No one heals alone: Finding a therapist

One of the biggest roadblocks in healing from trauma is this idea, “I don’t need help, I can do it myself.” Here is the common refrain: “I don’t need a therapist or a group—I have my friend (wife, husband, children…)”

Why? Seems like they could, right? They love us. We feel good with them, safe with them. In fact, it feels like they should be the ones to heal us. They can listen to our problems, and often do. They often listen non-judgmentally as we recount our stories. They often have advice for us, and certainly tell us they love us. They can hold us tightly and kiss us good night. Why isn’t it enough?

We expect our friends and our spouses to be on ‘our’ side. When we feel bad, we want them to help us feel better, not hold us accountable to change. We want them to say the right thing, not the ‘growth promoting’ thing, or worst of all, nothing, and let us sit there with our thoughts. It’s funny, people automatically understand the need for a couple’s therapist when a couple is having a problem. Friends know that they can’t say what they need to both parties and still be ‘loyal’ to their friend, or not be seen as ‘taking sides.’ They know that there are truths to both sides and that they are in over their heads to try and help. Most often you hear, “I’m not going to get in the middle of that.”

A healing relationship is like a couple’s therapist for both sides of the self: the self that wants to change, grow or heal—and the part of the self that wants to stay the same, the part that is afraid of, or unable to change. A therapist’s role is to hold both of these realities—to not take sides, but rather to support both sides by creating an environment in which both sides can grow and integrate.

Healing from trauma is perhaps the most complicated form of therapy. As I mentioned earlier, most trauma is really three interrelated traumas: the experience of repeated trauma, the defensive structure built to survive the trauma, and the loss of healthy growth and development during the period of trauma. While your friends and loved ones may be able to listen and help you with your experiences of trauma, often, it feels impossible to talk with them about it: often these experiences are described as unspeakable. And, often, we don’t want anyone to see us at our worst moments of helplessness. There is simply too much shame. Even if you could share this with them, and you could tell your loved ones how much you are hurting, in some fundamental way they really can’t hear or take in how broken you feel. Not because they aren’t listening, or because they are bad, or they don’t love you—but because they either can’t truly understand, because their experience is too far away from yours, or because it would simply be too hard for them if they did. They need you. They need the relationship with you. You are important for them and they know on some level they can’t fix it and they don’t know how to hold this piece of information with all of the other aspects of you.

How do I find help? What kind of help is best? This is an important question with a lot of answers. There is no ‘perfect’ guide or therapist. When friends and family ask me what to look for, I give a pretty basic answer—what you want in a good therapist or guide or consultant is what you would look for in a good parent. You want someone who can be consistent, patient, hopeful, and who knows that this journey is about you and your growth, not their needs or success. You want someone who knows about trauma or is willing to learn. You want someone who can laugh at herself and who can tolerate her emotions and yours. You want someone who is willing to let both of you make mistakes and who can have a conversation about it when it happens. You want someone you can respect. You want someone whose basic premise is: whatever it is, we can talk about it. And, you want someone who is a good match for you—where you feel safe, and where you feel like you will be understood and heard.

Finding the right person or group is mostly a matter of trial and error. You have to ‘try them on for size.’ You have to see if they are a good match and the only real way to know that is to meet with them and talk with them. That being said, sometimes you don’t get a lot of choice. Depending upon your healthcare coverage, and where you can obtain help—sometimes there are limited options.

But limited options doesn’t necessarily mean poor care. I, and lmost all therapists I know have spent part of our careers in system where we were the only option for people getting help. And this situation is not much different than other aspects of your healthcare. If you go to the emergency room, you don’t generally get to interview doctors.

All therapists are trained to work with a wide range of clients and a wide range of issues. The most important thing you can do is have a conversation about what you want and need—to the best of your ability. What you need to do is to see if the person or group you seek out will be a good match for your healing journey. Can I work with this person? If I have differences of opinions or have doubts about their capacity—can I ask about them?

Here are some questions for you to consider:

• What do you hope to get out of treatment?

• What symptoms are bothering you the most right now?

• What is the most difficult thing about going to see a therapist or being in a group?

• What would help you to talk?

• What gets in the way of talking?

• What gets in the way of taking care of yourself?

And here are some questions for you to ask your potential therapist, guide or consultant:

• How long have you been working in this field?

• What do you enjoy about it?

•  How do you typically work with clients?

• What happens if we disagree?

• What are your expectations of clients?

• Have you worked with clients who have a trauma history before?

• These questions are just a start, and you are free to ask them anything that would help you feel more comfortable working with them. Some people find help on the first try and some on the second. I found it on the sixth. Remember that it is the combination of you and your therapist or your group that is the ‘healing relationship.’   You each hold an end of the rope. Contrary to rumors, your therapist cannot read your mind. The healing relationship relies on both of you—so you need to trust yourself and your experience, and you need to communicate what you want and need so that the relationship can support your work.

If you are in the US and looking for a therapist I recommend Psychology Today’s Find a Therapist link. You can put in parameters you are looking for: insurance, gender, social identity, specialty, location etc. It’s widely used by a range of therapists with many licenses and specialties.

© Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD 2023/2014

Helping women hold both joy and sorrow on Mother’s Day.

“She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
Of her life, and weaves them gratefully
Into a single cloth –
It’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
And clears it for a different celebration. ”

— Rainer Maria Rilke

The Mother’s Day we have is not big enough to hold all of a woman’s heart on Mother’s Day. Women need a different celebration. The Mother’s Day we have is a holiday of marketing and hype. It doesn’t represent women’s experience. It represents profit. In The US alone it is a 21 billion dollar industry. You can’t open your email, go in to a CVS or grocery store, or the mall without being bombarded by messages about Mother’s Day. You literally can’t get away from it for weeks. It is most telling that the founder of Mother’s Day, Anna Jarvis was so troubled by how the holiday became a marketing holiday rather than the sacred holiday she had intended, that she spent most of her life trying to remove the holiday from the calendar.

Women need a different celebration because the current celebration is one-sided. The current celebration is entirely too small to hold the experience that women have with the word mother, with the role of mother, with the relationship as a mother, and a relationship to a mother. I don’t want to take any of the joy out of the holiday for the women who feel joy. Joy belongs there. Celebration belongs there. Satisfaction and appreciation belong there. But our current cultural stranglehold on Mother’s Day keeps out the other very real parts of women’s lives. It forces women to put on only a happy face when they are often holding so much more. Yes, there is joy on Mother’s Day, but there is also much sorrow and loss—often invisible losses. And because of the mandate on happiness and flowers and all things wrapped in bows—women are asked to smile and hold their losses alone.  On a day when they are being ‘celebrated’ women are often left entirely isolated in their own experience—especially with regards to loss.

And the losses are many. Remember that women count all of their children on Mother’s Day—the born, the unborn, the living, the dead. It is a day of mourning for women who lost children to miscarriage or to death, as much as it is a celebration of the children they love and cherish. It can be a day of mourning for the women who gave their babies up for adoption and for some women who chose to have abortions—for the difficult decisions that they had to make. It can be a day of mourning or loss for the women who weren’t able to have children or who chose not to. A reminder of what was not and what will never be. There are also the children who are lost to addiction, to jail, to mental illness, to estrangement. Women count all of their babies—the ones who are here and not here, the ones they can hold, and the ones they can’t.

And on this day women are asked to hold the relationship to their own mothers in whatever form that holds. So many women who loved their mothers dearly and whose mothers have died are acutely aware of the woman they can no longer celebrate in the way they want, can no longer hold, and talk to on this day. Or maybe their mothers are sick, or have Alzheimers—still living, but no longer the person they were.  For these women, no matter how joyous the relationship with their own children, families, relationships—Mother’s Day can make them feel raw, and sore, with a deep, deep sense of sorrow or longing.  The absence of mother is felt as a gaping hole.

And sometimes this gaping hole isn’t from the loss of something wonderful, it is from the loss of what never was: for the women who were unmothered—hurt, abused, neglected by the very person who was supposed to fill their lives with safety and care. For the women who have spent many years learning to mother themselves. Mother’s Day, and the Hallmark cards that mark the occasion, is a reminder of the childhood that never was and never can be—of things they could never say about their mother because we live in a world that believes that all mothers are good. It is a reminder of what they didn’t get and all the hard work of healing that they had to do to become who they are now.

So let’s work to create a different celebration that would support a woman to hold her joy and her sorrows. Her joys as a mother and her losses as a mother. Her joys of her mother and her losses of a mother. Let’s work to support a woman to hold the love she has of her children with the sorrows of the children that couldn’t be. Let’s create a different celebration that doesn’t ask a woman to hold only one side of her story about mothers and motherhood on Mother’s Day. Let’s create a different celebration that allows her to hold all of her experience so that she may weave them gratefully into a single cloth. Let’s make the celebrations and conversations as big as the hearts of the women we are celebrating.

© 2016/2023 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

A Primer on Growth

“To see things in the seed, that is genius”

— Lao Tzu

There is an energy and hopefulness that goes with early spring. There is a color green that defies description because it isn’t just one color: it is all shades of green depending upon the light that shines through it. Yesterday I was sitting outside, looking up into the treetops—with their newly born leaves—a translucent pale green—and marveling at the leaves. The color green that’s not just green. But green plus light. Or green plus shadow. Or layers of these lights and shadows.

I began to think about how trees breathe in our carbon dioxide—the thing we breathe out—and as I looked up into the high grey branches of the huge Beech tree –with it’s small, emerging leaves I decided to intentionally breathe out to it—and then breathe in the fresh oxygen it was sending to me. I did this a few times when it occurred to me that I could do this and think of it almost as a game of catch. I would throw carbon dioxide up to its leaves and it would catch it, and then it would send oxygen back and I would catch it. This is perhaps the most fun I have had with a deep breathing exercise. Meditation and breathing exercises can seem so serious and austere. But playing catch—now that’s fun. If you can’t get outside—try a houseplant!

There is something about the green of spring that is so all encompassing. Where everything seems brand new. Where things are tender. Vulnerable. Unfolding. It’s not that these things aren’t happening during other parts of the year across the growing season—but in Spring it’s not a solo act, it’s a symphony. With each bit of growth and each bit of green playing their unique part so that the harmony surrounds you.

When I work with groups, I often have them begin using an old favorite introduction or check-in from my Girl Scout days: Rose-Thorn-Bud. You introduce yourself with your rose (something that going well, that’s in full bloom, that you are happy about or proud of); your thorn (something that’s hard right now, uncomfortable, not going well); and bud (something that’s new, that’s emerging, that is just appearing). Sitting outside yesterday looking at all that green reminded me of the introductions. Reminded me of how that question about the ‘bud’ is the one that most people find most difficult. They can usually find their rose and their thorn. But they struggle with what is new.

I don’t believe it’s because there aren’t new things in their lives but rather because our brains and sensory systems are overtrained to see a finished task or things in their full glory. We aren’t as good at seeing the tender shoots and we certainly aren’t as good at honoring or being excited about them. Spring has often been associated with the ritual of cleaning and getting rid of what is old. But Spring is also the time of year that can teach us best to see what is growing. What has just arrived. What is barely emerging.

What I know from my years of gardening is that new shoots need protection. They don’t like extremes of temperature or wind. They have particular needs. And they have their own timing. The new things that are beginning in our lives need much the same thing. Our new ability to listen and not interrupt. Or our new ability to slow down and be still. Our new ability to ask for help or do it ourselves. Our new ability to sit with ambiguity. To say no. To say yes. To say, ‘I don’t know.” Our new things need attention, protection, and more care than we usually give them. But they often need a different attention or care than we use on our more practiced abilities or our difficult habits. They need us to be softer, kinder and more patient. They wither under scrutiny or criticism. What you need to do with the tender shoots in your lives is what I did with my seedlings when I was growing flowers from seed: you need to greet them each morning with hopefulness and excitement. With a hearty welcome and a “I’m so glad you are here!” If you want to have roses in your life—then not only do you have to tolerate some thorns—you have to look on your seedlings with love and nurture them as best you can.

 © 2023 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

First You Build Wings

When I was a little kid, and we would visit my grandmother in Maryland, we would sleep on mattresses on the floor in the workshop of her husband, Aubrey. He had this passion project of building an airplane out of wood and he had turned one of the bedrooms in the townhouse into a woodshop. On one side of the room was a workbench, neat and tidy with the tools on a pegboard. And the entire other wall was pegboard where dozens of pieces were hanging that would eventually become wings. There were tiny pieces that were glued together. And then pieces made up of those pieces and so on. If you looked at the whole wall you could kind of discern the progression—how he started with the smallest pieces and built each section—that eventually made up an even larger section. Delicate curved pieces that would eventually create something strong enough to fly.

Piece by piece and section by section is also how you heal from trauma. You say one small brave thing and then another. You try one small thing that frightened you and then another. The words feel so small. The actions seem small. Because the feelings and memories feel big. Too big to hold or describe. Too big to make sense to anyone else. So you take a deep breath and you do the small thing that you can do. And you do it again and again.

And that’s how you build wings. Whether they are for a hand-crafted airplane—or the wings you are finally using for yourself. Wings that allow you to get some distance from your trauma—have some perspective as you look at it. Wings that help you begin to move across the span of time. Wings that help you begin to inhabit your life—a life that is more than your trauma.

The wings of the airplane took a very long time. I think I was in high school by the time they were mostly complete. And I think the wings I have built as I have been healing have taken a really long time too. But I can feel them, and I am grateful. Which is why it can feel so discouraging or disorienting to feel like you are starting over with small pieces again. Which is exactly what was required when Aubrey began building the body of the plane. Once again small pieces glued to other small pieces appeared on the pegboard.

As a therapist or a coach I so often hear, “But I already worked on that,” or “I already talked about that.” There is such frustration with the idea that there is more healing to be had in relation to something that was hard. That an old wound is sore—and maybe ready to heal in a different way. And as a client I have said or felt the same thing. It can feel like you are starting over. Or that you’re in some trauma healing version of a kid’s game where you have to go all the way back to start. It feels like you did something wrong—or that you didn’t do it right the first time. But this new phase of healing is actually a milestone. It’s not a failure. It’s an achievement. It’s hard to see that the wings you built with your hard work and persistence are exactly the reason you can do the work that you need to do today.

You had to build the wings first. And now you get to build the body. To take on the central part of your story. Your trauma. To more fully build the place that will hold you. To more fully understand what is at the core. To more fully inhabit all of yourself. Your trauma. Your healing. Your growth. And building the core will look and feel a lot like building the wings. Small brave conversation after small brave conversation. Small piece connected to another small piece. Patiently waiting while the glue dries. Patiently putting the pieces together. You have to find a way to remind yourself that working with small pieces, often painful pieces, is a triumph. Now you get to build the body. But first you build wings.

© 2023 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD