Stitching

(or How Do You Mend a Broken Heart?)

Whenever I need to engage in some emotional self-flagellation, I know exactly where to go.  The ex-therapist still maintains a very active Twitter feed, and if I am stupid enough to look, I am bound to find something there that upsets me and makes me feel bad about myself.  I had stopped lurking altogether, for a time, but as the seasons started to shift and the cooler weather finally arrived, my psyche felt pulled back, still trying to reconcile the events of the past year.  A year ago she first told me she was sick.  In a few more weeks, it will be a year since our last session.  And in a few more weeks after that, it will be a year since she dumped me.  I can still feel it all deep in my bones: the fear, the disruption, the panic.

The ex-therapist has tweeted ad nauseam about how clients have “agency” and don’t have to read or follow any of her postings online.  I find this defense to be ignorant at best, and grandiosely self-justifying in reality.  She probably knows that she should be more careful with her tweets and words, knowing that there are clients and ex-clients out there, but she just can’t help herself.  So she constructs this elaborate justification for her actions, to make it all seem reasonable and okay.  The problem with this outlook is that the relationship between therapist and client can be intimate and intense in a way that is unlike any other relationship.  It’s also imbalanced, with the therapist usually knowing more about the client than vice versa.  So it is only natural that the client will seek out any information available to try to make sense of the person on the other side of the couch.  And the ex-therapist made that information so tantalizingly available, like leading a kid into a candy store.  It is irrational to then expect the kid to not indulge in the candy laid out before them.

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On the Run

(or Left, Right, Left, Right…)

Once upon a time, I fancied myself to be a runner.  Before I had kids, I used to run regularly and it was my exercise of choice.  I preferred running outside, but probably did most of my runs on a treadmill at the gym at work because it was convenient and appealed to my statistics-oriented brain.  I could monitor and track time, distance, speed, calories, all right on the treadmill console.  I kept a running log in a spreadsheet (of course!), charting my progress to run longer and faster and tracking when it was time to buy new running shoes.

I really started running seriously when we lost the baby.  I poured most of my grief onto the treadmill as running felt like something I could actually control.  I could control the speed of the treadmill or how far I wanted to run each day.  I got lost in tracking the numbers and statistics and could therefore avoid dealing with the overwhelming grief I experienced inside but wasn’t able to process.  I loved getting lost in my own head for a while, far away from the torturous real-world.

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Go to Quiet Places

(or This is NOT a “My Therapist Has Cancer” Blog )

Whenever I get really angry or upset or sad or confused, my default mode is to go quiet, to be very silent and still.  Sometimes when this happens, my FitBit will actually register that I am “sleeping” even though I am wide awake and most likely on heightened alert.  I think I go into this state because I’m scared to move until I can regain my footing, get my bearings and figure out what is going on around me.  And only once that happens do I dare to speak into what I am experiencing and venture out from whatever place of safety I’ve retreated.

And so I think that’s what has happened with this space over the past few months.  It’s not that I’ve struggled for ideas of what I wanted or needed to write about – I’ve been wrestling with thoughts on boundaries and closure and growth, but also on what I wanted and needed this space to be.  When I started to write this, I never could have imagined that it would become a blog about having a therapist with cancer.  And I’ve felt over the past few months that this space has become more about her and less about me, and I wanted to take it back and reclaim it as my own, but was unsure of exactly how to do that.  I tried to map out a plan of the things that I still needed to say, in what order, to resolve that part of the story.  But I’m starting to realize that it will never be a fully realized and complete story.  There will always be an oozing wound, although it doesn’t bleed nearly as much as it once did.  And I’m sure it will rear its ugly head every now and again, maybe when I least expect it, and that I will just need to stop and address whatever is rising to my consciousness, even if it doesn’t fit neatly into my current trajectory.  I’m never sure where this journey will take me or the detours that will arise.  But this is my attempt to get back on the path, and continue onwards.

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Train Wreck

(or Next Stop: Purple Lake at Love Hall)

I started writing this post several weeks ago and then got distracted by life.  So much so that I had forgotten all about it.  So when I starting writing again and went to save my first draft, not surprisingly using the exact same document name as before, I was startled to get the pop-up warning “The file already exists.”  Really?  It does?  Clearly this is something that my psyche needs to set down.

There’s really no other way to describe it.  The past few months have been a spectacularly catastrophic train wreck.  I wish I could take credit for this adept analogy, but I didn’t come up with it.  Rather it was given to me by one of the therapists whom I consulted with at the beginning of the year.  Despite the multitude of red flags that went up before, during and after our meeting, she did leave me with this one nugget that I’ve turned over in my head many, many times.

My therapist’s life went careening off the rails last fall, and so much damage was left in the wake of that unforeseen disaster.  Every person connected to her was impacted.  The scene of the crash was quite horrific.  The train meant to safely ferry us from here to there, to a destination, was suddenly lying on its side, irrevocably damaged and unable to continue the journey.

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The Plan

(or How to Call a Minga)

I have something I want to say to all the therapists out there, novice and experienced alike.  Perhaps this message will fall on deaf ears and go unheeded, much less unread.  But I still feel the need to put it out there, just in case someone is listening.

So here’s the thing: you have to have a plan.

I know it’s easier to think that you are the omnipotent being you undoubtedly project onto your clients. But I’m here to remind you that you are not.  And that while you may try to promise your clients (and probably yourself) that “you’re not going anywhere,” life happens and you need a plan for when it all goes careening off the rails.  You are not immune just because you are a therapist.  And I would argue that you have a responsibility, a moral and ethical imperative set higher than many other professions, because of the work that you choose to do.  If this seems like too much to reconcile, I would ask that you give serious thought to your current career path.

I’m not saying that this will be easy (it won’t) or pleasant (it won’t) but it must be done.  Make a plan.  Not a theoretical hypothetical plan.  An actual plan based on real-world scenarios.  What happens if you get sick?  What if the illness forces you to go on short-term disability?  Long-term disability?  What if you need to retire (for whatever reason)?  What if you burnout?  What if your kids get sick or your parents need care?  What happens if you die?  Immediately or after a long illness?

Then what?  You have to think about this.

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First Impressions

(or I’m in Therapist Limbo)

Over the last few weeks I’ve been therapist shopping – never an easy or pleasant task.  Many of the therapists I’ve seen have no online presence at all – no website or Psychology Today profile, certainly not a blog or Twitter feed.  So I go into each appointment blind, not sure of what I am going to find, having to rely just on faith of the referrer who provided the name and contact details.  Suffice to say that connection has been elusive.  This is a hard enough task under normal circumstances, made even harder by my particular circumstances.

You see, I don’t even know if I want to be in therapy right now, as much as I might need it.  One therapist remarked to me that I have to find the will to be in therapy, that she couldn’t provide the will for the both of us.  Fair enough – but truthfully I don’t know that I have the will or energy to start this process over again.  I thought I had found the right therapist for me.  I didn’t think I would ever have to start back at the beginning.  I never thought I’d find myself sitting in strange offices across from complete strangers, re-telling my sad little tale.  I thought that part of the therapeutic journey was long behind me.

And although I always feared it, I never fully considered the possibility that my therapist (or I should say ex-therapist?), with whom I had connected and bonded and attached to, would become so ill as to not be able to work anymore or, worse, circumstances would so dramatically change as to preclude us from continuing our work together.

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Lost

(or My Therapist Broke Up With Me Via Email)

After 263 sessions, it all ends with an email.

I guess I got my wish after all, my worst fears realized.  I also got the answer to my question: “Can a therapeutic alliance survive cancer?”  Apparently, no.

I think the fairest and most responsible thing I can do is entrust you into the hands of a therapist who has the capacity to supply an appropriate level of care for you. 

This is going to take too long, it’s simply not fair to you, and ultimately even if/when I do “come back” I won’t be able to give you the frequency or regularity of care you deserve. 

I know this email was written from a place of love, but it was actually quite a cruel message to have to read, and process, all alone.  There was a crassness in her tone, her usual supportive empathic voice missing (not necessarily in the above passages, but in the email as a whole).  In the end, it felt like a kindly worded “fuck off,” but a fuck-off nonetheless.

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