Autumn.

[Preface: Before I get complaints, I want you to know that I recognize the fragmented nature of my blog entries. This entry you are about to encounter, for example, does not connect or build upon the last in the slightest. This is somewhat disconcerting to me as I like being organized and succinct about things, but I’ve decided that my experience of life is, only when standing far from it and analyzing after the fact, organized and succinct. If, however, you follow me more closely you’ll see that I seem to have multiple layers of experience all happening at the same time, and I move between them like themed floors on a tall building (i.e. today I’m on the 6^th floor: “Bangladesh,” but now I’m on the 13^th floor: “middle school boy drama,” etc.). Since the primary objective of this blog is my personal satisfaction (in fantastic contrast to my classes, research papers, and therapy sessions) I shall just do as I fancy. So, with no further ado, I present you: Autumn.]

The weather has taken its first serious turn to autumn just yesterday with a distinctive chill in the air. There is also this particular scent that assures you this is no misleading summer “cold front,” but without a doubt the beginning of a new season.

There will doubtless still be many warm days (as Christmas day often likes to enjoy a good laugh at us all in our red sweaters by suddenly upping the atmospheric thermostat to 85 degrees), but summer, in all its radiant glory, is most definitely done. It is time for the leaves to fall in earnest, for the smell of firewood, and the daily struggle to get out of my now delisciously warm and comfortable bed in the morning.

All of these thoughts seem so brilliantly cheerful, and yet, even before I cognitively registered the seasonal transformation taking hold, a sadness crept over me which seems so out of place that I can’t help but wonder at it. It is like I am remembering something painful, but no memories come to mind. Did something sad happen to me in the fall once that a psychodynamic therapist could pull from my subconscious? Or is my sun-addicted physiology starting a preemptive strike with the foreknowledge of the waning sunlight?

Neither seem to fit.

To be honest, it feels more like missing someone, but I don’t know who. Do you know what I mean? Something about the chill and the deep scent – the penetrating goodness of it – draw me toward… home. Yes. Home. A home it seems I do not know. Or perhaps it is all those beautiful moments when I’ve felt the most “home;” the joy, the deep rightness it, unwilling to be possessed, but only accepted as it chooses to come in soft waves.

Yes. That feels right.

I miss home.

The Emptiness.

[Preface: There is nothing new under the sun, and this blog entry is certainly no exception to the rule.]

I've been staring at the emptiness all afternoon. It started creeping in a couple of weeks ago. I could see it out of the corner of my vision as I went about my business. I found myself walking faster, barricading myself with work and friends to avoid it getting too near. I did a superb job of it, if I don't say so myself.

Until this afternoon.

This afternoon I came home to my silent house after visiting friends this weekend, and even before I opened the door I knew, I knew I would walk into it if I didn't take quick action to avoid it.

I pondered this for a moment on my doorstep before giving up the chase. You can't run forever, Emily. I walked in, and there it was, as expected. I allowed myself to be engulfed by the questions and the pain... the pain was there just like I had never left it. It feels like a large empty room with no exit, and no direction. An emptiness. And in this emptiness the questions spin and rack my spirit, there is nothing between them and me in the emptiness; no protective layer of preoccupation or busy-ness. Then just as suddenly as the questions started, they came to a halting stop. Does any of it matter, Emily?

I stopped crying and leaned into this question. It expanded in the emptiness. This question which has so many answers; so many solid answers I have experienced and given others... but suddenly it is new, urgent, and unresolved again. Ihave to know.

I've realized the pain isn't the problem, as I thought it would be. I can handle the pain. I've surely given myself much too much credit for being able to handle the pain. And I've been so sure that it matters. Something about sitting in this darkness at times feels keenly purposeful; it seems to change me. But then what do I have to show for the supposed "change." I wonder now, is all just wishful thinking?

So that is my question. Are the questions and pain and fighting through it all... does it matter? Does it make any difference? Will it make any difference? As I recognize the "predestination" philosophy behind these approaches, I shake it off and look squarely at myself: "Emily, are you going to make it purposeful or not?" Then, hot indignation rising within me, I turn back on myself "ME? How can I know? Can I infuse purpose?" Then I stop. I turn to God.

You tell me. I wait.

Please, I need you to tell me again. And I'm still waiting.

Co-Therapy

A second year student (a male) and I have some couples that we see as a team. We call this "co-therapy." Co-therapy is cool for many reasons, but can be problematic when the therapists have very different theoretical approaches. Like say one therapist is a "solution-focused" therapist, while the other is an "emotionally-focused" therapist.

Guess which one of us is which (if you are feeling unsure, remember, my co-therapist is of the male gender).

Though we have a great deal of respect for each other and each other's styles, sometimes (like a few hours ago when we stepped out in the middle of a session) we have conversations like this:
Co: "Emily, you really make people aware of their emotional vulnerabilities."
Me: "Thank you."
Co: "No, I mean, really fast, really early in the process."
Me: "Thank you so much."
Co: "Emily, this is not a compliment."
Me: "Oh, I think it is. You know, I'm sensing some anxiety from you right now, are you feeling hurt?"
Co: "No, I'm not feeling hurt, I'm feeling pissed off."
Me: "You know, anger is a secondary emotion, it is always covering up something... like hurt."
Co: "Shut up."
Me: "Just let it all out, don't be afraid."

the weakness

I've heard this snippit of a verse a lot lately that I had never noticed before “You desire truth in the inner parts..." (psalm 51). I've been thinking about it. And perhaps it is only part the power of the verse, and more so how it has interacted with my particular moment in life that speaks to me. I have learned this theoretical approach to counseling which (put simply) posits that we all have disparate parts of our minds, personalities if you will, and that in loving and integrating these we find health and wholeness.

So with this theory in my repertoire and this verse to spur me on I've been consciously trying to do this lately. Consciously try to see, hear, respect, and integrate all the parts of me. At first it was easy. I mean, I have some pretty fun parts. I have a dramatic part, an adventurous part, an intellectual philosopher. I have a deeply empathetic part who can take on the pain of the world. All these I embrace with open arms. “Yes please come and stay with me! Speak to me from your wisdom and I will venture forth!” I love these parts. But in this process I discover others hanging out in my inner homestead. Scared and vulnerable parts, hopeless parts, helpless, whiny, and – the most loathed – a needy part. I have a needy part who speaks to me of my inability to function on my own, my inability to overcome circumstances, and of the uncertainty of my future.

What can I do with these?? I don't want them living with me! I don't want to hear their incompetent voices crying for help. I want them out. Or, at least locked away in the basement so I don't have to listen to them. But, says my theory, therein lies the problem. The more I attempt to silence these parts, the more desperate they become. The more my inner world begins to show the tension that comes of “keeping up appearances.”

So, I've been trying to invite them back in. Trying to show them a place at the table. Trying to give them space to tell me what it is they need so badly. But still I can not contain my disgust. I am like a child whose mother forces her to invite the unpopular kid to her birthday party. It's written all over my face even as I show them to their seats, “You aren't really welcome here, I'm too good for you.” So they sit with their heads down, afraid to speak lest they be exiled again. And pity begins to grow in me. Shadows of other teachings come to my mind about God using the weak things to shame the wise.... of God loving our weakness.

Yet I am afraid. I am afraid if I embrace them that they will overwhelm and control me. But evidently, from what I know of this psychological theory, and from spiritual teachings, as long as I cannot accept the weakness in myself, as long as I despise it and only offer it a seat out of forced politeness; I also can not truly love and accept the weak ones of this world. In the measure that I disown myself, hate myself, I also hate them. I must love my brother, even as I love myself, or truly, I do not love either.

And as of this moment this is where I sit. I have called them out of the basement and made a place for them, but I cannot yet look in their eyes and call them mine... I cannot yet love my weakness, because I am afraid of who I will be if I do. If I love weakness will I be weak and incompetent? And isn't this what so many treacherous leaders have done? Didn't Hitler say, “You must get rid of the weak and the lame or we will be weak”? But Jesus said, “bring them to me.” Jesus said he wanted them in his Kingdom first. “But Jesus,” I argue “you can't mean the kind of weakness I'm talking about, you could never love my needy part, she is so ridiculous, no one could stand to be in her presence for long.”

And I want to hear him answer - yes, I long to know he says, “Oh how I love her Emily, oh how I love all of you.” But I can't yet. I can't.

A Confession.

Something has happened to me. I did not mean for this to happen. I did not choose this… it seems to have taken place below my line of vision, and I admit, I don’t know what to do with it. Something has intruded upon my life that was just beginning to feel stable again.

Against my better judgment and all expectation, a new faith is growing in me. My only explanation is that the seed must have been planted in my sleep for had I been awake I would never have allowed it. My breath was taken when I noticed the tiny green leaves pushing through the soil. I crouched close to the earth and stared, mouth agape. A sapling of trust. I did not make it, I did not build it, I did not toil or fight for it… and to my complete surprise the anger that would grab my hoe and rip it from the ground is no where to be found. I stand in silent, terrified joy. What does this mean?

I don’t know it’s future, but I have a shadowy vision of an ancient redwood; one whose roots reach deep, deep into the earth; whose leaves see all, catch the rain and take in all the sun has to offer, transforming it into life.

So, I know this is a bit awkward, but, hello Faith. I wasn’t expecting you, but you are welcome to stay.

So it begins... I'm going to therapy, double time.

I wrote this blog back in February and never published it for some reason. It does lack some polishing, but glancing back at it now, I thought it might be nice for all of you to know a little about my my "pre-therapy" mindset. Now someday when I am a famous therapist publishing her 10th book and working wonders, you can say "I remember when Dr. Savage almost threw up in supervision because she was so scared." Enjoy.

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After a little over a semester of classes I'm being thrown into the fire. I've already begun some clinical work, but next week I will probably see my very first, bonafide (get ready for it): client. This means that some unwitting individual will soon be sitting across from me in a small room, telling me their personal problems, and saying, in effect, "so what do I do Doc?"

This prospect is at times exhiliriating to me, but as the day for the dream to become a reality has neared it has become more often verging on terrifying, and lately, it has taken a turn to grievious.

I have begun meeting with a supervisor (who is there to make sure the other interns and I don't do any serious damage to these poor souls coming to us for help) and both of my sessions with her are shared with other interns who have already been working with clients for a while. This means that currently the vast majority of the our time is spent on them talking about their most difficult cases. Yesterday when we met the cases discussed were particularly horrific (details aside, childhood abuse was the centerpeice), and we actually watched a video of one client describing in a therapy session what they had been through. I'll grant that I was having a low day anyway, but my emotional reaction snuck up on me. One moment I was calmly discussing theory and treatment practicallities and the next I was on the verge of weeping and throwing up. I felt certain that were I in the room with that client I could have kept my emotions from taking over in their presence, but I wondered how on earth I could deal with it once I left. On top of an imperfect personal life, how can I ever expect myself to be able to deal with other people's darkness as well as my own?

Barely holding it together, before I left the session I asked my supervisor if she went to much therapy herself to deal with it all, expecting her to say something like "this was difficult today wasn't it?" But instead heard:

"No. You know... I go home everyday to a really supportive husband, and that basically keeps me from needing other help."

"Brilliant. So, does being single mean I'll always need professional help then?"

I didn't say that. This was in fact the last straw for me that day, so I left and I found myself an empty therapy room in the clinic to do a little self-of-the-therapist work (thank God they keep tissues in those rooms) before pulling myself together and heading home... where I told my best friend about my day and went to pieces all over again, after which, I felt much better.

Then, as though Lean on Me had begun playing in my head, I remembered that I have friends. Supportive friends who will help carry me through this... but on the other hand (I thought), "this" isn't a random activity, this is the job I'm signing up for. Like everyday for the rest of my life.

I've had many conversations with a friend of mine who just recently started off in social work. She tells me how rewarding it all is, but how draining. How she feels like if one thing goes wrong she can't cope.

The truly ironic thing in all of this is that I am actually required to go to 6hrs of therapy for my training, but I have yet to contact my therapist. I guess this is my cue.

This is how I feel today. And this is only one day, but, be it only a day, it matters.

Besides my school and clinical work I find myself spending much of my time grieving that I am still a passive cog in the machine that continues the suffering of the majority of the world's population. My life costs them, and I let it. It's so hard to change.

I'm not sure how this connects to anything I've just said, but if you have a few minutes listen to this song. Listen to every word.

Equally Skilled

Carrying Their Hearts: My Dissociative Identity Disorder

I promised myself that the next blog entry I wrote was going to be some funny, meaningless anecdote from my life to lighten the mood out here. Lucky for me I didn't make that promise public.

As I do many days, I woke up this morning feeling sad and anxious, weighed down. It reminded me of the nights I used to spend in Bangladesh, pacing back and forth on the roof, looking up at the mango tree and listening to the unceasing rickshaw bells, asking them for answers; hoping they'd somehow help me make sense of it all.

I've realized lately - since beginning to study the various psychological disorders in earnest - that I may have dissociative identity disorder (you may remember it's prior name: "multiple personality disorder"; think "Sybil"). Everyone tells you when you start learning this stuff that you will start to get paranoid feelings that you have all kinds of pathology, but I'm pretty sure this isn't a figment of my anxious imagination.

Listen to this, straight from our diagnostic manual: "The essential feature of Dissociate Identity Disorder is the presence of two or more distinct identities or personality states that recurrently take control of behavior" (DSM-IV-TR, p. 526). Granted I don't display the other criterion (i.e. being unable to remember spans of time where one personality has taken over), but for this "essential feature" I may fit the bill.

And here's why.

I will be going about my day as usual, with my mental list of things to do carrying me from one activity to the next, and suddenly, for a moment, I won't be me. I'll be the single mother who can't feed her kids; the child sold into sexual slavery; the disabled, disfigured man lying on the side of the road in Bangladesh; Rina.

Increasingly it seems I carry these eyes, ears, and hearts around with me as I travel through each day. I am in the middle of a seminar, or a movie, or conversation with a friend about where we should go to lunch and suddenly someone else will step in my skin. Most often it is Rina as I make my way down the side walk. I can feel her awe at the unbroken pavement, the huge homes (all of ours would be in her eyes), and immaculate landscaping.

I look through the various eyes of these brothers and sisters of mine as I rush from place to place and do all the things that seem so important to my everyday life, and as I do I feel certain that they would be overwhelmed by the senselessness of it. I feel their staggering disbelief as they try to get their minds to accept the simultaneous reality of their worlds and mine. I feel their confusion and helplessness. It's like they are fighting desperately to survive the earthquakes while we keep adding garages onto our sandcastles.

I listened to someone talk about putting things in God's hands in chapel last week, and as has become a normal dramatic practice of mine, I started to weep. You see, I was the child in slavery, hearing someone tell me I should just trust God. "What on earth could that possibly mean??" I wondered, "what should I trust God to do?" Then I heard the real voice of my friend ask me "are you ok?" And I knew that he was thinking of various things that may have happened to me that day that might cause me to be upset: maybe a family member was sick, maybe a customer had gotten angry with me at work, heck, maybe I just hadn't gotten to have coffee (certainly a traumatic event). And how could I explain to him: "Yes, I am fine, it's the people I carry who are not ok"?

Sometimes I get frustrated with this weight. Sometimes I get angry and just want to be rid of it at any cost. Sometimes I'll get advice from friends and family members, who love me and are worried, "Emily, you have to let it go."

But then I'll take a moment and step into the hearts of those I carry with me. I'll feel the weight there, their burden, and on my better days I'll think "Ok brothers and sisters, I'll walk this road with you, and when your crushing burdens are lifted, on that beautiful day, perhaps I'll ask for mine to be taken too." And, strangely enough, when I do this, I feel stronger.

Until that beautiful day, as I'll say again and again, my only hope is that this burden will be transformed into love, not in unceasing, "meaning well," passionate blogging, words, but in actions and truth.

P.S. For my friends simultaneously making their way in the mental health world, what do you think, do I fit in a clinical or non-clinical population?