GIVE AND TAKE
I am really tired. Very tired.
Tired of shattered limbs, busted ribs, sprained arms, broken hearts, gunshot wounds, fractured skulls, broken souls, betrayed trust, fear, pre-arranged marriages, mothers emotionally abusing their daughters, fathers selling their daughters off, children finding their mother who hanged herself, incest, parents demanding perfection from their teenage kids, little children refusing to speak because they were half beaten to death by their father for opening their little mouth, mothers silently watching their husbands sexually abuse their daughters, boyfriends beating their girlfriends for taking anti-depressants in an effort to heal, injured legs from beatings with lead pipes, tears of sorrow, grief, guilt, shame, more shame, and even more shame, lots of railroad tracks, ropes, guns, knives, cables, large packs of tranquilizers, more tears, more fear, no hope, little hope.
And then there is Mr. M., a refugee who needs to pass his German test in order to remain eligible for legal immigration. Of the many forms of treatment he was offered here to heal his hopeless heart, none involved getting him some help with his German. Sometimes even head shrinks can be very dense.
Mr. M. is not my patient. I just heard about his plight during morning staff meeting.
Suicidal people struggle with 3 things:
1. They feel unloved.
2. They feel helpless to solve their problems.
3. They have low distress-tolerance.
Again following my feeling, I went up to Mr. M during my lunch break and said, "Grab your grammar book and meet me in the big room."
"???"
"Before my pain turned me into a psychotherapist I used to be a language teacher."
The damn biggest mediterranean smile I've ever seen. His therapist will help him work on his distress tolerance, but love and help in solving problems can come from anyone.
Mr. M owns a grammar book and six swizzle sticks covered with sugar crystals. Don't know what they're called, neither in German, nor English, nor Arabic.
He goes to his room, gets his book and presents me with one of his sugar-coated swizzle sticks, the only wordly possession he can share, and tells me that I should use it to sweeten my cup of tea. I've never liked sugar more.
Suddenly, my fatigue is gone.
Donnerstag, 17. Dezember 2009
Mittwoch, 16. Dezember 2009
December 16
Today, "la brava dottora" got her English patient. Anthony Minghella, eat your heart out.
I have never seen a more insecure and truly frightened young man than P, age 19, who came in during the night. He's from an English-speaking country and moved here not too long ago with mommy and daddy. His German is near perfect as is the rest of him. He is amazing. Perfect. An explanation for everything. A bundle of fear and insecurities like I didn't even think could exist in a person. He is guilty of feeling guilty for not being perfect every second of his life.His biography makes me sick, sick, sick.
The train tracks. The scars on his wrists from another suicide attempt.
It's not fun to stay alive if mommy and daddy want a perfect son.
This is how he begins nearly everything he says (in a very quiet tone of voice, of course):
"This might be a dumb question, but ..."
"I hope it's appropriate for me to say this ..."
"This might not be important ..."
"I hope I'm not annoying you ..."
He's assigned to me because I speak English. As soon as he can speak English he begins to relax a bit. One less opportunity to not have to "perform" and be perfect at it.
"P., you don't have to do anything right for me, okay? I'm your therapist, not your mother. I'll take care of you to the utmost of my ability while you're here with us. There are no dumb questions with me. Everything you want to say to me is appropriate. Everything you want to tell me is important to me. You can't annoy me. It is simply not possible for you to annoy me. I don't give grades and I don't hit."
A silent, incredulous stare.
"Really???"
"Really!"
By now I am really angry. Angry at parents. His, mine, the rest of all the other patients' parents here at the clinic. For a damn good reason.
At the end of the session I ask P. if it's okay if I give him a hug because I love giving hugs to teenage boys. No, I'm not some pervert. I'm a mom when I'm not posing as a psychotherapist.
"Really???"
"Really!"
"I'd love to get a hug from you."
"Really???" Now it's me asking.
"Really."
I have a son exactly P.'s age. His name is Robert, and he's dead. I would have loved to raise him.
Really.
After P. leaves I put my head on the table and cry.
I have never seen a more insecure and truly frightened young man than P, age 19, who came in during the night. He's from an English-speaking country and moved here not too long ago with mommy and daddy. His German is near perfect as is the rest of him. He is amazing. Perfect. An explanation for everything. A bundle of fear and insecurities like I didn't even think could exist in a person. He is guilty of feeling guilty for not being perfect every second of his life.His biography makes me sick, sick, sick.
The train tracks. The scars on his wrists from another suicide attempt.
It's not fun to stay alive if mommy and daddy want a perfect son.
This is how he begins nearly everything he says (in a very quiet tone of voice, of course):
"This might be a dumb question, but ..."
"I hope it's appropriate for me to say this ..."
"This might not be important ..."
"I hope I'm not annoying you ..."
He's assigned to me because I speak English. As soon as he can speak English he begins to relax a bit. One less opportunity to not have to "perform" and be perfect at it.
"P., you don't have to do anything right for me, okay? I'm your therapist, not your mother. I'll take care of you to the utmost of my ability while you're here with us. There are no dumb questions with me. Everything you want to say to me is appropriate. Everything you want to tell me is important to me. You can't annoy me. It is simply not possible for you to annoy me. I don't give grades and I don't hit."
A silent, incredulous stare.
"Really???"
"Really!"
By now I am really angry. Angry at parents. His, mine, the rest of all the other patients' parents here at the clinic. For a damn good reason.
At the end of the session I ask P. if it's okay if I give him a hug because I love giving hugs to teenage boys. No, I'm not some pervert. I'm a mom when I'm not posing as a psychotherapist.
"Really???"
"Really!"
"I'd love to get a hug from you."
"Really???" Now it's me asking.
"Really."
I have a son exactly P.'s age. His name is Robert, and he's dead. I would have loved to raise him.
Really.
After P. leaves I put my head on the table and cry.
Dienstag, 15. Dezember 2009
December 15
Thanks to those of you who wished me better health. I have it. The same to you. Gesundheit.
Once again following a hunch, I've decided to try a different approach with Signore L., our dear sad Italian. My colleague R. and I are going to do a double session (two therapists). We sense severe anger and fear in the man, and I think I know exactly what is bothering the past middle-age guy, but he just can't let it out. So, we are going to try a harmless version of the good cop/bad cop criminal interrogation approach to finally get to the core of all this Italian sadness. My colleague R. is excited to try it because it's so unlike him, personality-wise. It's a crazy-Judith-idea, but it is in complete harmony with the tenets of his training as existential analyst and theologian. Usually women are the good guys, right?, but today I'm going to be the bad cop and suprise Signore L., which will hopefully throw him for an even bigger loop because he thinks I'm such a nice, gentle, sweet, understanding, honest, decent person - la brava dottora, as he likes to refer to me.
So, R. and I listen to another 20 minutes of more quiet tears and sadness -- listless, aimless, colorless sadness, all drawn out to amazingly great lengths -- the exact opposite of your stereotypical Italian who'll jabber at you about food, wine, and amore at 200 miles per hour. No, listening to Signore M. is like watching an entire funeral service in slow-motion. Now, R. gives him all the empathic action Signore M. is used to from our sessions while I kind of just sit there the entire time, seemingly paying more attention to the construction work outside the office window than to the session.
Then the following scene takes place at a very rapid pace, almost like firing a machine-gun:
Very suddenly and completely unexpectedly for the poor guy I nearly shove my nose in Signore M.'s face and ask in a very sharp tone of voice, "WHAT EXACTLY IS IT THAT YOU ARE SO SCARED OF, SIGNORE M.???"
He doesn't miss a beat.
"EVERYTHING!!!!", he yells.
Bullshit.
"IT'S DEATH, RIGHT?", I yell back.
"YES, DEATH!!!!" Signore M. shouts back at me, exploding in pain and tears.
Bingo.
Buona sera.
Once again following a hunch, I've decided to try a different approach with Signore L., our dear sad Italian. My colleague R. and I are going to do a double session (two therapists). We sense severe anger and fear in the man, and I think I know exactly what is bothering the past middle-age guy, but he just can't let it out. So, we are going to try a harmless version of the good cop/bad cop criminal interrogation approach to finally get to the core of all this Italian sadness. My colleague R. is excited to try it because it's so unlike him, personality-wise. It's a crazy-Judith-idea, but it is in complete harmony with the tenets of his training as existential analyst and theologian. Usually women are the good guys, right?, but today I'm going to be the bad cop and suprise Signore L., which will hopefully throw him for an even bigger loop because he thinks I'm such a nice, gentle, sweet, understanding, honest, decent person - la brava dottora, as he likes to refer to me.
So, R. and I listen to another 20 minutes of more quiet tears and sadness -- listless, aimless, colorless sadness, all drawn out to amazingly great lengths -- the exact opposite of your stereotypical Italian who'll jabber at you about food, wine, and amore at 200 miles per hour. No, listening to Signore M. is like watching an entire funeral service in slow-motion. Now, R. gives him all the empathic action Signore M. is used to from our sessions while I kind of just sit there the entire time, seemingly paying more attention to the construction work outside the office window than to the session.
Then the following scene takes place at a very rapid pace, almost like firing a machine-gun:
Very suddenly and completely unexpectedly for the poor guy I nearly shove my nose in Signore M.'s face and ask in a very sharp tone of voice, "WHAT EXACTLY IS IT THAT YOU ARE SO SCARED OF, SIGNORE M.???"
He doesn't miss a beat.
"EVERYTHING!!!!", he yells.
Bullshit.
"IT'S DEATH, RIGHT?", I yell back.
"YES, DEATH!!!!" Signore M. shouts back at me, exploding in pain and tears.
Bingo.
Buona sera.
Montag, 14. Dezember 2009
December 14
It's very cold outside today. I have a headache the size of Texas and I'm coughing like a camel on crack. And because I'm an idiot, I forgot my bottle of Ibuprofen, my scarf, and my gloves at home. By the time I get to work I wish someone would run a Sherman tank across my body from the chest upwards to make the wheezing in my lungs and the pounding in my head stop.
Three patients and two staff meetings separate me from my lunch break. My despondent Italian, who's been feeling a bit more positive. Still, he's worried that feeling halfway good today will just make a bad tomorrow feel even worse. I wonder if this whole friggin' country of Austria doesn't run on this principle.
Then there's Herr H., who is planning on going home for Christmas. Finally. He tried to take his life in August and has been with us ever since, coming up with a new reason once a week to feel miserable so he can stay yet another week. Why? Probably because: See last sentence last paragraph.
Then there is Frau L., my translucent borderline friend whom I left with a box of crayons for the weekend. I open the ring binder she brings to our session and now it's time to gasp: Translucent Frau L., whose entire appearance is so colorless and pale that she might as well be her own ghost, drew two of the most amazingly bright pictures, just playing with the crayons, and she chose the brightest colors you can imagine: neon bright shades of green, purple, blue, yellow, red, and orange. It almost blinds and even kind of hurts me to look at the pictures. Plus she gave the picture a totally cool texture by rubbing the color on the paper surface with her finger. I am shocked. Unfortunately, our session is over, so I don't have time to talk to her about interpreting her drawings, but I ask her permission to show them at our staff meeting. She can hardly believe that I would want to show her pictures to anyone, but she gives me her consent. Later, when I show the pictures and tell my colleagues who drew them, they all sit there in utter shock, quietly mumbling words of disbelief -- especially those who had "handled" Frau L. during her past stays and who had informed me that there wasn't a damn thing we could do to get her to come alive a bit.
Conclusion: NEVER be fooled by a ghost.
Three patients and two staff meetings separate me from my lunch break. My despondent Italian, who's been feeling a bit more positive. Still, he's worried that feeling halfway good today will just make a bad tomorrow feel even worse. I wonder if this whole friggin' country of Austria doesn't run on this principle.
Then there's Herr H., who is planning on going home for Christmas. Finally. He tried to take his life in August and has been with us ever since, coming up with a new reason once a week to feel miserable so he can stay yet another week. Why? Probably because: See last sentence last paragraph.
Then there is Frau L., my translucent borderline friend whom I left with a box of crayons for the weekend. I open the ring binder she brings to our session and now it's time to gasp: Translucent Frau L., whose entire appearance is so colorless and pale that she might as well be her own ghost, drew two of the most amazingly bright pictures, just playing with the crayons, and she chose the brightest colors you can imagine: neon bright shades of green, purple, blue, yellow, red, and orange. It almost blinds and even kind of hurts me to look at the pictures. Plus she gave the picture a totally cool texture by rubbing the color on the paper surface with her finger. I am shocked. Unfortunately, our session is over, so I don't have time to talk to her about interpreting her drawings, but I ask her permission to show them at our staff meeting. She can hardly believe that I would want to show her pictures to anyone, but she gives me her consent. Later, when I show the pictures and tell my colleagues who drew them, they all sit there in utter shock, quietly mumbling words of disbelief -- especially those who had "handled" Frau L. during her past stays and who had informed me that there wasn't a damn thing we could do to get her to come alive a bit.
Conclusion: NEVER be fooled by a ghost.
Sonntag, 13. Dezember 2009
December 13
Yesterday I mentioned mania as part of bipolar depression. Here we go:
Common symptoms of mania may include:
* Abnormal/excessively high or euphoric feelings
* Extreme irritability or distractability
* Decreased need for sleep
* A marked increase in energy/activity
* Rapid or pressured speech
* Racing thoughts or a feeling that you can't slow down your mind
* You have troubles concentrating or you are easily distracted
* Signs of poor judgment, risk taking, or other bizarre behavior
* An exaggerated belief in one's own abilities or characteristics
* Increased sex drive
* Little or no insight into behavior changes
* In severe manic episodes, you can even have delusions and hallucinations. (But then you're probably hitting schizophrenia or some other psychotic disorder.)
Sounds like fun, huh? Well, it's not.
Bipolar mood disorder (some people still refer to it as manic-depressive illness) is an illness of the brain that afflicts about 1 percent of all people. This mood disorder is caused by extreme mood swings that go beyond the ups and downs of normal moods. It is treatable and manageable, but two-thirds of those with bipolar mood disorder go undiagnosed, folks, and therefore untreated. Why? Because when we go see the doc only when we're depressed, the doc may miss the high episodes.
So, you kind of got to force people to see a doctor during a high episode because people don't have insight into their own behavior and even enjoy their manic phases (reckless shopping, impulsive business decisions, scary driving, lots of sex -- who would not enjoy that? ;-D)
If BMD goes untreated, these folks tend to abuse drugs and alc and they have a much higher suicide risk. Believe me. I see it at work every day. They don't recognize that their emotional problems have a treatable mental illness as their cause. With proper treatment, people with BMD can live a pretty normal and productive life.
So, what else? Symptoms usually start in young adults between the ages seventeen and twenty-five, but they can start any time in life. Even some younger kids have BMD. It's a chronic condition with recurring episodes and requires ongoing treatment. If you don't treat it, it tends to get worse.
More suicide shop talk: About half of all people with bipolar disorder attempt suicide.
Any questions? Ask the Fox. ;-D
Common symptoms of mania may include:
* Abnormal/excessively high or euphoric feelings
* Extreme irritability or distractability
* Decreased need for sleep
* A marked increase in energy/activity
* Rapid or pressured speech
* Racing thoughts or a feeling that you can't slow down your mind
* You have troubles concentrating or you are easily distracted
* Signs of poor judgment, risk taking, or other bizarre behavior
* An exaggerated belief in one's own abilities or characteristics
* Increased sex drive
* Little or no insight into behavior changes
* In severe manic episodes, you can even have delusions and hallucinations. (But then you're probably hitting schizophrenia or some other psychotic disorder.)
Sounds like fun, huh? Well, it's not.
Bipolar mood disorder (some people still refer to it as manic-depressive illness) is an illness of the brain that afflicts about 1 percent of all people. This mood disorder is caused by extreme mood swings that go beyond the ups and downs of normal moods. It is treatable and manageable, but two-thirds of those with bipolar mood disorder go undiagnosed, folks, and therefore untreated. Why? Because when we go see the doc only when we're depressed, the doc may miss the high episodes.
So, you kind of got to force people to see a doctor during a high episode because people don't have insight into their own behavior and even enjoy their manic phases (reckless shopping, impulsive business decisions, scary driving, lots of sex -- who would not enjoy that? ;-D)
If BMD goes untreated, these folks tend to abuse drugs and alc and they have a much higher suicide risk. Believe me. I see it at work every day. They don't recognize that their emotional problems have a treatable mental illness as their cause. With proper treatment, people with BMD can live a pretty normal and productive life.
So, what else? Symptoms usually start in young adults between the ages seventeen and twenty-five, but they can start any time in life. Even some younger kids have BMD. It's a chronic condition with recurring episodes and requires ongoing treatment. If you don't treat it, it tends to get worse.
More suicide shop talk: About half of all people with bipolar disorder attempt suicide.
Any questions? Ask the Fox. ;-D
Samstag, 12. Dezember 2009
December 12
First of all I would like to thank so many of you who have been giving me feedback on the Foxblog. I appreciate all your emails and text messages and I'm glad that some of you have been helped or even inspired, if only in small ways, by some of the stuff they've read on Foxblog.
Let me mention a couple of things about depression. According to statistics published by the World Health Organization,
Mood disorders are much more than just feeling sad. They affect the entire body and cause changes in the body, especially in brain functioning, so that you can't change your mood by sheer willpower. As I've mentioned before, you can't just snap out of depression. Depression always affects our brain chemistry and therefore our thinking, eating, sleeping, concentrating, and just about every other area of our daily life.
There are basically two main flavors of mood disorders: unipolar and bipolar. Unipolar disorders are associated with feeling only sad and empty. Hence, they are called unipolar. Bipolar disorders usually alternate between mania and depression, hence they are called bipolar.
Today I'll describe unipolar depression. Common symptoms are:
* Persistently feeling sad, anxious, empty, worthless.
* Persistently feeling guilty.
* Feeling hopeless.
* You can't feel any joy or pleasure.
* You experience loss of energy and drive (and that would include your sex drive, folks).
* You find it hard to concentrate, remember stuff or make decisions.
* You're restless and irritable.
* You can't sleep well, wake up early in the morning, feel like shit, oversleep and find it hard to wake up.
* Your appetite changes (overeating, undereating).
* Other physical symptoms may include headaches, stomach aches, digestive disorders, or just feeling pain all over.
* You think about death or dying a lot, or even attempt to commit suicide.
In short: Sounds a lot like menopause, huh, girls??? Just kidding.
If you experience many of these symptoms for longer than a couple of weeks, you may be depressed (or menopausal, or both ;-D)
Go get help from a medical doctor or contact your Fox. *grin*
Tomorrow we'll talk about bipolar depression.
Let me mention a couple of things about depression. According to statistics published by the World Health Organization,
- Major depressive disorder is the leading cause of disability in the U.S. for ages 15-44.
- Clinical or major depression is the top cause of disability throughout the world for persons 5 and over.
Mood disorders are much more than just feeling sad. They affect the entire body and cause changes in the body, especially in brain functioning, so that you can't change your mood by sheer willpower. As I've mentioned before, you can't just snap out of depression. Depression always affects our brain chemistry and therefore our thinking, eating, sleeping, concentrating, and just about every other area of our daily life.
There are basically two main flavors of mood disorders: unipolar and bipolar. Unipolar disorders are associated with feeling only sad and empty. Hence, they are called unipolar. Bipolar disorders usually alternate between mania and depression, hence they are called bipolar.
Today I'll describe unipolar depression. Common symptoms are:
* Persistently feeling sad, anxious, empty, worthless.
* Persistently feeling guilty.
* Feeling hopeless.
* You can't feel any joy or pleasure.
* You experience loss of energy and drive (and that would include your sex drive, folks).
* You find it hard to concentrate, remember stuff or make decisions.
* You're restless and irritable.
* You can't sleep well, wake up early in the morning, feel like shit, oversleep and find it hard to wake up.
* Your appetite changes (overeating, undereating).
* Other physical symptoms may include headaches, stomach aches, digestive disorders, or just feeling pain all over.
* You think about death or dying a lot, or even attempt to commit suicide.
In short: Sounds a lot like menopause, huh, girls??? Just kidding.
If you experience many of these symptoms for longer than a couple of weeks, you may be depressed (or menopausal, or both ;-D)
Go get help from a medical doctor or contact your Fox. *grin*
Tomorrow we'll talk about bipolar depression.
Freitag, 11. Dezember 2009
December 11
THE LAW OF THE HARVEST
Herr N., my dear German suicide-victim-gone-artist, left the clinic for an extended stay at at health resort. He took his drawings with him. As a small good-bye gift I gave him a pack of oil pastels and a sketching pad to take to the spa so he would feel encouraged to keep on drawing to access more of his deeply buried feelings. My colleague, M., was so impressed with the rainbow drawing that he asked Herr M.'s permission to scan it and use it for a research paper. Herr M. gladly granted his permission. I also got a copy, which is now hanging in my office. Last week I said that everytime I would walk along train tracks in the future I would think of crowbars. I would like to rigorously amend that statement: Everytime I walk along train tracks I will think of rainbows. If I don't, I will have failed Herr N. -- and the purpose of Christ's Atonement.
Translucent Frau L. was rather happy today. She asked for permission to leave overnight and stay with her boyfriend, which I happily granted her. Since she seemed quite approachable today I pulled out my own pastels, having barely taken them away from Herr N., and set the box in front of her. About 25 different colors.
I tacitly assumed that this might be just as painful for her as it was for me the first time my therapist set a box of colors in front of me. Just the thought of having to choose a color as an expression of my emotional state that very minute had nearly given me a nervous breakdown and I got so upset with my therapist for forcing me into such a self-revealing decision that I quietly started crying, which completely mortified me and I almost ran away in shame and fear.
Fast forward. Now I'm sitting here with Miss Borderline who can barely look into my eyes because she is so scared of life. But she has no problems choosing neon orange to describe her mood right now and it didn't take her longer than 10 seconds and very little prodding from me to grab the neon orange crayon and start drawing some very odd figures. Still, "better than I did after hours of therapy," I said to myself with a very sheepish grin. "And I'm NOT borderline." Okay, my husband and kids would possibly argue that point, but never mind ...
Our time is over. I ask Frau L. if she would like to take the neon orange crayon and the sheet of paper with her over the weekend. She says yes and then suddenly asks for 3 or 4 more empty sheets because she would like to draw more than just one picture, she announces to my surprise. I am dumbfounded (as I have been so often in working with people). So I give her the whole crayon box for the weekend. And another hug. Not to make HER feel good, but to make ME feel good, a token of gratitude, in a way, for my own therapist who "tortured" me into learning to use art as a means of releasing and expressing emotions.
Still, Frau L. appreciated the hug enough and left.
After she closes the door I go to the window and look outside. Gray skies, rain, sleet, mud from the construction site underneath the window. I recall John 4:36:
"And he that reapeth receiveth wages and gathereth fruit unto life eternal: That both he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together."
We just don't know HOW our actions, decisions, and choices will influence other people and maybe generations to come. Which "border line" am I going to cross (or not) and where will it take me and the people around me? What am I teaching others, either consciously, by introducing them to, say, art therapy, or unconsciously, by the way I respond to certain people or situations?
Herr N., my dear German suicide-victim-gone-artist, left the clinic for an extended stay at at health resort. He took his drawings with him. As a small good-bye gift I gave him a pack of oil pastels and a sketching pad to take to the spa so he would feel encouraged to keep on drawing to access more of his deeply buried feelings. My colleague, M., was so impressed with the rainbow drawing that he asked Herr M.'s permission to scan it and use it for a research paper. Herr M. gladly granted his permission. I also got a copy, which is now hanging in my office. Last week I said that everytime I would walk along train tracks in the future I would think of crowbars. I would like to rigorously amend that statement: Everytime I walk along train tracks I will think of rainbows. If I don't, I will have failed Herr N. -- and the purpose of Christ's Atonement.
Translucent Frau L. was rather happy today. She asked for permission to leave overnight and stay with her boyfriend, which I happily granted her. Since she seemed quite approachable today I pulled out my own pastels, having barely taken them away from Herr N., and set the box in front of her. About 25 different colors.
I tacitly assumed that this might be just as painful for her as it was for me the first time my therapist set a box of colors in front of me. Just the thought of having to choose a color as an expression of my emotional state that very minute had nearly given me a nervous breakdown and I got so upset with my therapist for forcing me into such a self-revealing decision that I quietly started crying, which completely mortified me and I almost ran away in shame and fear.
Fast forward. Now I'm sitting here with Miss Borderline who can barely look into my eyes because she is so scared of life. But she has no problems choosing neon orange to describe her mood right now and it didn't take her longer than 10 seconds and very little prodding from me to grab the neon orange crayon and start drawing some very odd figures. Still, "better than I did after hours of therapy," I said to myself with a very sheepish grin. "And I'm NOT borderline." Okay, my husband and kids would possibly argue that point, but never mind ...
Our time is over. I ask Frau L. if she would like to take the neon orange crayon and the sheet of paper with her over the weekend. She says yes and then suddenly asks for 3 or 4 more empty sheets because she would like to draw more than just one picture, she announces to my surprise. I am dumbfounded (as I have been so often in working with people). So I give her the whole crayon box for the weekend. And another hug. Not to make HER feel good, but to make ME feel good, a token of gratitude, in a way, for my own therapist who "tortured" me into learning to use art as a means of releasing and expressing emotions.
Still, Frau L. appreciated the hug enough and left.
After she closes the door I go to the window and look outside. Gray skies, rain, sleet, mud from the construction site underneath the window. I recall John 4:36:
"And he that reapeth receiveth wages and gathereth fruit unto life eternal: That both he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together."
We just don't know HOW our actions, decisions, and choices will influence other people and maybe generations to come. Which "border line" am I going to cross (or not) and where will it take me and the people around me? What am I teaching others, either consciously, by introducing them to, say, art therapy, or unconsciously, by the way I respond to certain people or situations?
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