Myself Help: A Psychotherapist's Journey toward Authenticity - Softcover

Anderson, Dana

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1452559589 ISBN 13: 9781452559582

Publisher: BalboaPress, 2012

Synopsis

Are you suffering the loss of a loved one? Feeling terribly isolated and shameful about your secret grief? Do you believe you should be over it? Are you considering seeing a therapist but believe you must be crazy to enter psychotherapy? Are you afraid to let a therapist know it's been a very long time since you lost your loved one and you are still feeling lonely and devastated? Are you afraid a psychotherapist will judge you-that he or she may find out you are soothing yourself by some unacceptable behavior? Have you stopped going to church? Cut yourself off from community and possibilities that have nurtured your spirit in the past? Are you just plain feeling badly about yourself? Have you ever felt any of these things? Myself Help is the story of anyone who has heard a critic in their mind, felt guilty about certain choices they've made, or felt loneliness while surrounded by loved ones. Dana Anderson shares her personal story while providing helpful tools for growth and healing. Myself Help is an inspirational tale told with humor.

About this title

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

MYSELF HELP

A Psychotherapist's Journey toward AuthenticityBy Dana Anderson

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2012 Dana Anderson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-5958-2

Contents

Part 1: Oh, Good Grief.....................................................1My Not-So-Pretty Prologue..................................................3Just a Guy Named Galileo...................................................7Better Start with My Grief Dance...........................................11Literally, Labels..........................................................15Changes Your Address Book..................................................19The Leveling...............................................................23The Living Lonely..........................................................27Harold and Maude...........................................................31DABDA......................................................................37It's PTSD, Not ADHD, OCD, ADD, or OCCD.....................................41Ahhhh, the Adrenaline......................................................45A Margarita on the Beach...................................................49Ugh, Regret................................................................53Oh-So-Perfect Perception...................................................57From Wall Street or Main Street to Speaker Street..........................61Harry's Generation.........................................................65Securing a Sibling.........................................................69Bittersweet Babies.........................................................71Jackie Oh-So-Stoic.........................................................73The Calendar Calamity......................................................77Lousy Liberation...........................................................81Dogs and Divorce...........................................................83My Residual Mallard Unhappiness............................................87Oh My, Meds................................................................91Part 2: Oh SH**T! Shame!...................................................93It's Okay to Be A-C-o-A....................................................95It's Psychotherapy, Not Psychobabble.......................................99Have You No Shame?!........................................................103Argh, the Abandonment......................................................107Angst and Anger............................................................109That Dreaded Word Codependence.............................................113Those Blasted Boundaries...................................................117Count on Calculus..........................................................121To Do, To Do, To Do, To Do.................................................123Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding...............................................127The Good Luck Fisherwoman..................................................129I Might Not Be So Important................................................133The Pesky Parrot on Your Shoulder..........................................137Heal Thy Diagnostic Self...................................................141Oh, My Gentle German.......................................................145I Choose God over Google...................................................149Kick the Clique............................................................151Part 3: Oh Great God!......................................................155Grazing and Gazing.........................................................157The Camel and the Tent.....................................................161The Ties That Bind.........................................................163The Menu at the Restaurant.................................................167Just Do It.................................................................171Eck—Spectations!.....................................................175My Cleansing Coquinas Walk.................................................177The Clearing of the Clutter of the Chatter of the Mind.....................181Table the Television.......................................................183Meditation, Not Mediation..................................................185Ah, Affirmations...........................................................187Don't Buck the Buck........................................................191Ahhhh ... the Om...........................................................193New Thought, Not New Age...................................................195It's Intentions............................................................197Not-So-Sneaky Synchronicity................................................199So, It's Spirituality......................................................203Just a Gull Named Jonathan.................................................205Oh, For the Love of God....................................................207Exit Stage Left, Epilogue..................................................211P.S. The Big Q.............................................................213P.P.S. Another Ancient Math Dude...........................................215My Most Recommended Books/Authors..........................................217Notes......................................................................219

Chapter One

My Not-So-Pretty Prologue

This is a book on grief, authenticity, and spirituality. It is opinion and intuition, not research and fact. Following my most recent relocation across state lines, I was increasingly aware of what I would have called my own hypocrisy. At least it felt like hypocrisy, which I eventually understood to be my personal "authenticity work."

I've done well as a psychotherapist. I know how to help my clients. I know how to help my family. I can help myself, but I don't always do it. In fact, I sometimes consciously and rebelliously do the opposite. And then I sit with my clients and listen. And think. And listen and think. And often I provide insight. I may even tell them what to do. And it works. I have had great successes in my practice, and I am proud of them. Yet sometimes, I don't follow my own advice. I don't always do (or not do) what I think I should or shouldn't do.

It hasn't always been that way. There was a time when I was walking the walk. But then came a complication.

This book is an admission, a witness, a sharing of my virtues and vices. You see, I both believe in and have witnessed transformation—major transformation. I have transformed my "self" in many ways, and yet I discovered a new block—something that kept me from my full potential. I thought I knew what it was—I'm a therapist, for goodness sake. And I have a personal spiritual practice. Then why didn't I just "fix it"? What was stopping me? Something in the past? Perhaps.

When I was in college, studying to be an actress, I went to a psychotherapist and told her my sad childhood story. I told it well, explaining that I wanted to be a great actress and that I was aware I had "issues." I wanted to work through these issues so that I could be a fabulous and authentic artist. The psychotherapist was so impressed that she sent me on my merry way after only one session. I was healed.

Of course, I wasn't really healed. Later, I learned that what I had done was to intellectualize all my problems—very well. I spoke with such honesty and articulation that I fooled the therapist. The problem was that during that session, I barely felt a thing. I totally avoided what therapists call affect. I needed to connect affect with my story. I needed to feel something. But I didn't.

This avoidance of feelings went on for some time. Years later, I went into therapy to do my "deep work," so that I could become a fabulous and authentic psychotherapist. I also wanted to figure out how I ended up where I was at the time—divorced. And it worked. I processed my adult-child-of-alcoholic (ACoA) issues (my tendency for codependency), and I became a successful psychotherapist. (Doing personal therapy work is not only mandated by our legal and ethical guidelines, but it also is critical so that a future psychotherapist understands what it's like to be "in the hot seat." Great harm could result from a therapist's not having worked through his or her own personal issues.)

Following my relocation, although I still could help my clients, I began to sense old feelings of guilt (and its ugly sidekick, shame), post-traumatic stress (anxiety), and grief. I returned to behaviors that helped me avoid those feelings. I would have said that "affect" hardly seemed to be an issue, because I'd always been a weeper—an openly emotional person, the classic "bleeding heart." I was a member of Greenpeace at age fourteen and gave money to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, the World Wildlife Fund, and the Nature Conservancy before I was even old enough to have a bank account. I felt something for everyone and everything. And yet now, I was beginning to wonder, What was I feeling for myself?

As an adult child of an alcoholic, I was hyper-vigilant in monitoring my behaviors, making sure I did only a little of something but rarely too much. "Moderation is the key to a good life" was my motto, and moderation applied to both good and bad. I could see myself as the backup singer but not the star. I drank wine but rarely liquor. When I started to shine at something, I backed away. This enabled me to keep feelings like anxiety or guilt at bay and put me in control. I had it all figured out ... or so I thought.

In 2006, I relocated to Reno, Nevada, leaving behind a busy, wait-list practice with a solid reputation in Napa, California. That reputation was based solely on my work with adolescents, though I also specialized in other areas, including trauma and eating disorders. But in this new place, I had no reputation. I needed to rebuild what I'd lost by moving, and I did not anticipate my own grief at the loss of my successful practice. I had no idea how heavily my ego was tied to my reputation. I thought I was above this, having an ego. Of course I wasn't, and I went through a depression during the first year in the new town—a depression I denied. On the outside, I was having fun, fun, fun. Deep down, I was feeling lost, lost, lost, even though I'd convinced myself that I needed a break and moving would be a good thing. (I would write a book!)

I had no idea how deeply ingrained my reputation was in my self-worth. After all, I believed that the greatest benefit of change was opportunity, and I am a seizer (perhaps a Caesar) in this arena. I truly saw this opening as an opportunity to reinvent myself. I'd loved working with teens, but I thought my best work was with women in the area of codependence. My ability to utilize my love of metaphysics only enhanced the potential, and I set out to attract women who were on a higher path of transformation. My "Oprah crowd," I called them.

I ended up attracting women on a path of grief (definitely "Oprah gals"). I began seeing what I had generally referred to as my "trauma" lens as a "grief" lens. It took a move across state lines (of which there'd been many) for me to realize I had grief issues. The residue of grief that caused me to move around more than the average person hadn't been loud enough to shout out, "Hey! You're running from something!" I thought I had grieved (or mourned). After all, I'd run the gamut of emotions associated with grief. Apparently, it hadn't been enough.

My mom died from alcoholism when I was eighteen years old. I was in the "invincible" stage common to teenagers, and I went on, I played hard. I became an adrenaline junkie, seeking out situations that would enable me to avoid feelings. I'll explain this in more detail later, but I now believe that I eventually took on a trauma lens as a therapist in order to confine my own emotions in the clinical realm. That enabled me to avoid focusing on my own grief. Eventually, however, I was no longer able to do this. The universe had been telling me in every way possible, "Hey! You're grieving. You should be doing your own grief work." I didn't get it. Until the reinvention. And the complication.

The move from California to Nevada made my personal need crystal clear. I could help others, but I still had some of my own demons to work on, and those bastards showed up big time in the new location. I say that, but I tend to exaggerate—it's the ACoA in me. We tend to exaggerate our shame issues, at least with ourselves. Still, my own shame and guilt and grief were preventing me from being my authentic self, and this began to wreak havoc on my psyche.

Fortunately for me, I love to play connect the dots. The spectacles I wear are bifocals: on the top for intentions, and below, synchronicity. This easily creates and reveals what the picture is—even to the blindest of us. And for me, as I believe for everyone, these dots connect us with our true spirit—the divine as it is, both in us and working through us at all times.

Today, I am grateful for this move, for my work, and for my family. I hope to share this story openly and honestly, so that it will help others.

Chapter Two

Just a Guy Named Galileo

In the sixteenth century, Galileo Galilei said,

Philosophy is written in this grand book — I mean the universe — which stands continually open to our gaze, but it cannot be understood unless one first learns to comprehend the language in which it is written. It is written in the language of mathematics, and its characters are triangles, circles, and other geometric figures, without which it is humanly impossible to understand a single word of it; without these, one is wandering about in a dark labyrinth.

For these reasons (so well articulated by Galileo), I include the following supplementary American Psychiatric Association definitions (fun stuff!):

Grief: Normal, appropriate emotional response to an external and consciously recognized loss; it is usually time-limited and subsides gradually. To be distinguished from depression. See mourning.

Mourning: Grief: reaction to a loss of a love object (i.e., important person, object, role, status, or anything considered part of one's life) consisting of a process of emotional detachment from that object which frees the subject to find other interests and enjoyments.

Bereavement: Feelings of deprivation, desolation, and grief at the loss of a loved one. The grieving person does not need to seek professional help unless these feelings last for a long period or relief is sought for symptoms such as insomnia.

Depression: When used to describe a mood, depression refers to feelings of sadness, despair, and discouragement. As such, depression may be a normal feeling state. The overt manifestations are highly variable and may be culture specific. Depression may be a symptom seen in a variety of mental or physical disorders, a syndrome of associated symptoms secondary to an underlying disorder, or a specific mental disorder. Slowed thinking, decreased pleasure, decreased purposeful physical depressive syndrome. Depression in children may be indicated by refusal to go to school, anxiety, excessive reaction to separation from parental figures, antisocial behavior, and somatic complaints.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD): An anxiety disorder in which exposure to an exceptional mental or physical stressor is followed, sometimes immediately and sometimes not until three months or more after the stress, by persistent reexperiencing of the event, avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, or numbing of general responsiveness, and manifestations of increased arousal. The trauma typically includes experiencing, witnessing, or confronting an event that involves actual or threatened death or injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of oneself or others, with an immediate reaction of intense fear, helplessness, or horror.

Reexperiencing the trauma may take several forms: recurrent, intrusive, and distressing recollections (images, thoughts, or perceptions) of the event; recurrent distressing dreams of the event; sudden feeling as if the event were recurring or being relived (including dissociative flashback episodes); or intense psychological distress or physiological reactivity if exposed to internal or external cues that symbolize or resemble some part of the event.

The affected person tries to avoid thoughts or feelings associated with the event and anything that might arouse recollection of it. There may be amnesia for an important aspect of the trauma. The person may lose interest in significant activities, feel detached or estranged from others, or have a sense of a foreshortened future.

The person may have difficulty falling or staying asleep, be irritable or have angry outbursts, experience problems concentrating, and have an exaggerated startle response.

My word definitions also come from my Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary (hard cover) that is in my office (copyright 1974). I think I picked it up at a yard sale, years ago. This definitely says something about me. I'm a bit of a dinosaur. And I was curious to see how things were defined in 1974. This is one of my neurotic habits—looking up word definitions. Checking my brain (and vocabulary). You see, I come from a very articulate family, and sometimes I question whether I actually know the real definitions or just inherited the gift for gab. There are some words I was forced to Google, as my Webster's is ... well, how shall we say ... dated. In this case, I chose Wikipedia as my main source, as it is a neat contrast to my antique Webster's. I also like that fact that it is indicative of this new world we live in, one I've struggled to join. And I am proud to say, I like it. I'm starting to get comfortable in this century. Okay, it took much more than a decade but who's counting?

Chapter Three

Better Start with My Grief Dance

Start (v.): to begin a course or journey

Five years ago, if someone had referred a grief case to me, I would have sent him or her to another therapist. A specialist.

"I don't do grief work," I'd have said. "I work with trauma."

Hah. Remarkable. After you read of the loss I've experienced, you might think I would have gotten this sooner—it astounds me that I didn't see this grief piece when it was sitting there on the surfaces of all my floors, tables, and walls. Altars, pictures, collages, art, and tissues. Memories. But I didn't. Even after my double-whammy grief experience in my midthirties that left both my brother and my best friend dead (on separate occasions) and left me limp, I stuck to my trauma lens—it's so wonderful and scientific. Easily understandable. Trauma, as you will learn, creates a physiological condition. And this made it even easier to cover up the grief. It took a move to Reno and a dance with gambling (which I had scarcely done before) for me to get it. It also took a whole lot of synchronicity.

I had performed varied dances with grief prior to my double-whammy grief experience. First, "ballroom dancing," where I sought romance and intimacy (guys) to buffer and even erase its existence following my mom's death, weeks before my high school graduation. She had battled alcoholism at a time when it was considered a "brown bag" shortfall, a hobo's problem. I don't think the term "disease" was even in effect. I grew up in Michigan, shook hands with Gerald Ford at a wee age when he was one of our state representatives, and was (and still am) deeply moved by Betty Ford's heroism on many issues.

However, Mrs. Ford's tireless and brave work on women's issues came too late for my mom. After her death, it was as if I had on roller skates (Rollerblades came later, and boy, did I love them when they arrived); I was moving a little too fast. I numbly chose a school out of state, where my high school boyfriend and oldest girlfriend were going. After a "trauma" at this small liberal arts college (I was held in my dorm room for several hours—no guns, no rape, just no ability to leave—by a person who had been photographing me from a distance for many months), I transferred to the nearest place I could find. I didn't even apply to University of Michigan, which was quite unusual for my regional upbringing. I defected to Ohio State, where I could get very lost at one of the largest universities on the planet.

Then came "tap dancing," where I attempted to step on and crush all evidence of the existence of grief after a very close college friend died in a tragic house fire; I was twenty-two. We had been together through the death of his father and the wounds of my mother. This was so heartbreaking, as he and his brother died together, days before Christmas. His mom was driving from New Jersey to Ohio at the time of this fire, to be with her boys for Christmas. I can't imagine her grief as she arrived to this heartbreaking scene (no cell phones back then). To this day, twenty-five years later, I think of this mother on Christmas, even though we never met. When I recall receiving the news, I can see how I sunk deeper and deeper into my "play hard" mode. I immediately and unconsciously cut off all ties with college friends (even though one of my best college friends was as deeply wounded as I was) and excused it by a move across country.

Next came "ballet," where I soared to the heavens and gracefully ascended over grief's existence following my beloved grandmother's death. I was deep in denial when my grandmother died. We were close, despite the fact that she was a difficult character. She was also a fantastic lady, a champion for many important causes—and as such, she irritated people. I found myself pausing before mentioning her name, though I was proud of her efforts in conservation. (She taught me many naughty things that involved nail polish and fur coats—you get the picture. She was complicated.)

In the years following her stroke on Nantucket Island, while I was living on the West Coast, I couldn't bring myself to see her "compromised." I carried tremendous guilt about not visiting her for a long time. When I was in my early twenties, my grandmother had asked me to "assist" her to her end, should she need it. In my teens, it seemed undemanding, doable, and natural. As I matured, I evaded the discussions as best I could, but I am sure this contributed to my absence at the end. My grandmother died from starvation; she just stopped eating. (Continues...)

Excerpted from MYSELF HELPby Dana Anderson Copyright © 2012 by Dana Anderson. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: BalboaPress
• Publication date: 2012
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1452559589
• ISBN 13: 9781452559582
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 236