we will have endured a mind-numbing 6,000 messages--most with a holiday theme.
Add to this the holiday shopping, cards, meals, travel--is it any wonder we experience holiday fatigue?
Don't get me wrong. I love the holidays--in my case, Christmas. I also am a big believer in self-care, which is why, over the next few posts, I'll be talking about the challenges of the season, and ways we can minimize humbug and maximize joy.
Until then, thanks for listening.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Don't "Should" All Over Yourself, Or Knowing When To Let Yourself Off The Hook.
I work with a wonderfully wise and equally unassuming older client who I'll call, "Charlotte," who is approaching 95. She, like others in the senior therapy group I hold each Friday, deals with the usual difficulties of aging: physical decline, illness, problematic relationships with adult children and the work of "life review"--a look back at accomplishments, disappointments, highs and lows.
One Friday morning, as the group was hitting its 10 a.m. stride, an introspective group member I'll call "Colleen" shared a story about her relationship with her sister and a rift that occurred between them when they were young. Now, almost 60 years later, she voiced disappointment in her own actions many years ago: "I should have done something sooner. I should have helped her. Things would have been different."
The group, rapt with attention as the story concluded, exhaled a collective sigh. It was a sad recollection. We all mused silently for a moment.
The silence was broken by Charlotte: "Well, that may be true. Or... things might have not been any different at all." And, after a pause for dramatic effect, "Don't "should" all over yourself. Let--it--go."
The group skipped a beat, looked at her quizzically, realized what she had said--and what she had NOT said--and broke into laughter. Charlotte smiled a wry smile and chuckled a bit herself.
Colleen asked, "How did you come across that. I mean, how did you find you could...do that? You know, stop the "shoulds?"
"Do you mean, who gave me permission to stop beating myself up?" replied Charlotte. "I did. Myself. Just me."
Now, I don't know many "secrets" of happiness, well-being or contentment but, for my money, Charlotte is on to something.
How often are we critical of ourselves? How many times do we lament things we cannot change, could not change and will not change?
Think about it. The job not taken. The apology not issued. The unkind words that spewed out in the heat of an argument. The relationship we could have repaired, but didn't know how at the moment. Missed opportunities for a better outcome. We all have lived through them, and will likely live through more, God willing.
A few years ago, while in consult with "Bennett," a wiser, more seasoned therapist, I mentioned one of my own missed opportunities, my own "mistakes," and my remorse over my actions. He looked at me intently, and asked, quite seriously, "So. How long are your going to have to beat yourself up over this? A week or two? A month? How long will be enough?"
"What do you mean how long? I don't know...I never thought about it like that."
"It's an interesting question, isn't it?" he replied. "I introduces the idea that we actually have control over our own lamentation. Over our own self-punishment. You might want to give it some thought. After all, life's too short."
Armed with that simple but profound idea, I began to actually think about a time frame in which to forgive myself--to free myself from my "should." Now, I personally subscribe to the idea that we can stop beating ourselves up. That we can let go. That we can actually take whatever learning we gained from unpleasant, unproductive and unflattering behaviors--and move forward. Leaving the guilt behind, investing that "guilting" energy into the life ahead.
Are you "shoulding" all over yourself? Ask yourself: 1. Is this behavior making my life any better? 2. How could I do things differently or better next time? And, 3. How much longer do I need to beat myself up over this?
I truly believe that my wise friend Charlotte and my sage/mentor Bennett are on to something. Try it. It might take some practice. But, sometimes, the worthwhile things take time to perfect.
Once you catch on to the art of letting go, you just might feel better.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
One Friday morning, as the group was hitting its 10 a.m. stride, an introspective group member I'll call "Colleen" shared a story about her relationship with her sister and a rift that occurred between them when they were young. Now, almost 60 years later, she voiced disappointment in her own actions many years ago: "I should have done something sooner. I should have helped her. Things would have been different."
The group, rapt with attention as the story concluded, exhaled a collective sigh. It was a sad recollection. We all mused silently for a moment.
The silence was broken by Charlotte: "Well, that may be true. Or... things might have not been any different at all." And, after a pause for dramatic effect, "Don't "should" all over yourself. Let--it--go."
The group skipped a beat, looked at her quizzically, realized what she had said--and what she had NOT said--and broke into laughter. Charlotte smiled a wry smile and chuckled a bit herself.
Colleen asked, "How did you come across that. I mean, how did you find you could...do that? You know, stop the "shoulds?"
"Do you mean, who gave me permission to stop beating myself up?" replied Charlotte. "I did. Myself. Just me."
Now, I don't know many "secrets" of happiness, well-being or contentment but, for my money, Charlotte is on to something.
How often are we critical of ourselves? How many times do we lament things we cannot change, could not change and will not change?
Think about it. The job not taken. The apology not issued. The unkind words that spewed out in the heat of an argument. The relationship we could have repaired, but didn't know how at the moment. Missed opportunities for a better outcome. We all have lived through them, and will likely live through more, God willing.
A few years ago, while in consult with "Bennett," a wiser, more seasoned therapist, I mentioned one of my own missed opportunities, my own "mistakes," and my remorse over my actions. He looked at me intently, and asked, quite seriously, "So. How long are your going to have to beat yourself up over this? A week or two? A month? How long will be enough?"
"What do you mean how long? I don't know...I never thought about it like that."
"It's an interesting question, isn't it?" he replied. "I introduces the idea that we actually have control over our own lamentation. Over our own self-punishment. You might want to give it some thought. After all, life's too short."
Armed with that simple but profound idea, I began to actually think about a time frame in which to forgive myself--to free myself from my "should." Now, I personally subscribe to the idea that we can stop beating ourselves up. That we can let go. That we can actually take whatever learning we gained from unpleasant, unproductive and unflattering behaviors--and move forward. Leaving the guilt behind, investing that "guilting" energy into the life ahead.
Are you "shoulding" all over yourself? Ask yourself: 1. Is this behavior making my life any better? 2. How could I do things differently or better next time? And, 3. How much longer do I need to beat myself up over this?
I truly believe that my wise friend Charlotte and my sage/mentor Bennett are on to something. Try it. It might take some practice. But, sometimes, the worthwhile things take time to perfect.
Once you catch on to the art of letting go, you just might feel better.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Looking Inward: Why We're Wary Of What Lies Within.
Perhaps the most difficult task of therapy is the journey inward.
Over the past year I've worked with a young woman, Thea (no real names are used here), who has had, over the years, difficulty with co-workers, tradespeople, and most significantly, with her domestic partner of 12 years.
As we began our work, Thea sat across from me, exasperated with the conduct of the rest of the world. Can you believe the way they treat me....? Thea was frustrated, often angry. Her coworkers failed to see the value of her suggestions for their performance; in fact, they had begun to avoid her in the break room. But, this is all constructive criticism! They should thank me for my insights. With a neutral and curious tone I asked, "Did they ask for your input?" No! They simply don't see what I see. They don't like it when I point out their obvious shortcomings."
Similar frustrations surfaced around the performance of young man who cleaned her house. Thea: I suggested he might clean his other houses in the way I want my house cleaned--and he told me they seemed satisfied with his way. His way is inferior! He is so ungrateful!
The most distressing rift was the one with her partner, Jerry, a software engineer who spent long hours at the office, and was "tired" most of the time at home. Thea: He's tired all the time. I spent an afternoon on the computer researching fatigue and its causes, even printed out an exercise and nutrition regimen guaranteed to improve energy levels. And has he started it? He said "thank you" and the printout is still sitting on the kitchen counter. No matter how I try to help him improve himself, nothing seems to happen. How can he let this happen to me?
A few months into our work together, Thea arrived for her session looking exhausted. Her eyes were red and swollen. She had been up all night, crying. Thea: I try and I try...it seems like no one can see it my way! I want to help, but I'm just ready...to give up. No one appreciates my insights. It's as if...I don't matter. Thea sobbed. When the sobbing subsided, she asked, What is wrong...with me?
And so our real work began. It wasn't so much what was wrong or for that matter, right, with Thea. It was the fact that Thea was willing to look inward.
As much as we would like to change others in our lives, therapy can only affect the person or persons sitting in the room. As much as Thea wanted others to recognize her insights and suggestions, she was the person that they all had in common. She had been getting feedback from them for some time now, and she was not able to take it in.
Only when she began to consider, Is it possible that I am contributing to my own distress in the world? were we able to help her see herself as others saw her. It was only then that Thea and I could begin to explore the messages and values she got as a child--from her parents and others--and how she incorporated those messages into her world view.
Over time, Thea has begun to view the world from other points of view. While it is still frustrating for her that others cannot see things as clearly as she does, she has stopped offering advice--however constructive. And we have been tracking the reactions of those around her.
Looking inward can be scary. But it can also be entertaining and enlightening. It's where we can finally begin to see ourselves as--perhaps--others might see us. It gives us a new perspective from which to navigate our relationships.
Not as lone mariners, but as privileged members of a larger crew.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
On A Personal Note: "The Help," Memories of Pattie And Why You Can't Talk Trash About My Family.
I just finished reading The Help, and I have to say, I'm left feeling a handful of emotions. If you haven't read the book, read it. The film version, while somewhat (necessarily) abbreviated, is also a gem. Go see it.
Living in California, it's not often that I run into anyone who shares my southern roots, much less even a passing understanding of what it was like to grow up in the south of the 1960s. So I felt a wave of familiarity--a dull ache of nostalgia--as the book swept me back to a different time.
There are similarities between the book and my upbringing. And differences, too. But the flavor--the summer heat, the humidity, the southern drawl, the way of describing things--was so accurately recreated on the pages of The Help. It was a time long passed. A time that predated political correctness. The south of my childhood has seen many positive changes since that time. What follows is a memory of what was, as it was.
My family employed a wonderful, powerful black woman by the name of Pattie. Unlike the fictional Phelans, our family was not wealthy, plantation-dwelling or steeped in the deep traditions of Mississippi. We lived in a comfortable, upper middle-class neighborhood in Virginia, where the men worked and most of the women stayed home to raise their families--often with the help of a "colored girl," a decidedly racist term that was likely used more out of ignorance and habit than malice.
To the best of my knowledge, Pattie came to work for my mother when I was two or three. She came five days a week, doing the housecleaning and laundry. My early memories of Pattie were the scents of Niagara Spray Starch and Lucky Strike unfiltereds. I can picture her at the ironing board, Lucky dangling from her lips, humming over a the collar of one of my father's white shirts, delivering a perfect shot of spray starch to the collar. And then, the hiss of the iron as it glided over the cotton, leaving behind its perfect wake of flattened fabric.
Pattie arrived on the 7:55 morning bus. My mom picked her up at the bus stop and Pattie was at work by 8:00 sharp. In the summers, Pattie arrived with bags of fresh produce, usually half-runner beans and white corn, my father's favorites. Sometimes there were beets and squash and heirloom tomatoes. As a child, I never questioned how Pattie got the produce--it just came with her.
What I learned, years later, was that Pattie, in order to get to the morning farmer's market, got up an hour early, took the 6:20 bus, shopped, then changed buses twice to get to our house as usual. I also learned that Mom never asked for this kindness, and always offered to pay Pattie for the vegetables. It was their "dance." Mom would offer, Pattie would say, Put yo money away, Miss Frances, and turn and walk out of the room. Mom would follow, repeat the offer, get the same answer. Then, when she was certain Pattie wasn't looking, Mom would stick a carefully folded five- or ten-dollar bill in Pattie's purse.
Pattie knew it was there. Mom knew it was there. It was how they worked it out.
Along with Pattie's pay each week (I don't have any idea what Pattie was paid), Mom set out a bag containing a carton of Lucky Unfiltereds, a small bag of Brach's butterscotch candies, two ribeye steaks, greens, a 48 oz. bottle of Schlitz beer, and whatever seasonal produce that was at market. It was "Pattie's bag" and Mom make it clear we children were not to touch it. Mom would set it by Pattie's satchel next to the front door just as she prepared to take Pattie home for the day. Sometimes I would ride with them to Pattie's house. In those more racially divided days it was in an area called "colored town," as white--and black--people called the area adjacent to Williamson Road.
In later years, when Pattie was coming only three times, then twice, then once a week--I would drive her home myself.
In later years, when Pattie was coming only three times, then twice, then once a week--I would drive her home myself.
Pattie sat in the front seat with Mom. She sat in the front seat with me. I never remember her talking about her personal life, civil rights, segregation, Martin Luther King or any reference to racial segregation. I know she had opinions. And I know that, after she retired and Mom called or visited her, Pattie shared personal feelings with Mom--and Mom with her. They remained friends until Pattie's death in early 1975.
Kathryn Stockett, author of The Help, explains, in an afterword to the book, about being a southerner in an environment that doesn't understand southerners. I, too, left the south as an adult to work in larger cities in other parts of the country. Here in California I occasionally come across someone who has recently seen a film about the south, changed planes in the Atlanta, Hartsfield airport, or spent a brief time in one of the southern states. After one such brief southern encounter, one particular acquaintance whom I see from time to time, let fly some unflattering comments about how "all southerners are so slow," winking at our dinner companions as if to underscore the unspoken translation: All southerners are so stupid.
Without so much as a hesitation between bites of bean salad from a Berkeley organic grocery I caught her gaze and steelily replied, Careful. You're talking about me, my mom and dad and the rest of my family and by the way just how much time have you spent in the south? Have you ever lived there? Know anyone--personally? And--just, by the way--what if I generalized that way about you and your family. How do you think it would feel?
So, there you have it. To paraphrase Ms. Stockett (and with apologies): With all its faults (and there were and are many) the south is like my family. I'm allowed to complain about her all I want, but God help the person who raises an ill word about her around me, unless she is their family, too.
I'll get off my soapbox now. Thanks for listening.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
On A Personal Note: Glimpses Of Childhood, The Birth Of Self-Esteem And The End Of Summer.
When I was a child, the beginning of summer was just that: a beginning. It was a time of what seemed to be endless possibilities. The countdown to the end of school usually started some time in the middle of May and built to a feverish crescendo that climaxed on or about June 5th, when the last textbooks were stacked in the multipurpose room and we were released into the warm June heat of the Virginia summer.
Early on as a child, I found, to my profound disappointment, that I was a failure on any number of sports courts and fields. Despite endless hours of practice with my naturally athletic cousins, I failed to find either proficiency or personal satisfaction on the baseball diamond, basketball court, or football field--three of the staple neighborhood sports at which boys that age usually excelled.
You can imagine my surprise--and delight--when, at the age of six, I discovered that I could swim! Not only stay afloat, but, with training and determination, I could traverse the length of the pool with enough velocity to compete with--and sometimes beat--my opponents.
It's no wonder that I looked forward to summer so much. I grudgingly suffered through three of the four seasons: football, basketball and baseball. But when the fourth season arrived--swimming--it was my time to shine. Relatively.
For a child who was routinely picked last--or nearly last--for most sports teams, I reveled in my 4th, 3rd, 2nd and the occasional 1st place ribbons I earned each Monday night from June through August. My parents, to their credit, never provided me with either excuses or rationalizations about my wins--or my losses. When I ended a swimming event--all splash and fury--only to find out I had finished an honorable "4th" I wasn't consoled with "You had a bad lane," or "You were swimming with the sun in your eyes," or worse, "The lane judge disqualified you because he doesn't like our team." (And believe it or not, I actually heard parents feeding their kids those lines when I was a swimmer, as well as years later when I was the coach of the team).
In fact, I wasn't really consoled at all. Instead, when I began my own rationalizations, my mom (usually) or dad (sometimes) would hand me a dry towel, look me in the eye and ask calmly: Did you do your best? As difficult as it was to admit that my "best" had only netted me 4th or 5th place, I would soberly reply, Yes. To which my parent(s) would reply, Then you did your best. And, today, in this race, others swam a little better then you did. Next week there will be another race.
Forty-odd years later, I can remember these moments as if they had happened yesterday. I came to look at these as our "no-excuses" moments. Just a realization that my best sometimes wouldn't be as good as somebody else's. And, more importantly, that my best was just fine. Now I suspect there may be some parents out there who will be horrified at my next statement, but here goes: Not only was my best "just fine," 4th, 5th--god forbid last--place was just fine, too. Because I gave it my all.
And, wet and shivering at pool's edge in the early evening chill of a June evening--my self-esteem was born.
Don't get me wrong. Satisfaction with my best didn't mean settling for 4th, 5th or last. It meant pushing myself to whatever personal best I was capable of. And, the summer I turned 14, for a few glorious weeks between our regional meet and state finals, I held the state record for the 50-meter backstroke. There were no parades, no newspaper articles, no celebrations of any kind that I remember. Just the self-satisfaction that, for a handful of days, not only had I finally beaten our city's golden-boy swimmer, Richard Hughes (his real name--sorry Richard) but I had--for just a moment--set the bar for that event. My best, for that brief time, was the best.
I'm not sure what caused that sweet memory from so long ago to surface now. Perhaps it's the fact that it's August and, my sense memory still lingers--August means that summer is winding down. School will be starting soon (in those days we squeezed every drop out of summer, starting school after Labor Day). Perhaps, it's because I see clients often struggle with the competitive nature of jobs--and life--in the Bay Area. Maybe, it's just the fact that, sometimes, the events of the world remind me that this is a time that feels...complicated. And the memories of affirmation--and brief victory--feel simpler, purer, more true.
Now, I'm the first to admit that my memory can be selective, embellished, and optimistic. But, in this instance, the memory of my experience--and the values imparted to me--is pretty much true to the time.
In the Virginia summer of my childhood, this would be the time of summer heat, humid nights, fans blowing cool breezes, lighting bugs at dusk and the winding down of lazy days.
Years later, I still feel late August is a time of anticipation. Of a new beginning. Of a new season. Of things unseen and unknown. And, because of my parents' refusal to rearrange reality to suit my life disappointments, I feel blessedly prepared to meet the unknown. Head-on.
Next week there will be another race.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
And thanks for listening.
Early on as a child, I found, to my profound disappointment, that I was a failure on any number of sports courts and fields. Despite endless hours of practice with my naturally athletic cousins, I failed to find either proficiency or personal satisfaction on the baseball diamond, basketball court, or football field--three of the staple neighborhood sports at which boys that age usually excelled.
You can imagine my surprise--and delight--when, at the age of six, I discovered that I could swim! Not only stay afloat, but, with training and determination, I could traverse the length of the pool with enough velocity to compete with--and sometimes beat--my opponents.
It's no wonder that I looked forward to summer so much. I grudgingly suffered through three of the four seasons: football, basketball and baseball. But when the fourth season arrived--swimming--it was my time to shine. Relatively.
For a child who was routinely picked last--or nearly last--for most sports teams, I reveled in my 4th, 3rd, 2nd and the occasional 1st place ribbons I earned each Monday night from June through August. My parents, to their credit, never provided me with either excuses or rationalizations about my wins--or my losses. When I ended a swimming event--all splash and fury--only to find out I had finished an honorable "4th" I wasn't consoled with "You had a bad lane," or "You were swimming with the sun in your eyes," or worse, "The lane judge disqualified you because he doesn't like our team." (And believe it or not, I actually heard parents feeding their kids those lines when I was a swimmer, as well as years later when I was the coach of the team).
In fact, I wasn't really consoled at all. Instead, when I began my own rationalizations, my mom (usually) or dad (sometimes) would hand me a dry towel, look me in the eye and ask calmly: Did you do your best? As difficult as it was to admit that my "best" had only netted me 4th or 5th place, I would soberly reply, Yes. To which my parent(s) would reply, Then you did your best. And, today, in this race, others swam a little better then you did. Next week there will be another race.
Forty-odd years later, I can remember these moments as if they had happened yesterday. I came to look at these as our "no-excuses" moments. Just a realization that my best sometimes wouldn't be as good as somebody else's. And, more importantly, that my best was just fine. Now I suspect there may be some parents out there who will be horrified at my next statement, but here goes: Not only was my best "just fine," 4th, 5th--god forbid last--place was just fine, too. Because I gave it my all.
And, wet and shivering at pool's edge in the early evening chill of a June evening--my self-esteem was born.
Don't get me wrong. Satisfaction with my best didn't mean settling for 4th, 5th or last. It meant pushing myself to whatever personal best I was capable of. And, the summer I turned 14, for a few glorious weeks between our regional meet and state finals, I held the state record for the 50-meter backstroke. There were no parades, no newspaper articles, no celebrations of any kind that I remember. Just the self-satisfaction that, for a handful of days, not only had I finally beaten our city's golden-boy swimmer, Richard Hughes (his real name--sorry Richard) but I had--for just a moment--set the bar for that event. My best, for that brief time, was the best.
I'm not sure what caused that sweet memory from so long ago to surface now. Perhaps it's the fact that it's August and, my sense memory still lingers--August means that summer is winding down. School will be starting soon (in those days we squeezed every drop out of summer, starting school after Labor Day). Perhaps, it's because I see clients often struggle with the competitive nature of jobs--and life--in the Bay Area. Maybe, it's just the fact that, sometimes, the events of the world remind me that this is a time that feels...complicated. And the memories of affirmation--and brief victory--feel simpler, purer, more true.
Now, I'm the first to admit that my memory can be selective, embellished, and optimistic. But, in this instance, the memory of my experience--and the values imparted to me--is pretty much true to the time.
In the Virginia summer of my childhood, this would be the time of summer heat, humid nights, fans blowing cool breezes, lighting bugs at dusk and the winding down of lazy days.
Years later, I still feel late August is a time of anticipation. Of a new beginning. Of a new season. Of things unseen and unknown. And, because of my parents' refusal to rearrange reality to suit my life disappointments, I feel blessedly prepared to meet the unknown. Head-on.
Next week there will be another race.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
And thanks for listening.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Gaining Perspective And Getting Out Of Your Head or, The Rx For Depression: Volunteer.
Because I'm not a physician, I can't, of course, prescribe medication. However, I have found, in both a personal and professional realm, that a powerful tool in treating depression is participating in volunteer activity. It can be as simple as serving at a soup kitchen, reading to the elderly, assisting teachers in the school setting, distributing magazines and flowers at a hospital...and the list goes on.
The difficulty when you're depressed, however, can be inertia.
Making that first phone call can be monumental hurdle. And, yet, clients (and friends) report that once the call is made and they overcame their first discomfort with a new challenge, they felt something they had not felt in some time: they were needed. They mattered. They had a contribution to make.
I've related in a previous blog my path to becoming a therapist. Looking back, I'm not certain I was clinically depressed, but I was feeling despondent about my career in advertising. I didn't have a someone special in my life. And I was outside of the US, geographically far away from people I loved. Consequently, I was working hard to "figure out" my life. I was spending alot of time in my head, sometimes spinning in details of my life journey to date: my choices, my talents and shortcomings, my relationships and my loneliness. A friend (who probably was tiring of my constant self-examination) suggested volunteering. Her rationale was sound: You have the time, you're good with people, and the worst that can happen is that they can fire you. So you wouldn't be any worse off than you are now, right?
The first step in that journey was becoming a volunteer at the palliative care ward in a local hospital. The training was great and the experience even greater.
If I had to boil the benefit down to one word it would be: perspective.
When we're trapped in our own heads with our own thoughts, the perspective is short, narrow and limited. When we can interact with others on a personal basis, forgetting for a moment our world and its limitations, we're free to develop an amazing quality: empathy.
The folks at Merriam-Webster define empathy as the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another... When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. It would seem almost impossible to be able to "understand, " "be aware," and "vicariously experience" another's world if we're trapped in our own world view.
Interestingly, the same folks at Merriam-Webster have the following to say about "depression:" ...a disorder marked especially by sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and concentration,...feelings of dejection and hopelessness.... My clients often use words like "stuck" and "spinning in my own stuff."
When a task, service or responsibility becomes about anything but you, your perspective is forced to change--just for a time. But change it must. That's when you "leave your head" and concentrate on the needs of others. It can be a freeing change of scenery.
I remember, several years ago, when my father's best friend, Ron, retired from a lucrative career that was a major part of his life for more than 40 years. After retiring, he became grumpy, withdrawn and generally difficult to be around. His wife, in an effort to simply get him out of the house, insisted he volunteer--anywhere. Reluctantly, Ron volunteered at a local after-school program teaching six-year-olds to read.
It makes for an interesting image. Picture a six-foot-four, 200 pound bear of a man sitting in a tiny little chair, at a tiny little table, holding a tiny little book in front of...yes, a tiny little six-year-old. As the kids learned to read, Ron began to have purpose again. He began to engage others, to laugh, to talk with pride about "his kids," the ones he was teaching to read. His sense of humor returned. He not only became a favorite of the kids, but his long-time friends were glad to have the old Ron back.
Was Ron depressed? I couldn't say. But, when he went from being in charge of a company to having no business influence, he certainly seemed to have lost purpose. It took a six-year-old to bring that back. He went from being "stuck" in his own head to being relevant. And needed.
Will volunteering cure your depression? "Cure" is asking alot. But could it help? My personal and professional experiences say that it certainly won't hurt. And, if things are looking particularly bleak, how can you argue with a change of scenery?
Until later, thanks for listening.
The difficulty when you're depressed, however, can be inertia.
Making that first phone call can be monumental hurdle. And, yet, clients (and friends) report that once the call is made and they overcame their first discomfort with a new challenge, they felt something they had not felt in some time: they were needed. They mattered. They had a contribution to make.
I've related in a previous blog my path to becoming a therapist. Looking back, I'm not certain I was clinically depressed, but I was feeling despondent about my career in advertising. I didn't have a someone special in my life. And I was outside of the US, geographically far away from people I loved. Consequently, I was working hard to "figure out" my life. I was spending alot of time in my head, sometimes spinning in details of my life journey to date: my choices, my talents and shortcomings, my relationships and my loneliness. A friend (who probably was tiring of my constant self-examination) suggested volunteering. Her rationale was sound: You have the time, you're good with people, and the worst that can happen is that they can fire you. So you wouldn't be any worse off than you are now, right?
The first step in that journey was becoming a volunteer at the palliative care ward in a local hospital. The training was great and the experience even greater.
If I had to boil the benefit down to one word it would be: perspective.
When we're trapped in our own heads with our own thoughts, the perspective is short, narrow and limited. When we can interact with others on a personal basis, forgetting for a moment our world and its limitations, we're free to develop an amazing quality: empathy.
The folks at Merriam-Webster define empathy as the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another... When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. It would seem almost impossible to be able to "understand, " "be aware," and "vicariously experience" another's world if we're trapped in our own world view.
Interestingly, the same folks at Merriam-Webster have the following to say about "depression:" ...a disorder marked especially by sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and concentration,...feelings of dejection and hopelessness.... My clients often use words like "stuck" and "spinning in my own stuff."
When a task, service or responsibility becomes about anything but you, your perspective is forced to change--just for a time. But change it must. That's when you "leave your head" and concentrate on the needs of others. It can be a freeing change of scenery.
I remember, several years ago, when my father's best friend, Ron, retired from a lucrative career that was a major part of his life for more than 40 years. After retiring, he became grumpy, withdrawn and generally difficult to be around. His wife, in an effort to simply get him out of the house, insisted he volunteer--anywhere. Reluctantly, Ron volunteered at a local after-school program teaching six-year-olds to read.
It makes for an interesting image. Picture a six-foot-four, 200 pound bear of a man sitting in a tiny little chair, at a tiny little table, holding a tiny little book in front of...yes, a tiny little six-year-old. As the kids learned to read, Ron began to have purpose again. He began to engage others, to laugh, to talk with pride about "his kids," the ones he was teaching to read. His sense of humor returned. He not only became a favorite of the kids, but his long-time friends were glad to have the old Ron back.
Was Ron depressed? I couldn't say. But, when he went from being in charge of a company to having no business influence, he certainly seemed to have lost purpose. It took a six-year-old to bring that back. He went from being "stuck" in his own head to being relevant. And needed.
Will volunteering cure your depression? "Cure" is asking alot. But could it help? My personal and professional experiences say that it certainly won't hurt. And, if things are looking particularly bleak, how can you argue with a change of scenery?
Until later, thanks for listening.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
It's All About You--Part II: Keeping Healthy Boundaries.
Last time, I shared my thoughts on the therapist's self-disclosure in session, and why I feel the focus should always remain on you--the client. In this post, we'll look at the nature of the professional client-therapist relationship, and a few ways to maintain healthy boundaries.
Our relationship is professional. Personal details can blur the lines.
I genuinely care about my clients and their well-being. I'm honored that they choose to share personal and intimate details about their lives. I hope my clients can feel my compassion for their difficulties and my satisfaction in their therapeutic accomplishments. However, despite the caring nature of the relationship, it is first, foremost and always a professional one.
For example, I can feel great satisfaction for a client who has worked to improve interpersonal skills in order to secure a job, and in session, I will congratulate this client for his success. However, I choose not to send cards, make congratulatory calls, and won't--under any circumstances-- go out to dinner to celebrate.
My relationship with you as a client will never be a social one. We meet in a professional setting, and maintain professional boundaries. Because of confidentiality, if we happen to pass each other on the street, I will not acknowledge you unless you have given me explicit permission to do so in advance. If you think about it, if you're with other people and I say, "Hello," the natural question can arise: So, how do you know each other? Ethically, I cannot tell anyone that you are my client, and this conversation puts you in the potentially awkward position of having to disclose that you are in therapy. It may seem cold, but it's an ethical boundary that has served my clients well.
So, what do I disclose to my clients in session?
Again, for me, the acid test is, what is in the best interest of my client? For example, I have worked with many clients over the years who have lost one or both of their aged parents. At times, I have felt it appropriate to share--briefly--about the loss of my parents in order to to show empathy for my client's grieving process. Again, it's not about getting my clients to take care of my grief--it's about showing empathy for theirs.
I don't have an "approved list" of self-disclosures. It usually happens in the moment, is brief, pointed, and designed to benefit the client in the moment. If I'm not sure it's in your best interest to share, I pass.
Does this mean if your therapist discloses more or less than I do that it's "wrong?" By no means. As I said at the beginning, therapist disclosure in therapy is a very individual thing. However, if you feel that your therapist is spending more time talking than listening, and you don't feel like the hour is yours, you might want to address it.
Years ago, before I'd ever been in a therapy session, a friend was describing her therapy to me: I go once a week. My therapist is totally focused on what I have to say, never makes it about herself, and doesn't make me feel bad when I admit my mistakes. She's genuinely interested in what I choose to talk about, but gets me back on track when I ramble. It's the one hour a week where I feel like what I have to say really matters. I feel heard.
Feeling heard. In therapy, it can only really happen when one person does most of the talking--you.
Thanks for listening. (I feel heard.)
Our relationship is professional. Personal details can blur the lines.
I genuinely care about my clients and their well-being. I'm honored that they choose to share personal and intimate details about their lives. I hope my clients can feel my compassion for their difficulties and my satisfaction in their therapeutic accomplishments. However, despite the caring nature of the relationship, it is first, foremost and always a professional one.
For example, I can feel great satisfaction for a client who has worked to improve interpersonal skills in order to secure a job, and in session, I will congratulate this client for his success. However, I choose not to send cards, make congratulatory calls, and won't--under any circumstances-- go out to dinner to celebrate.
My relationship with you as a client will never be a social one. We meet in a professional setting, and maintain professional boundaries. Because of confidentiality, if we happen to pass each other on the street, I will not acknowledge you unless you have given me explicit permission to do so in advance. If you think about it, if you're with other people and I say, "Hello," the natural question can arise: So, how do you know each other? Ethically, I cannot tell anyone that you are my client, and this conversation puts you in the potentially awkward position of having to disclose that you are in therapy. It may seem cold, but it's an ethical boundary that has served my clients well.
So, what do I disclose to my clients in session?
Again, for me, the acid test is, what is in the best interest of my client? For example, I have worked with many clients over the years who have lost one or both of their aged parents. At times, I have felt it appropriate to share--briefly--about the loss of my parents in order to to show empathy for my client's grieving process. Again, it's not about getting my clients to take care of my grief--it's about showing empathy for theirs.
I don't have an "approved list" of self-disclosures. It usually happens in the moment, is brief, pointed, and designed to benefit the client in the moment. If I'm not sure it's in your best interest to share, I pass.
Does this mean if your therapist discloses more or less than I do that it's "wrong?" By no means. As I said at the beginning, therapist disclosure in therapy is a very individual thing. However, if you feel that your therapist is spending more time talking than listening, and you don't feel like the hour is yours, you might want to address it.
Years ago, before I'd ever been in a therapy session, a friend was describing her therapy to me: I go once a week. My therapist is totally focused on what I have to say, never makes it about herself, and doesn't make me feel bad when I admit my mistakes. She's genuinely interested in what I choose to talk about, but gets me back on track when I ramble. It's the one hour a week where I feel like what I have to say really matters. I feel heard.
Feeling heard. In therapy, it can only really happen when one person does most of the talking--you.
Thanks for listening. (I feel heard.)
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