Processing

had supervision yesterday and we discussed a case I had last week that reduced me to a hot mess of panic mid-stream. I did a process recording of it, which is essentially a word-for-word account of the session, and my reactions to it. Not my best work, but I figured if my supervisor didn't know exactly what went on in the session, she wouldn't be able to guide me through the next one. (And I had to remind myself that I'm just a student, and this is all a learning experience for me that I have to take advantage of.)

After the session last week, I processed it with a classmate, and with my dad, and while they both gave me some incredible insight to it, talking about it didn't exactly make me feel better. In fact, it raised my blood pressure. So I was already a little on guard when my supervisor and I started talking.

About thirty seconds into it, I started to get hot and my pulse was racing. Then my biggest fear came true: I felt my throat start to close up, my words cracking, and I just knew I was going to cry.

I guess I'm not entirely opposed to crying--I just didn't feel comfortable in front of my supervisor. She's not the warmest person in the world, and even though I'm a student blahblahblah, I still want to come across as professional and experienced with her. I don't want to look like a freaking crybaby who can't handle one tough session.

But of course, she's a skilled therapist, and could tell I was close to losing it. "You look like you're close to tears. Do you know why you're having this reaction?"

And suddenly, I did. It occurred to me that my reaction to this particular family mirrored experiences I'd had in Alabama. I told her about being unassertive, and the disasterous results of that, including details about that one client who walked all over me with her steel-toed manipulations, and what that felt like for me. How that made me feel about myself. (God, how I did hate myself for allowing people to treat me that way!) And that now when I encounter someone trying to intimidate or manipulate me, I have an extremely adverse reaction to it, and am not quite such a doormat anymore.

But it led to some pretty serious countertransference in the session, which really obstructed the beginnings of a therapeutic alliance with one of the family members. (It also made me realize other instances when I need to learn how to curtail that reaction and not let it affect my work.)

My supervisor's response was, "Do you want me to take the case over?" She said sometimes this happened with students, and she didn't want my learning experiences to be stuck with an unmanageable case--that she'd prefer I get more meaningful experiences with families whose sessions I didn't fear and dread.

Before supervision, I worried the whining words "I just don't know how I'm going to get through another session with them" might spring unbidden from my lips. The moment she gave me an out, though, I realized I didn't need it. Not going back for the next session had never occurred to me, and I knew I could continue on. I thought about the alternative--sitting in the next session with my supervisor as we tranferred the case to her, and I thought I'd rather slit my wrists. I can do this.

Nuclear War

When I was in grade school--young; younger than 10 or 11--it would have been the Reagan era. The Cold War. Fear of nuclear destruction. I didn’t know the specifics of anything, just tail ends of overheard conversations between my parents and their friends about the dire state of the world.

That whole period of my life--what I only remember of it was a nagging, unknown, unarticulated fear. I didn't believe I'd live to be an adult.

--I knew the effects of nuclear war. I knew the story of Sadako and the thousand paper cranes. It wasn't a far reach for my imagination to picture myself running through the fields of a Hiroshima-like Kansas, damaged flesh peeling away in the wind. There was something brutal and poetic about the way the dry wheatfields around my house figured into the nightmare.--

The sky was yellow in the summer. While I knew the color actually heralded tornados, I still likened it to the end of the world. I would lay in the front yard looking up into the sky, absolutely terrified of its vastness and my tiny existence my comparison. I clutched at the grass, certain that gravity would suddenly not apply and the universe would pluck me off the dirt and suck me into the sky.

The cloudless sky would moan and wail back at me. Those ominous, animalistic noises . . . I have never been able to articulate them to others. The closest explanation would be to liken them to the whine of a far-off plane coursing across the sky. Yet the horizons were empty. But the sounds still echoed through my head.

And then, at times, only when I was still quite young, the planes would appear. Fighter planes, streaking across the prairie and somehow honing in above the only house on the section: ours. The moans of an empty sky would be rifted by shrieks as the planes narrowly avoided our chimney and the windows shook and cracked.

Each time, crouched on the floor, fingers in our ears, praying that this was not the one time they'd really drop the bomb.

Eventually, the planes stopped. And tornados were more frequent so the yellow sky became a harbinger only of a different type of destruction, one that--oddly enough--seemed far less immediate and dangerous.

And then I left Kansas, and the wails of the sky became planes instead of phantom shrieks. And the sky did not yellow as often.

But sometimes, the memories of despair can return in late summer, in the heat-soaked city, when it is too hot still to wrap my bare skin up in a semblance of protection against the softly menacing whispers.

Dignity

Thinking about the occurrences I wrote about in the previous entry. Of someone becoming unhinged and delving into the illegal behavior of phone harrassment. Proving that no one but herself was responsible for her termination.

Is it just me, or would you also try to maintain as much dignity as possible in that situation? I've only been fired once (rather apologetically, after the second time I forgot to go to an infrequent afternoon of art modeling) so most of my experiences with dignity come from relationships.

In the shards of the end, if the breakups were not at my prompting, no matter how upset I was, the guys would rarely see the effects of it. Sure I'd cry during our discussion. Who wouldn't? But afterward, the bulk of my grieving would be done in private.

Maybe I have control issues (maybe? HA.), but I didn't see the point of letting someone know how much he had gotten to me.

For the most part. There was once when, at a friend's suggestion, I did talk to an ex about my feelings. I didn't know what I wanted out of the conversation, but after I told him I missed him, the words took wing, and that seemed to be enough. I didn't want him back. But he was a good, kind fellow, and I knew he wouldn't use my words against me. The words just needed to be out there.

So maybe my opinions on dignity are borne of a fear of losing control, of giving someone the upper edge. And perhaps a concern of how others view me. I don't care. I still think maintaining dignity is important.

Am I too idealistic?

What a stressful week. The worst yet. If work had been this stressful from the beginning, I probably would be working at Starbucks by now, so at least it goes in waves.

Lots of second-guessing myself this week. Internal strife among clients, which brings out my meek and timid side. The side I hate, the side I wish didn't exist, yet the side I am learning to come to terms with because I just am not an aggressive person, and no amount of wishing will make me so.

I work with a lot of forceful personalities. A lot of cynics (not that the two go hand in hand). But I'm encountering the cynical side a lot lately, and it's hard.

One co-worker tells me frequently that I let people get away with murder. (In her defense, she's very blunt, but a kind-hearted, not cruel, person.) I can do nothing but agree. She's right. I can't seem to get clients to toe the line. Client from hell, bane-of-my-existence knew exactly how much she could get away with when she was with me. She didn't try it with anyone else.

But lately, this same co-worker has been spewing too much cynicism for me. Today, I got a new client who came in and decided she wanted to leave two hours later. "You know she got here, didn't like what she saw, and is going back to him," this co-worker (our follow-up counselor) said. "You'll know when you've worked as long as I have, that's what they always do."

Maybe that's what they always do. (Or I should say usually, because it takes a battered woman seven to ten times to leave an abuser for good--or until he kills her.) I know my clients, no matter how much I help them--get them set up with Food Stamps, counsel them on the dynamics of domestic violence, help them raise their self-esteem--I know they're likely to end up going back.

I'm not naive in that respect. A few months ago, I found out my favorite client of all time, a precious jewel of a sweet woman, left the fantastic independent housing I helped her gain to move back in with her husband who has threatened to kill her many times. Disappointed? A little. I was so proud of everything she accomplished on her own. I thought she was on her way to a better life. Surprised? Hell no. And I didn't feel personally offended that she did not take everything I was offering and become Superwoman.

But I have to act like they're not going back. Like the work I'm doing is so important, it will change her life, give her hope, and give her a future without fear. It's absolutely the only way I can do this job. I just don't think I could stand to help someone, to stay late, work overtime to find shelters in another state when I was thinking, "Why bother? Why should I work this hard to find info for you when you're not going to use it?"

I've always striven to work without strings attached. To not attach importance to someone taking my advice or help, or ignoring it. I thought I have always done a good job of that, but I wonder if I need to pretend, at least, for the sake of my optimism, that they are going to use what I give them.

That my work is not in vain.

Missed Connections

A few years ago I was obsessed with the Missed Connections section of the Reader (which, sadly, is now dorkily called "I Saw You." Aw, man.) So that is the basis of the following story. It was harder than I expected to come up with only 25 words each time.


February 7
Hey blue-eyed girl on the Blue Line train, evening commute. I see you every day. Maybe next time, a hello? 'Til we meet again . . .

February 14
My nerves got the best of me, blue eyes. I couldn't bring myself to approach you. Try again next week? Be kind to shy men.

February 21
Hectic work. Overtime kept me from your side. The late-night ride is not the same without you. Did I mention I miss your smile?

February 28
You, this week, absent from my ride again. My schedule is the same. Have you changed your routine? My fault? Do you even read these?

March 7
Dark man with you Wednesday. A date? Has someone already a claim on your heart? You smile at him, not knowing of my love.

March 14
Alone again. But not me. Never fear, the woman was only a co-worker. My heart belongs to you . . . if only you would notice me.

March 21
Tuesday you dropped a glove. My chance! The teenage boy got to it first. You gave him the smile meant for me. Next time . . .

March 28
Your new coat matches your eyes. I heard you get compliments. They should have been from me. Your beauty brightens my day after all.

April 4
Sneezing Wednesday. Are you getting a cold? I said "bless you." Conversation at last! Why did you not respond? Did you hear me?

April 11
No illness this week. Why did you leave your seat when I mentioned that? Stay and talk to me. You must.

April 18
Blue eyes, your friend called you Cara. Next time, I'll use it, and you will see how special you are to me.

April 25
Cara, your stop is after mine. Today I stayed on to see where you live. So close we are. You could walk over.

May 2
Did you see the flowers I left on your stoop for May day? You need romance. I can be so giving. Let me in.

May 9
Cara, always evenings, never mornings. That's not how I crave it. I want you freshly awake, unsullied by the day and interactions with others.

May 16
I have your mornings now. Coffee here, bagel there. Blue eyes, you are radiant at sunrise. Seeing you keeps me going every day.

May 23
This weekend, where were you? Apartment dim each evening, late return on Sunday. Your eyes aglow--for whom? Me? You couldn't have seen me there.

May 23 (ad 2)
Sturdy oak tree, spring leaves offer one protection. You with no curtains offer me sweet glimpses again. I know that you care. I am near.

May 30
Warm nights now, Cara. Give me a sign that you're ready. Leave a window open for me, my love.

June 6
At last, my blue eyes, how I've waited for this. Sweet soft cheek, see how gentle my touch? A quiet kiss. I'll be here tomorrow.

June 13
Blue lights flashing, fiercer than the glow from your eyes. How could you do this? I thought you cared. This is not the end.

Thunderstorms

They're my favorite weather phenomenon. It's been raining regularly here for the past month, but it wasn't until last night that the thunder and lightning rolled out. It seems strange that something with such violence and volatility could give me peace, but storms do.

I remember taking lawnchairs out the driveway, to the edge of our property and the gravel road that passed it, with my dad. When I was in high school, we'd sit and watch the lightning splintering in the distance, the product of electrical storms. In reminiscing, it occurs to me that we probably only did that once or twice, but I've been thinking of it as our thing, what we always did. During a period when I barely spoke to my parents without screaming, and shied away from any emotionality whatsoever, now I'm surprised to remember that time with full emotion. It's an incredibly special memory for me.

I remember, too, being 15 or 16, driving home from Hannah's house during a storm. It was evening, so technically darkness had fallen, but the lightning was so close, so fierce, so present that I needed no headlights to steer my way home. I actually shielded my eyes from all the light, and I wavered between wanting to pull over and wait out the storm, or keep driving to get to safety sooner. Mildly terrifying, yes, but as a youthful veteran of tempestuous Kansas weather, I knew I was safe in the car, so the night held less fear and more power.

It would stand to reason that I'd end up with another storm lover. The most special storms happened in Door County, in the middle of the night, in Tim's room that was three walls of windows. Now when we get woken up by storms, we snuggle in together, battened down by sleep-heavy kitties, enjoying every thunder clap.

I hate salesmen

Period. No salesman will ever sway my mind about a product, no matter how hard he tries. Particularly how hard he tries, because I think it's pretty disrespectful to not believe I know my own mind.

I know that's their job, but still.

I reserve my most supreme hatred for the magazine sellers who haunted my college campus. Though I have already stated my hate for people trying to sell me things, what bothers me more is when they try to disguise that they're just plain selling something. But since I haven't been in school for a while now, I didn't recognize it when it knocked on my door last night.

First it was "I'm introducing myself to all the cool neighbors." Then it was, "I'm in a speech class, and I have to meet 500 people to get over the fear of public speaking. How am I doing?"

"My class is having a contest."

"If I'm the first to meet 500 people, they'll send me to Rome, Paris, London . . ."

He emoted, gestured, and hammed his way through his monologue (well done, I'll admit, for I didn't suspect anything until he brushed off my "what are you selling?" with a "C.P.A. That stands for Cuteness, Personality, and Attitude."), and didn't get to the point for about 10 minutes. Finally he pulled out his list of magazine subscriptions. Tried to guilt me with a "but you can buy a subscription for the children's hospital!"

And he tried to sway me with, "It's cheap and easy! Just like my ex-girlfriend!"

Who says shit like that to women they don't know? But it was a wonderful opportunity to shut the door in his face after saying, "You lost me with that joke."

I hate people.