I will have to write my own learning journal later, but today's counselling class brought up a lot of issues for me that have little to do with counselling per se, so I might as well put them down here. (Besides, I keep my journal private because it involves other people's experiences in the course - tonight I have nothing to disclose that is confidential)
We were shown a recording of one of Carl Rogers' sessions, taped around 1977. We were told to pay attention to Rogers' "core conditions" to create a therapeutic setting, but when the tape began I couldn't concentrate on them.
The fact is, the client was a young black man, and the more I watched the tape, the more I was struck by how different the past is.
First of all, I was amazed that the issue of race - as in, the therapist was a white man - was never openly discussed. If the session took place now (this was a second session, but let's assume that it was a beginning session) it would be unthinkable not to bring it up - too many things would be too loud if they were not spoken.
Secondly, this was what the client said: "It seems to me that you only have two options, you either are racist or anti-racist, and I don't want to be anti-racist". In 1977 it was possible to say this. And also: "If you are black and you are angry, you are militant, and militancy is frowned upon [in my milieu]". And here I thought: what innocent times.
It was very obvious that the client, despite sporting an afro (afros looked very cool - it didn't hurt that the client was cute - and a lot cooler than the shaved or closely cropped styles of today), and being sort of dressed like a black young man, spoke white, and very obviously believed that integration was possible if one could only be colorblind enough - this was what he meant by meaning that he didn't want to be "anti-racist". You could still think back then that you could escape the whole issue.
I could almost hear Tempest shouting in the background. :-)
In short, I could not concentrate on how the therapist showed acceptance and empathy, because it seemed to me that both of them were locked in oblivious times.
Then I came home and I watched an episode of Without a Trace that I hadn't seen before (which makes it a new series episode, I think) that centered about Katrina, and all my old outrage and helpless fury came back. I need to spoiler a bit here so I'll put it behind a cut:
( Spoilers for )
And with those two lines the episode goes from being rather sloppy to being a rather hard indictment of all the wrongs that have been done, and let happen, and how they cannot be erased, ameliorated, washed away. It's easy of course to say "They", but as the storyline makes clear even people who "did the best they could" are not safe, are not absolved, are not able to sleep undisturbed.
So I found myself crying again, for a change.
You'd wonder why I keep treating myself to Without a Trace and Cold Case, who always make me cry and leave me blue.
Well... First of all, I have to add that I am sort of disappointed that in a subculture that rabidly watches and discusses TV shows, I always seem to be watching the wrong ones. For example, now everybody is watching Heroes, and of course Dr. Who here, and before that it was Buffy/Angel/Firefly. And here I am, glued to the set and completely absorbed by Dexter, and nobody to talk it over with! I feel so left out.
Anyway - back when I was in Italy I was addicted to this real-TV programme that was called "Have you seen...?" . It was about missing persons, and it consisted of two or three reconstructions of the missing person's life and circumstances, with an appeal to the public for sightings and hints of their whereabouts.
Most of my friends were horrified. Why do you watch that shit, they would say, it's a terrible programme, if people want to disappear why dont' they let them in peace.
There was indeed an element of intrusiveness and persecution, especially in the first seasons, but there was a lot about looking for the unmissed, caring for the unwanted, trying to understand crushed, lost lives, lives spiralling out of control, life slowly unravelling among the indifference or impotence of the surrounding family, friends, neighbours.
Cold Case and Without a Trace share this same quality (with, of course, my counselling course): they are exercises in understanding and empathy. As cop shows they are unusual as there is relatively little righteousness. Often the ending is bitter. They proceed not so much by detection as by inquiry, following the threads of a lost person with empathy and an effort at understanding. And the truth that is uncovered, even if it leads to a solution or justice, is often a painful truth. Cold Case very often tries to offer consolation or closure, but this acts on me more as an excuse for emotional release than as healing. (The coda, usually a meeting of the main characters who forgive, understand, hug, meet, or mourn together, is often so artificial as to be open to the interpretation that it is Lily's fantasy, her summing up of the case, her wish-fulfillment).
More worrying, as far as my possible future as a counsellor is concerned, is that I find it very hard to go beyond what is my own private emotional release to real empathy. The tutor today gently chided me because I couldn't let go of the notion that the client was in denial about his dread about dying (he had leukaemia, in remission), but I realized that I couldn't let go of MY dread, of MY feelings, what I would have felt in his situation. In fact, it would have been very difficult for me in a real client-counsellor situation not to let myself be overcome by feelings that are not so much empathetic as projective.
The more I go on, the more I realize that I would like very much to become a counsellor. But I am honestly doubtful if I have what it takes. I manage to be always so isolated. I pride myself on my empathy but what it could be is just that I am very much in contact with my feelings (and after twenty years in analysis and a counselling course and various and sundry other psychotherapies I bloody well should be). It remains to be seen if I can be of help to others.
I was very frustrated today because I had a hard time understanding what Rogers and his client were saying - the audio was 1977 quality. Also, I had a hard time sometimes understanding my fellow students. This goes alongside my immense frustration yesterday at Spaghetti House, where I found myself seated among interesting people that I liked very much saying interesting things and totally unable to take part in the conversation because I could only snatch floating snippets of conversations, enough to pique my interest but not enough to reconstruct what was being said (and there is a limit to the number of times you can ask "Who? What? What did she say? What are you talking about?").
Maybe it's the tiredness, but my comprehension, though better than it was, is still limited, and I wonder if it has hit its ceiling.
All in all, I felt alone and isolated, even though I knew I was among people who did care for me.
I am not depressed - but I am... sort of sad.
