Stories.

In psychotherapy lore, someone once said or wrote (I hardly ever remember who or when, or if I made it up myself, when I quote things I've heard or read, but that is another story) that if you ask a client to tell you the three main stories their family of origin tells about them (at, say, the dinner table when you first introduce them to your new girlfriend), you the therapist will know everything you need about the role and place your client holds in their family and, therefore, in the important relationships in their world (friends, work, kids, lovers). I don't know if this is true exactly, but it is interesting to think about. At any rate (my friend Kate said, maybe still says, "at any rate," kind of like how some people, but thankfully no one I know or want to imitate, say, "any whoooo," and I like the way it sounds so adopted it many years ago) I was thinking about some of the stories I used to tell while teaching therapy. There are certain ones, stories or metaphors, that would come to mind and, because I was the "teacher" out of my mouth, and though I did not plan to say them at a certain time or juncture in the life of the intern, I figured if the story was there it had a purpose.

At any rate...when people are learning to do therapy there is a point where they start to get nervous about the content they are exposed to. That is, if the intern is able to keep a client in the room with them for more than three sessions in a row, the client will begin to say why it is that they are really there. Rare is the client who knows this when they arrive, they usually are convinced the presenting problem (as we like to call it) is the problem and all they need is a new strategy to fix it and get on with their lives (this is America after all where we buy advice and want a quick and lasting fix). But, as the interns are taught, "the presenting problem is never the problem you will end up working with." The underpinnings, if you will, may be what we like to label a "trauma reaction," but in real terms would be the shame of molest or the utter hopelessness that has been sapping the clients vital psychic energy since they gave up trying to get their parent to stop drinking and pay some decent attention to them. When this occurs, when the content of the original story comes out, or tries to, the energy in the room changes dramatically, the clients face looks young, and the agony or shame or all of the above is palpable and big and so, so painful.

At this point, most reasonable mortals look away. We get uncomfortable and want to change the subject, or more often, offer "fix it" advice. But, the therapist can't. We are supposed to stare right at it, hold it, give the client a chance to experience this pain, this drenching shame and sadness and we are not supposed to flinch; literally or psychically. Imagine, how the therapist sits there listening to these stories, sometimes the worst things and feelings that can happen in a human beings life (someone's baby died or they were attacked on the way home from a party they weren't supposed to be at), and not leave or avoid or look away. Now, imagine this therapist is new to the work and is scared they will harm the client because they don't know what they are doing or are stirred up by their own feelings of hopelessness and discontent, and they want to look away, to flinch. The common refrain is, "how do I do this? We didn't learn anything about this in school."

I never have an answer about the 'how to.' It's one of those times where the intern thinks the supervisor/teacher is an expert and I/we are not. We are making it up as we go along too, and maybe we have a few strategies to notice when the client is trying to tell one of these stories, maybe we know more about what shame looks like on a human face, but we don't know any better how to sit with the enormous pain of when the client begins to crack open, we just know that we are the witness and that is a big job. Still, this is where my story about not flinching comes in and I told it every year, perhaps like clock work, though I wasn't keeping track.

It goes like this: Listening (deeply) means you can't flinch, no matter how scary or terrible it is. There was a time when I used to play softball with a really good team in Santa Monica. I don't particularly like playing softball, but I had what is called 'a good arm' so I was recruited and gave into the peer pressure for two seasons. Mostly I was a center fielder, due to the 'good arm', but one year I got to try my hand at shortstop which meant more action and a ball, the softball which is actually just as hard as a hardball only bigger, was going much (much!) faster when it came my way (physics is like that). At any rate, one day we were doing drills and practicing picking up grounders (balls coming at you around the speed of light on the ground) and throwing to first base. I loved this drill, until, one time and one time only, the speedy grounder hit a bump right before it got to my properly placed glove and hit me smack in the mouth causing me to bleed profusely and be in some pretty nasty pain. More than anything, it scared the crap out of me. Even now while I sit here writing about it, 31 years after the event, I can hear the noise of my head being hit by a hard, fast moving object, and I flinch.

After I put ice on my swollen face I decided to practice the "get back on the horse" method of working out the fear and did all that I could to follow the ball from the bat and into my glove. Only now, even just in the tiniest of ways, I would move my head to the side or close my eyes. You can't do this in softball. Any movement away causes you to miss the ball or, worse, get hit by it. So, in order to do it well you have to watch the potential damage to your face all the way into your glove. No flinching.

By now, if I am telling the story right, the interns think I am brave and, more importantly, funny, and those who are looking to be taught something useful are impatient. So here is where I say, "this is what listening to the client's story is like. You have to follow the ball right into your glove even if you know it's going to hurt. Watch where you want to move your head, just a little, or close your eyes, just for a second. It's a natural response to want to avoid the pain you see coming, but your job (and for some, your calling) is to watch yourself want to flinch but make yourself stare right at the moving object, right into the pain."

To not leave the pain. To hold your gaze when the client is telling you their deepest secret, steeped in their most agonizing shame. And then, to do nothing. Just sit, listen, witness. This is therapy, or perhaps life. It would be just like me to get them confused.