Two years ago, officially, I wrote a blog that placed me in some hot water with a past clinical supervisor. The summer before I put in my resignation. It was on a personal blog, reposted on my Facebook, but was forwarded to my supervisor by a coworker.
Here is the link in case you’d like more context before reading on:
I unpacked this “anniversary” with my therapist recently. Not intentionally but our conversation flowed in this direction — her being a therapist that specifically sees other therapists. We talk about my work wellness often; the path that I have journeyed. The path that I am continuing on. I told her about the year that preceded this blog — the specific, persistent ways that I felt disconnected from my profession. That it wasn’t just burn-out; which would make sense working in community mental health…with its high caseloads, productivity-focused metrics, and lower than average pay.
I can still remember that certain supervision hour, which occurred weekly at 10 am on Mondays. This specific one began with my usually chipper “hello”, resting my water bottle next to my seat and getting my clipboard, print out of my caseload, & pen situated. My supervisor swung her chair around to face me, hands folded neatly in her lap, and said a single sentence:
“So, I read your blog.”
I was not aware of the need for activism to be a component of my work as a therapist. For my focus to fluidly shift outward to examine the systems connected with the symptoms my clients presented. “I’m not a social worker”, was the typical rebuttal I gave myself in moments of internal dialogue. I regularly had chats with the case managers assigned to the clients I saw for therapy; often envying their ability to be present during moments where I could not or their focus on building a stronger support system around them so that treatment would not be disrupted. One particular Case Manager was my favorite “water cooler buddy”; we would often spend 30 minutes at a time whenever I had a cancellation and chat about how to “make the systems better”. A stark contrast to spending the majority of my day conversing about how “compliant” an individual was to services.
I allowed myself to be gaslit about this blog; nearly deleting it at a certain point. Two years later, I know now what was happening inside of me. It wasn’t just about my preparation to depart from that particular environment (I know that because I am not angry or bitter towards my previous supervisor), but about a departure from many of the ways in which I were trained. That supervisor is not an anomaly; she is — in a way — a representation of how providers are taught to function within mental health.
The more I reflect on my time in higher education, my internship, and my residency, the more I can identify what needs to be unlearned. Deciding to go back to school was not an easy decision. I still have hidden imposter syndrome about that play therapy course back in 2017…and after taking it twice, did not pass. I dropped from the program and placed my desire to become a Registered Play Therapist on the back burner. Decided to focus on building Knowledge from the teachers I already had around me and to ground my heart in the love of Play. The “formal knowledge” I’m sure, will come when it’s time.
The PhD, you ask? It’s time. I sought counsel about this decision since Winter 2019 –a mentor of mine gave me one piece of advice: “Interview the schools you are looking at — and make sure they fit with YOUR mission, not the other way around.” My initial and interview chats with the Dean of Saybrook University secured it for me, and I’ve felt a peace ever since.
Through this final round of higher education; immersing myself in the world of research and policy, I will see more of the building blocks of the systems which oppress and dehumanize. Not to become “greater”, not to build on the knowledge that I have. I already possess what is essential. This part of the journey is to become more of the activist that I was always meant to be. The disrupter. I want to live up to the testimonials of those who have called me “safe”. What good does it truly do them if they cannot ultimately be safe in their bodies and communities; only in the environments which I control and create?
On an ordinary early morning last June, the melodic sway of a familiar love song chimed from my cell phone. It was the ringtone I’d picked out for my husband. I sleepily regarded the time, 7:02 am, and the initial giddiness of a spontaneous phone call from him melted away — replaced by concern. I answered.
Be Still. {The Blog} 