(Note from Martha: “A.”, who meets me in my office for psychotherapy wrote a thoughtful and honest essay about having a psychotherapist who also writes and blogs about the processes of psychotherapy. I invited A. to share the piece here as part of a conversation about the challenges, annoyances and benefits of encountering your psychotherapist’s writing online. Some of this we have discussed together previously in the office, some of this was in the essay previously shared with me, and some of this we are processing together, as we write, for the first time.)
A: One of the first things that I asked you, when I became a client, was this: how did you experience having a blog reader materialize in your office? What was it like to have someone who had read your words, corresponded a bit by email, now sitting across from you in the flesh?
MC: It was strange. And touching. It meant that you already felt some connection, some basic alliance to a deeply personal part of me – it made me feel vetted and chosen for the work we would undertake together. Since you arrived (you started reading my blog very early, well before I closed the comments down), people have come to see me who are aware of the blog, or who have found the blog in pre-Googling me and decided that they mind or don’t mind or like or don’t care about the blog. But as far as I know, you were the first, and now one of very few people, who had an internal relationship to me as a writer, and who then took the risk to find out who I was, externally, as a therapist.
And it wasn’t just any piece that you contacted me after, it was a piece that was deeply personal to me, and that wrote about my own woundedness and healing and “re-membering” – and it meant a great deal to me for that to be so explicitly meaningful to someone that they would make an appointment with me.
A: What if I had just stayed a blog reader? What if you hadn’t emailed me back?
MC: I try to email everyone back – although I don’t often have space any more. I think that I remember that there was a significant wait between the time that you contacted me, and the time that we were able to begin working together. What if you hadn’t decided to wait? What if you felt rejected by that and never contacted me again?
We would have both missed out on so much.
A: Yes, I waited quite some time before summoning the courage to ask for an appointment. Via email, of course. That email went through many draft forms, and sat for a few months, before I finally hit ‘Send.’
I remember being taken aback by your size. You are quite petite and I guess I expected someone with such a big voice to be bigger. Not big, just bigger than you are.
MC: I don’t sound like a short little fast-talking person when I write? I wonder what I sound like?
A: I also had to reconcile the voice I imagined you having, with your real voice (of course, now that you’ve taken up podcasting, readers can know exactly what you sound like and no longer need to imagine your voice). I had my own idea of how your words sounded to my internal ear, and while I don’t have the words to describe that voice, the sound I imagined was different coming from your mouth to my ear. Like the way the character you imagine in a book doesn’t exactly match the actor cast in the movie. It takes some getting used to.
MC: It must have been very strange to have to encounter what you had projected on to me, and what limitations and imperfections that are inevitably edited out of my writing “voice.” You had to encounter my humanity and mourn some idealizations that had built up while you only encountered me in the ether.
A: Yes, that’s true. I think this is where I get annoyed with the people who only know you as the idealized therapist from your blog. In your writing, you can make everything look right, even if it’s not in real life.
So my relationship to your blog is complicated.
MC: So is mine.
A: On the one hand, it’s how I found you. On the other, it brings up a whole host of anxieties: are you writing about me? Why aren’t you writing about me? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to write that? Did you think of telling me about that post ahead of time?
MC: Have you ever felt unsafe or unprotected there, by me? Or are you talking more about the disconcerting experience of hearing how the work, and sometimes even specifically our work together, sits with me, and turns into a lesson for me over time?
A: No, I have never felt unsafe or unprotected. I think it’s more of feeling invisible.
Is it strange to have a therapist who blogs?
MC: I bet the answer is yes – although of course psychotherapists have been writing about their work and their cases for generations in books and theory, in psychoanalytic journals, in case presentations. But I suppose, that the intended audience in those circumstances is other psychotherapists – but they certainly aren’t the only potential audiences. Clients can purchase journals and search the archives and download abstracts of publications by their psychotherapists. I think that I decided that those publications were “hidden” behind largely illusory boundaries and pretend firewalls. And that if my writing could be available for purchase in a journal, it could be available and accessible for free online.
I’ve heard my psychotherapist present a case before – although thankfully it wasn’t MY case. But I suspect that if I did encounter something he had written about us, or me, or about what our relationship engendered in him, that I would be largely (but not entirely) comforted by it. And that comforted or not, it would be meaningful and incorporated into our relationship in meaningful ways.
A: Should I even read your blog, or not?
MC: Of course I will tell you that you are welcome to. I wouldn’t post it if I wasn’t able and willing to talk about whatever it may stir up or activate. But for yourself I suppose the answer to that question is what do you look to the blog for? What are you seeking there? What do you learn that isn’t revealed to you in session, or couldn’t be if you asked? Do you hurt yourself with it? Or comfort yourself? Does it soothe you? Or overstimulate you?
A: Initially, I look for signs of me. I have this ritual anytime you publish a new blog post. I don’t click on the link immediately. I wait, and when I’m ready to take it in, I quickly scan the entire essay, looking for any hints of me. Only once I know if I’m in the post, or not, can I give it a proper read. Sometimes I’m relieved to see that I’m there, sometimes I’m annoyed to find hints of myself; sometimes I’m relieved to see that I’m not there, sometimes I’m annoyed that I’m nowhere to be found. It’s complicated.
Sometimes I read just to understand what’s going in with you, to figure out what topics or ideas are being stirred up in your head, that wouldn’t come out in a session otherwise. Sometimes the blog is very comforting, present and past posts alike. Sometimes current posts are very over-stimulating and I can’t read it at all. It largely depends on the topic, and where I’m at in my own internal experience, and where we are at in our relationship together.
MC: That makes sense. I’m glad that you have found a ritual to create a frame around how you read it.
A: When we first started working together I feared I would never be interesting enough to feature in a post. Later I cringed to see anything that felt remotely familiar.
MC: Cringed in what way? Pain? Fear? Or was it the uncertainty if it referred to you or us at all? Have you ever read anything that made you worried about my allegiance to you?
Heinz Kohut talks about the need that we have to be reflected back to ourselves in relationships, in ways that are simultaneously accurate and admiring. That many of us have grown up in a hall of fun house mirrors that have taught us ugly distortions about who we really are. It sounds like when you read something about a fictionalized or conglomerate client (i.e.: “Some do this, and some do that”) you might worry that you are the client being discussed, or that it activates a fear of being distorted? Or, when you have felt certain that I am processing something about our relationship have you felt unfairly represented?
A: I am all too familiar with that fun house of mirrors. I just cringed to see me, or us, or our work together, there in writing, on the internet, for everyone to see. It often feels like looking at parts of my soul from outside of my own body. And yes, I often feel disoriented and not sure if I am seeing myself or something else, all together, entirely different.
MC: It sounds like when I try to sift what I hear and what I learn as a psychotherapist down to its universalizing core – and it strikes you there – that it feels simultaneously relieving, exposing, erasing (feeling invisible). I do try to really boil the themes and ideas down to the marrow – I never write about anything that I don’t recognize as being located in the depths of my own soul, as a client, as a therapist too.
One of the most popular blog posts I ever wrote, I wrote thinking of you, almost as a prayer for you, and I don’t know if you saw yourself in it at all.
A: Not at the time. I wish you had told me this when you posted it. It would have meant a lot to hear that from you, at that time. I treasure it now, it is a wonderful gift, and it means a lot to me that your words resonated with so many of your readers.
MC: I think that it didn’t occur to me to tell you about the post, because I was trying to tell you, explicitly and directly exactly these thoughts in each session – and it seemed hard for you to take it in.
A: Well exactly, so maybe this was another attempt to get through to me? But this is what I mean when I say that you do such a good job of writing about the every-person that it seems everyone sees themselves in your writing and stories. So sometimes it makes it hard for me to find myself among the collective, among the shared consciousness and unconsciousness and archetypes and histories.
My favorite line in that whole post is this: “Sometimes when things turn brutal for someone I care about I’ll just hang on for dear life.” It is comforting to know that you will hang on, and won’t just drop your end of the rope.
But also, I am very conscious of “using you all up.” Of demanding too much, or taking too much, that you have nothing left to give. That is always a fear of mine. Even if you do your best to regulate on your end, I still worry that I am too much.
MC: I never experience you that way, I didn’t experience my clients in day treatment program that way either – I just needed to eat my lunch with the door closed, to feed myself, so I could come back to them.
A: Then there’s the reality that it’s your blog, and your side of the story. Sometimes it seems your readers hang on your every word, oblivious to the parts that have been edited out.
MC: I try to edit out parts to protect my clients – and report, as accurately as I can, my own ugly and unflattering failures – but I have noticed that weird phenomena – that when you try to write honestly about things you really truly feel failed at, strangers idealize you as being “brave” or “authentic” when sometimes I am neither – I am really just writing about failing.
A: I know. I don’t think all of your readers realize that you can actually fail. Some see you as this “amazing” and “perfect” therapist (you may have closed down your comments, but other bloggers will re-blog a post, and those comments are still wide open).
MC: I’ve never ever read that or followed those links. It never occurred to me.
A: I know you laugh at my references to your “fan club,” but you have one. And I think it even surprised me, to witness first-hand the extent at which you could fail. And that’s without ever idealizing you as the perfect therapist. I thought you might be a good fit for me, and I knew from your blog that I should be prepared for mistakes and mis-attunements.
MC: You and I hit a very hard impasse, while you were really just rounding the bend of your first year in therapy with me – and, in my mind – it occurred at the intersection of a few normative misunderstandings, miscommunications as well as some major misfortunes. As a member of the “sandwich generation” caring for my elders and my children, my mother became suddenly seriously ill – and I was under extraordinary strain: logistically, financially, emotionally. I was just generally as exhausted and depleted as I have ever been in my life, and I was not always able to protect my caseload, or you, from what was happening to and around me.
A: Sometimes it makes me feel trusted that I know more of the story than you share in your blog. Sometimes it makes me feel angry that you’ve left a critical piece of information out and I wish you hadn’t disabled the comments so that I could write in and set the record straight.
MC: Can you tell me when? This is your chance! Set the record straight! If you ever have felt distorted I will always want that clarified. Or are you referring to things about myself that I cannot see or understand easily without checks and balances of others in place? Even when it stings, I’m glad, ultimately, to learn about my own shadow from you.
A: You wrote a series of posts on conflict in the therapeutic relationship, at the exact time that we were embattled in a conflict of our own. It was the only time you told me in advance of a post that you were working on. You told me that the post was not about me. I didn’t believe you then, or now. Maybe it wasn’t entirely about me, but I was definitely in there. How could I not be?
MC: I still don’t experience that piece as being about you or about us. I wrote that piece trying to process what I was left with after a newish client walked out on me, quite enraged, after just a few sessions. It felt like a violent refusal to enter into conflict – and I was left with all this stuff that I really wanted to say and nowhere to put it. It was during this “sandwiched” time – and I was late or missing sessions in order to shuttle my mother to chemotherapy appointments and frankly I was pissing people off left and right. My kids were enraged with me because of my unavailability, my mother needed to handle more alone than she was capable of, I disrupted or disappointed or upset my entire caseload. I didn’t think of that piece as being about you, because we were actively staying connected in our conflict as hard as it was – I wrote it aimed toward all the clients I’ve ever known who could or would not stay when conflict emerged, and what I wished could have happened instead.
But I can never be sure what will emerge as an unconscious influence in something I’ve written. Of course you were present in that piece, as were all the people I was in conflict with at that time, all the people I was disappointing. But I wasn’t consciously focusing on our impasse as I wrote it. I recognized later that it could be read as applicable to us, which is why I wanted to give you a heads up – because I knew that you actually read the blog.
A: I too would have bolted if conflict erupted when I was still a “newish” client. I nearly bolted more than a year into our work together. What really upset me was that it felt that no one seemed to realize that there were actual clients behind these posts. That there was someone in sheer and writhing pain. I just wanted to scream “there’s a real person over here, in agony, curled up in a ball… could you all stop waxing and waning philosophical for a moment and pay attention to the actual person, over there in the corner.”
MC: I’ve been in that position in the past, curled in that ball. I knew you were in pain during that time. I didn’t forget your pain. And I know, with regard to that particular conflict, it is sometimes still present.
A: Yes, there can be a good side of anger, but I just felt that my side, the angry, dark, hurting side, was left out. I felt hurt, and like no one cared, because “hey, isn’t this anger stuff in therapy great!” No, it’s not, not when you are in the thick of it.
MC: It is terrifying and horrible when it is activated and we are lost in the thick of it, as you say. It is learning to survive it and find ways to regain and create intimacy that is the “great” part – but that is only great with some hindsight. In real time it is terrifying.
A: Sometimes it makes me feel annoyed that your readers get the benefit of our work for free, that they get a nice-and-tidy summary of one of our sessions, without having to put in anything. We did the work, I paid the fee, and your readers reap the benefits!
MC: You mean when our conversation teaches me something in real time right in front of you (as in that link)? And then I write out the pieces that came together so that I can remember it, and then I share it? I bet what makes you angry is that YOU taught ME that lesson through our relationship, and that I then made it my own, and shared it with others. But I HOPE that works in the other direction too sometimes? I hope that we always teach each other and can hang onto what we learn together, and make something of it.
A: I don’t mind you sharing our work with a broader audience. Like many who blog about therapy, and the kinds of issues that brings one to therapy in the first place, I’m delighted and touched if my own experiences and our own therapeutic alliance and processes can be of use to anyone else out there. If what we work through together in session can have a life and meaning outside the closed doors, and help alleviate the pain and suffering of another, then I’m thrilled.
I guess it just becomes hard when our work done together becomes your work. It’s not that I’m mad that you shared it, it’s that I wish for an acknowledgement from you before it gets shared out to the world. “The work we did today in session was really important and meaningful and I want to blog about that. Would that be okay with you, even if I can’t mention you, directly or indirectly, because I need to protect your confidentiality?”
MC: It’s difficult because I don’t always know what you will hear yourself in, or where you have entered into a piece without my awareness. I work very hard to disguise everything, and really think of people in the aggregate when I write. I don’t always know where you are. And even in the piece that you experienced as a very direct summary of our session together – as I wrote it I was thinking about all the ways that love is soft, and hard, and beautiful and violent. And again, when I was finished I could see how it overlapped with our discussion and other clinical and personal interactions that I’d had. And my own therapy and therapist too. I will make this commitment: when I know that I am consciously writing about us, I will be sure to tell you and ask. And I can I ask you to tell me anytime you see our relationship enter into my writing unconsciously? It is a very soupy thing. Our lives and our unconscious selves, and our “souls” without being too dramatic, become tangled up together – we become part of each other in ways that I image we don’t always recognize.
A: I know that piece wasn’t just about me, but about other relationships that you were working through. If you are wrestling with a certain issue, it is not surprising that you start to see it everywhere. And then we all work together, disconnected but collectively through you, to make sense of it all (again, making it hard to find one’s self in your writing).
It just felt uncanny – the timing of when you posted, the words and phrases that sounded verbatim to what we had talked about. I have no doubt that you worked out something for yourself when we were together. But I was a part of that.
Sometimes I think I get angry because you beat me to it. You figured it all out and wrote it down and posted it up to your blog before I even had a chance to sort through my own reactions and experiences. You’ve got a blog post written and I haven’t even made it down the elevator. And that, no doubt, adds to the confusion: what is mine, what is yours, what is ours together? How did I feel about that session? What came out? What didn’t?
MC: “What is mine, what is yours, what is ours together?” These might be the core questions of all intimacies.
A: I don’t have an audience with whom I share what I learn in therapy. I try to use it to make me a better mother and a better person, in general. But I don’t actively share any of what I learn with anyone. I indirectly share what I learn with my children. If nothing else, I strive to end the cycle of passing on generational wounds, for their own sakes. I don’t want them to have to re-learn things as an adult that they should have learned the first time around as kids.
I do want your readers to know that your openness and transparency online is magnified in session. You answer direct questions, you readily share your history and experience when it is applicable, you exhibit real human emotions whether it be joyful outbursts or tears of sadness. I feel I know you, the real you and not just some therapist persona, and that makes it easier to trust you.
MC: I think this is one of the kindest things that anyone has ever said to me.
A: You are human after-all, and not the super-human therapist on your blog.
MC: I keep telling people that, but the more you explain it to people, the less they believe you. Jung says that it is absolutely thankless to argue with the projections of others. And I am really grateful for all the humanity you have brought to our work together, and all of the ways you have encountered, and survived, and been patient, and kind, and held me accountable, and forgiven me for my own humanity.
A: That’s really irritating. How am I meant to top that? I guess it is YOUR blog, and by rights you should have the last word. But I’m not going to let you, not this time.
MC: Ha! Go for it. Bring it home!
A: In the end, I am more grateful for your place in social media than I am annoyed by it. I’ve (mostly) figured out where I live in the blog, where I am referenced, which posts are mine and which ones are inspired by me. Most of all it’s a way to connect, non-intrusively and from afar, as I count down the time to our next session. And at the end, connection is at the heart of a good therapeutic alliance.