Yes, Mad Men has gone there. Draper (as I like to call him with a little extra emphasis on the DRA, making me sound like a 1920s newspaper editor) is now journaling and viewers have the privilege of hearing every thought he puts down on paper with help of voice-over magic. I was half paying attention to the show (thanks, Facebook) and I thought it was a commercial for a high-end car. But no, it was Draper! His narrative was quite profound, so much so that I can't remember any of it, except for something about everyone being ruined. I can't help but feel frustrated watching these scenes knowing that John Hamm is sitting at his pretend desk in his pretend apartment pretending to think. Maybe I'm jealous... I want a voice-over throughout my days, streaming each of my precious thoughts . Would it be better if John Hamm was hired to read the script? But I still don't think my voice-over, read by Mr. Hamm would be that profound. Is it because Matt Weiner isn't writing it? What would life be like if Matt Weiner wrote the script? Right now, my voice over is saying, "Jeez, I sound high," in John Hamm's voice, no less. And there you have it.
"I don't know, it was sort of like I was plugged up...and now the plug came out. Wait, that doesn't sound good, does it?"
I actually said this to my therapist yesterday, accomplishing my childish goal of making him laugh at least once each session. I was referring to my brain being put on ice for approximately a year. Living with chronic stress for this long--and not the I have so much to do how will I ever get it done, but more like the life and death kind--can induce a dementia-like state where my mind is in a thousand places and nowhere all at once. Anyway, here I am. And there you are.
Dear Azzurri (AKA the Italian national soccer team),
Today, you have disappointed me. I woke up at 6:30 AM to prep for the game, which included stretching, setting up ESPN, and getting a protein heavy breakfast within arm's length. I wanted to make sure I was alert, focused, and fueled for what should be a nice, easy win. Wearing my "Forza Italia" shirt from 2006, I positioned myself on the couch for maximum cheering ability.
Little did I know then that there'd be very little cheering. Instead of the champions I rooted for during the last cup, I was faced with a team that looked like they ate too much mozzarella this morning. You moved slower than my Nonna Lucia, and she's dead. You needed a personal invitation to approach the ball. You'd leave Slovakian players completely alone to chase a ball two other Azzurri were already on. Then, said isolated Slovakian player ran past you and stole the ball, like 74 times. Speed wasn't your only impairment, oggi. Skill was also out to lunch. In pee-wee soccer, I learned that you never pass center in the box. As a defender, I took this very seriously, even at 5 years of age. Only a stronzo would do that, right? Oh yes, right. Well, unfortunately, that stronzo is on your team...and he's much older than 5.
I have to admit, the last two goals were nice, even the one where you were off-sides. Maybe your clock was off but those happened in the last 10 minutes of the game. Poor planning, I have to say. You might want to bring an umbrella on the plane. I have a feeling it'll be raining in Italy when you return...raining rotten tomatoes.
No, I haven't been watching too many episodes of The Real Housewives of New Jersey (RHNJ). I've been too busy working on my self-torture project known as graduate school qualifying exam. What these two things, RHNJ and grad school in clinical psychology, have in common is that they are excellent examples of the how culture often shapes our thoughts and behaviors. Is this a MacArthur Genius Award-worthy idea? Most definitely not. It just helped me make sense of the fact that I am the only person of Italian decent in my program.
One day in our group supervision, a few classmates of mine were discussing a family case they were working with. They showed the session video, which had captured a mother and teen-aged daughter speaking loudly at the same time while waving their hands around. Our wonderfully insightful and incredibly supportive supervisor made a keen observation: this family talks very loudly and often over each other. Other families, apparently, were more quiet and subdued, often sitting in silence and taking turns to insult each other rather than interrupt, all of which is totally odd, in my opinion (Why? You'll see.) Then, my classmate says: Well, they're Greek. Aha! That's the diagnosis for poor communication skills, being Greek. Then said supervisor asks: Is this cultural? It's like Italians. Do we have any Italians here? All eyes turn to me, the daughter of Italian (pop) and Ecuadorian (mama) parents. Also, what makes me even more of an authority on all things Italian is that I'm a native New Yorker. I'm practically the Dhali Llama of Italian-American culture.*
What could I have done with this? At first, I sat there stunned with eyes wide open (not unlike those flashed by Dina or Caroline when there's been an "attack" on the famiglia). This is when I realized that I was the only person in the room with any sort of Italian descent. One could imagine this being a very strange moment for someone who grew up in a predominantly Italian/Irish area of New York where it was weird if you weren't Italian--instead of Smiths and Williamses, we had Cusomanos, Pagliucas and DiFazios. I also realized that I don't know any other Italian-American in Los Angeles, except for my husband's friend who's a self-identified "pizza-bagel," an Italian-Jewish hybrid from Boston. That doesn't count.
I asked myself: Are Italians loud? Some do of course speak at elevated volumes, myself and my immediate family included. My Italian immigrant family in Brooklyn is not loud, in fact, they are Mario-Puzo's-The-Godfather quite. All you'll hear from them is a low, scratchy whisper, at best. Unless you piss them off, then watch out. OK, so we're loud. Fine.
So, I responded: Did you just ask me if Italians are loud? (laughing) I suppose some are. Let's face it, I'm a little loud, for a therapist at least. How is this relevant to Greeks? Actually, what I think we should be asking ourselves is how this style of communication, marked by conflicting shows of power, interferes with their relationship? For one thing, this Italian (pointing to myself) often feels like it's so hard to be heard in this context, that you have to ramp up the volume. (Yeah, nice, right? Well, I could have just flipped the table on them.)
After this, I started to think about my therapeutic style: tons of empathy punctuated with playful challenging that I fondly refer to as "gentle-tough-love." I find that this approach help me build rapport quickly and gets my clients to let their guard down. Do I get this from my Italian culture? Maybe. Then there's the volume issue. I am louder than other colleagues, who have a distinct "therapy voice." It's softer that the "indoor voice" and much more annoying. Frankly, I hate when I'm spoken to that way in therapy. As a friend once told me: You like to keep it real. And I do.
My clinical evaluations from supervisors often say that clients appear to feel heard and comfortable with me. Maybe, because of my history of decibel-driven power struggles growing up, I know how important that can be for someone. I also don't let my clients off easy. I'm also like this with my classmates, albeit with much less tough love. I just think it's interesting how culture can shape my therapeutic style. Culturally-matching therapist and clients have been debated in the field and it's kind of a mixed bag of findings with regards to it's benefits or costs. What's interesting to me is that I often get contacted by other therapists trying to refer difficult clients. Maybe, the true "culture" here is just that neither the client or I take BS lightly. If that's a cultural match, so be it! Now, geddouta hea!
*This just happen to be the PhDini being minister of all things Italian. Most other days, I'm the minister of all things "Latino." I'm very important and influencial.
I've noticed that people are often curious about what therapists think about during sessions...or outside of sessions, for that matter. To sate this craving, I'll start posting random therapists' thoughts...enjoy.
OK, I lied about writing regularly. I admit it. I'm a dirty liar. I sit in an over-sized arm chair of lies. In the spirit of forgiveness and acceptance, here I am.
While on the elliptical (yes, I was at the gym...a miracle in and of itself), I nearly had an emotional melt down when my "Workout or Die" playlist reached a silly song that had no business pushing me over the edge. Despite how embarrassing this is, I will let you in on the tune...(wait for it, wait for it)...The All-American RejectsMoving Along. There it is, for everyone to see. Now, this isn't what I typically "rock out" to. A while back, when I fancied myself a runner, I downloaded the "Lance Armstrong Run Longer Coaching Mix," a training playlist full of boppy and thumping tunes with the added bonus of Lance, himself, telling you to run faster...and faster...and faster! To which I reply, "You run faster, Lance." Anyway, that's how I ended up with this song on my iPod. Why did this diddy touch a nerve, you may be asking yourself?
Well, the answer to this question explains my recent, loooong, hiatus. My husband and I went through one of the most difficult times of our lives. Without getting into specifics, the ordeal involved mystery symptoms, neurosurgery, and a lot of risks. The kind of risks that found us jotting down advanced directives in a notebook I just happen to keep in my purse for those "oh, let me write that down" moments, right before he went under the knife. Needless to say, I never expected to be jotting anything like this down. Yes, we're too young to be dealing with such things. Unfortunately, there are a lot of things that we're too young for in the deck life has handed us. But this was the worst, for me anyway. The next 12 hours I would spend in agony. Will he make it? In what state will he be in? Am I strong enough to be there for him? I was in my absolute most vulnerable state. No amount of self-therapy could bring me back.
Everything, in time, occurred as well as it possibly could. We were displaced for a month in New York, recovering. In many ways, I felt like we were recovering from both the surgery and our tormented lives up until this point. We were stuck in a limbo of sorts. In our East-side sublet, we saw a lot of friends and family, who we realized we missed terribly. I also did a lot of soul searching. That old cliche about it taking something akin to hell to help you make sense of life, what you want your life to be, turned out to be my reality. Which is why I'm here now, writing. And why I was at the gym on the elliptical sobbing over that ridiculous song. It was hearing these lyrics that did it: Move along, move along like I know you do, And even when your hope is gone, Move along, move along just to make it through...
I feel like this is all very vague and overly expository, and not to mention a total cheese factory, but in order to truly move on with this experience, to make sense of my being MIA, and stay true to what I want my life to be, it feels necessary. So here I am,back from the war, with a renewed spirit and clarity that have managed to seep into just about every nook and cranny of my life. I'm living healthier, working harder, and, most important of all, thinking better (in my humble opinion). This last bit has really reshaped my work with clients...making me a better therapist. This is why I'm sharing all of this with you. I've taken the cases I've been working on in completely different directions. This is all a part of the budding psychologists' development. Life happens, even to therapists.
So, what to expect? Well, this is the last of these Barbra Walter posts about life epiphanies...at least I sure as hell hope it is. What I'd like to do includes sharing my adventures with my current client, cutting out a stale case, and sharing my experiences taking on a few more new clients. I'll also be sharing the typical grad school hijinks that I manage to get myself in. I'm also celebrating my 30th birthday next week, so I'm sure there will be the occasional post on the psychology of aging. It'll be fun, I promise. OK, let's go!
