I left work yesterday evening on edge.
I am still learning the level of concern for my clients that is appropriate-- that is: how to take enough responsibility over my work and the people I help, while not so terribly concerned that I don't properly care for myself. Needless to say, I closed my office door feeling quite accompanied a) by the family that followed me out of my office and b) by the heartache of their current crisis and the imminence of the next one. All I could do was text my friend when I sat down in my car and say, "our jobs are so intense." Pretty basic statement. But it's all that squeaked out of me and sometimes I have to share.
I drove home feeling altogether giddy and tragic- tired out by the day, but tugged by the gratification I feel at work in the midst of the chaos. To that end, sometimes I think that I am such a believer in the therapeutic process because it can provide just that-- a bit of peace, or comfort, or sense (i.e. a moment where you feel loved & affirmed ) in between the chaos (i.e. life). Sometimes its overwhelmingly hopeful, sometimes it allows you to hang on. Either way, it's enough. In this, therapy looks so different for everyone. There are many models that I learned in school-- helpful, well researched, well established, effective models. Sometimes (few times), I ask a question of a client and think, "I just did x y and z." Most of the time, I trust that the knowledge I have is in me enough that I can rely on my intuition and go.
This time (yesterday), therapy looked like this:
Client walks in my door, wide-eyed. Looking terrified. My heart breaks for her. I give her an ugly purple stuffed animal. She looks at me inquisitively. I tell her I know it is pretty ugly, but it is so soft, I promise. She looks at me like I'm weird but holds it tightly. I ask her if she wants to talk about all the stuff we both know is going on. She shrugs. I turn on some quiet music. It's really quiet. She pulls out a pack of MnM's she has in her pocket. I tell her I don't like the blue ones. She says she doesn't either. She tells me (for about thirty seconds) why she is so scared. Then she looks even more scared that she just told me. I tell her she doesn't have to say anything more. Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet. I ask her if I can give her a hug. We hug. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. Almost like someone is saying, shhhh, shhh, shhhh.
She asks me what my favorite movie is. I tell her Pride and Prejudice. She looks at me funny (for like the tenth time). I tell her I like books. Then she asks me my favorite book. I tell her. Now we are playing the favorites game. (Favorite song, favorite TV show, favorite color...you know how it goes). Then it's quiet for a long time again. She eats her MnM's and sits and cries. I tell her I am so sorry and that I am here.
The end.
Who would have thought? Mnm's and the purple furry thing in my office corner. And silent hushes. Therapy? Still trying to figure it out.
