She had a look on her face that read of fresh crying, and the latent ability to tear up at any second. I only know of her through brief encounters, and consider her a friend-of-place, the kind of friends we make between the specific hours of sharing space, and keep no contact once we part. I hadn’t seen her for awhile, so I welcomed her (late) arrival.
I’m naturally nosy and interested in the human condition, this is what led me to professional social work. This was not a professional circumstance, and yet, within moments of asking what was going on, I slipped into the standards, “How much sleep are you getting every night?” “When these mood shifts happen, how long do they last?” I stepped back within myself when I caught myself cutting into her talking to me with a question unrelated to what she was saying.
I was more concerned with checking off symptoms on my list (in order to find the cause and solution) than just listening to her. Have I always been this way? Is this not the same kind of treatment that disgusted me when I was in the consumer’s chair?
I’m not the only one to have done this and been caught. A few weeks ago, while sharing my art class table with two other people (all with human services history), we discussed how we’ve observed others in the therapy profession, in casual conversation, pull out their stock questions. We hope we’re never the ones doing that, but it’s impossible to not do it sometimes.
I’m grateful I caught myself when I did. I realized today that asking the stock questions, filling out the psychosocial evaluation and treatment plan in my head, fills me with a sense of competence. I know how to do this. Even better, if I know how to do this, certainly I know how to make this person’s pain abate! These questions – the professional in me – feels empowered, but also safely distanced from sitting in the pain that is right in front of me.
I had to acknowledge to my friend that the finest distillation of this situation was the fact that it sucks. It sucks, it’s here, it feels bad, and that’s all there is to it. Channeling my inner Pema Chodron, and crying a few tears of my own, I asked her if a friend came to her in pain, would she tell her she wasn’t working hard enough, was lazy, was a failure, and all that other bad stuff we tell ourselves. She agreed that she wouldn’t do that to a friend, that she’d be kind, generous, and care for that person. I tear up just thinking about it, because that kindness and compassion is what she (and I) lack in ourselves. So many people are good friends to others, and horrible friends to themselves. And Pema Chodron would of course remind, I’d imagine, to not get on ourselves about how horrible we can be about being good to ourselves – but rather just let it go. What’s going on right now? I’m hunched in my chair, my neck is tight, I’m looking forward to lying down in bed. There is no failure in this moment.
We both cried. She thanked me later for listening, but because I didn’t have those forms filled out in my head, I’m still not sure if I did the right thing, or if I helped ease her pain at all. I joked that our encounter was ultimately self-serving. I don’t like seeing people in pain, so I have this tendency to try to fix the problem so they’re not in pain anymore. She dismissed this idea.
Speaking for myself, one of the best things someone did for me this past year was just sit there and let me cry, and talk, and cry some more. It was the best therapy I could ask for, and therapy I didn’t have to pay for. It’s the kind of thing that the four therapists I’ve tried so far this year would take a hint from. It’s not about filling out the forms and getting the most intimate information within the first two sessions. Sometimes it’s about sitting there and knowing that there may not be a solution or anything to solve, but there is this moment, right now, surrounding you. As terrifying as that may be sometimes, stopping and just sharing in that can do wonders.
was this book.