Sandy Hook- 2 days later

Sitting at my desk Friday afternoon, I felt myself start to shake inside, I could not concentrate, I felt anxious - paranoid even.  Everything felt ominous.  I eventually attributed what was going on in my body to taking Advair.  Surely those were side effects of inhaling the invisible powder so that my lungs can open up.  Eventually the symptoms subsided and I continued with my day which was not unusual in any way.  I was preparing for Fun Friday - the one day of the week that my patients catch a break.  We do a little bit of intentional therapy and then hang out for the rest of the day. 

This particular set of patients had been working hard - processing family dynamics and learning how to express their feelings appropriately.  I greeted each one of them as they bustled through the door,

"Ms. Karimah, who's the leader today?"
"Ms. Karimah, is it Fun Friday today?"
"Ms. Karimah, can we play with the puppets today?"
"Ms. Karimah, do we get to go outside?"
"Are we going to the gym?"
"Ms. Karimah, did you hear about the shooting?"



"Shooting? What shooting?"
"It was at a school in Cr- Can - um - dang! I can't remember. Cron..."

I pulled out my smart phone and went to my CNN app and sure enough, there it was.

"Connecticut"
"Yeah, Connecticut".

"It was terrible.  Lots of little kids were killed!"

All I could think was oh my God. Oh my God.  Until I quickly realized that I was the therapist in the room and my job was to allow expression, answer questions and assure safety.  And they definitely wanted to talk about it - the ones who knew.  Most of the others were obliviously eating their graham crackers and sipping lemonade.  So I was able to have a small conference with the ones who knew.  And I reassured them, as best I could, that they were safe.  And then I realized that my reaction earlier - the ominous feeling I had, the anxiety - were most likely psychic responses to the horror being experienced throughout the country as people were becoming aware of what had happened.

This weekend I have watched every news program, read every news article and listened to every radio talk show trying to get as much information as possible so that if my children ask me questions about it, I can answer them intelligently - but more than that, if I am completely honest with myself, I keep watching and reading and listening so that I can understand.  I want to learn more about this 20 year old kid Adam, to see if I recognize him.    Of course I know that I didn't know him personally, but I keep thinking I might recognize him.   The psychologists and criminal profilers who have been interviewed as "experts" keep alluding to the possibility that Adam might have had some sort of mental illness... that he may have had autism... or been a sociopath.  And of course we know that most people who have mental illness don't go out and commit such atrocities.  But he did.  I have crossed paths with countless social deviants since working in this field and only one that I know of, actually committed murder.  For that child we did everything possible to help him and his family.  Unfortunately when we told his guardian that we believed he needed a higher level of care, she said that we were the crazy ones and pulled him out of our program.  A few months later he murdered her.  So, I think on the children I have in my program right now.  The 5-8 year olds who come to me with a history of social deviance.  I.e. killing animals, lack of remorse, homicidal ideations - feeling justified in their actions, etc.  And I wonder...

I have a patient now who got so angry at one of his peers on Friday that he scratched himself until he bled and ragefully identified that when he gets angry like that "It makes me want to kill them".   And I have just a few weeks to "fix" him.  I usually feel an excited challenge when I get a case like this.  But after something like Friday's massacre, I feel an overwhelming responsibility.   

It is difficult not to feel overwhelmed when you hear news reports of one tragedy after another.  How many reports did we hear of just in the last two days where someone opened fire in a public place?   One thing seems for certain - these men were unhappy.  For whatever reason - mental illness or no mental illness - they were angry, rageful, and sad.  I think of their families - their parents in particular - and wonder if they tried to get them into therapy or were they in denial that their child needed help at all?  A lot of parents personalize the difficulties their children have and are afraid to hear that they may have been complicit in their child's deviance in any way.  At those times the treatment becomes more about the parent than about the child.   Other parents are so certain that they have nothing to do with their child's issues that they send them to therapy to be "fixed" and have no intentions of being involved in their treatment in any way.

I know that the debate on gun laws will be heating up.  But I am hopeful that this tragedy will also heat up the discussion on greater financial support of mental health initiatives.  That the stigma associated with getting into therapy is lessened and that sooner rather than later going to therapy will be just as normalized as going to get a check up from your primary care physician.  I am also hopeful that insurance companies will begin looking again at the benefits of non-traditional allied health professions such as expressive therapy in the treatment of trauma, as the children from Sandy Hook will likely benefit more from expressive therapy than they ever would with traditional talk therapy.

Is It Me or the Medicine?

As I reflect on the last five years working in the partial hospitalization program at Tanner, I think of the hundreds of children I have treated and consider the many ways I measure progress. I have conjured up a measuring stick that looks at success very creatively at times; and at other times has very clear, quantitative measurements such as identifying 3-5 angry triggers and 5-7 positive coping skills, etc.  Though at times I have to ask myself: Is it the medicine or is it me?  Of course the answer is that it is both.  Some may say it is neither.  :) But some days I am convinced that we keep patients in the program simply to observe them on the medication, and that no great thing that I bring into my group room or bring into the playspace can hold a candle to what medication can do. 

The thing that concerns me the most, however, is seeing children from age 4+ on medication.  To hear a child say, "I'm behaving this way because I didn't take my medication today" is an incredibly powerless - non-person centered stance.  It takes all of the agency away from the child and gives them something even more crippling: an excuse.  And at the same time, when you have children who are actively psychotic or so ADHD that they can't focus long enough to tie their shoes, you beg the doctor for medication!  As the therapist, it is difficult to help a child understand that yes, the medication is helpful for the chemical processes in the brain, but that they, themselves control their mind - their choices - that they can manage their symptoms with behavior modification.  And that they can express their feelings without fear of becoming overwhelmed by their emotions.  That can be difficult for an adult, much less a child, to understand, or to trust.

It is equally as difficult to explain to an adolescent that no, you cannot self - medicate with marijuana because it is illegal, but you can take this other drug to help with your anxiety or depression or - fill in the blank -  simply because it is not.  But it is still a drug!  It is still a chemical compound you are ingesting into your body to alter you in some way as opposed to identifying your own inner resources to overcome whatever issues brought you into therapy in the first place.

I found myself recently trying to give an analogy to one of my patients about medication vs choices.  I used the example of me taking my blood pressure medicine.  I listed all of the ways that I help my medicine to work.  I take my medication everyday, but I also eat healthy and exercise and I don't smoke.  This very logical, 8 year old child looked at me like I was speaking a different language.  In his world, you have a headache, you take Tylenol, your headache goes away.  You are coughing, you take cough syrup and your cough goes away.  Medicine is King!  And I completely understand the logic.  I, myself, have tried on several occasions to manage my blood pressure without meds.  And so far I have not been successful.  And in the context of full disclosure, I know what it is like to feel like a slave to psychotropic medications.  I started taking Wellbutrin last year, and after about 6 months, I decided that I felt happy on a daily basis, and was therefore ready to  come off of it.  So I did - Cold turkey with no titration- and I crashed hard. After two weeks I was FEIGNING for more Wellbutrin - shaking as I refilled my prescription.   I was mortified when I realized that I was dysfunctional without it.  It was as if I could not imagine any happiness prior to taking it.  And I would think to myself, "surely I have been able to make my own self happy.  Clearly I know how to do this - I teach others to do this!" I did not want to be a slave to my medication.  So, I realized I needed to shore up my positive coping skills and gather 'round my support system and a month later I was able to come off of it.**  But I had to remind myself that it was possible to do this.  That I don't believe people need to be on medication (or for that matter in therapy) for the rest of their lives.  Ultimately the goal is self sufficiency, right? Wellness - or better yet, Healing? Or is the goal to keep people enslaved to the medication?  We live in America, right? 

Mental illness = drugs= a lifetime of cash flow.

 I have a job because people take medication.  Working for a hospital, we are at the mercy of insurance companies who will threaten to not cover a patient if they are not medication compliant.  Or if their symptoms persist, and there is not a medication adjustment - higher dosage or more drugs- then ta-ta!

I have to believe that people can be and should be HEALED - not just engage in capacity building to manage symptoms, but HEALED.  Maybe I am being too idealistic and unrealistic.  Some people may even argue that I am being unfair. These same people may argue that there are certain illnesses - mental or physical - that REQUIRE that people be on medication for the rest of their lives.   I know some of these people.  And I see them taking medication for the rest of their lives because they have bought into the myth that they can't be helped, they can only be managed.  It takes a tremendous amount of faith and will (because it takes more work to do it on your own) to responsibly live a life without having to take a pill everyday.  And as I say that I see the faces of some of my friends who I know have to take medication daily.  And wonder what they will think about me having said this about them.  I do not think for a moment that anybody who has to take a pill everyday is weak.  Hell, I still take a pill everyday.  My hope is that they will read in this my deep love for humanity and desire that we all live a long, healthy and happy life.   I watched my mother suffer and eventually die taking pills everyday instead of being healed so that she could live a long, healthy life.   I have to believe that people living their best life, their healthiest life is possible.  I have to believe that just because there are hundreds of commercials daily advertising the benefits of medication, does not mean that we have to buy into the myth of perpetual sickness.   I have to believe in the true benefits of therapy in order to continue to do the work that I do, as opposed to believing that therapy
is merely an adjunct to psychopharmocology.  I have to believe.  I have to believe.  I have to believe.

             

** It is not advisable that you stop taking medication without first consulting your physician.

Treating the immediate effects of trauma with drama therapy

Treating the effects of immediate trauma can be quite daunting.   Often the emotions have not quite coagulated because the experience is so new and the client may still be in considerable shock.   Research suggests, however, that the earlier the trauma is addressed and treated the more resilient the patient is likely to be and the less likely it will be that the patient will experience the lingering effects of the trauma.

I had one such experience recently with one of my patients who experienced a trauma while in treatment with me.    She was physically caught in the middle of a physical altercation between two older girls.  This new trauma was compounded by earlier traumas she experienced which in fact brought her into treatment.

After witnessing the trauma my patient was visibly distraught.  She was tearful, screamed and was to her own admission: "terrified".  She said to me that she expected to have nightmares that night (which in fact she did).  Her grandmother later reported to me that she had nightmares the whole weekend and catastrophized (my word) the experience - thinking that the victim of the altercation had in fact died.  My patient, who we will call "Gina" was tearful, hypersensitive and struggled with her interpersonal relationships all weekend. 

The next Monday when she returned to therapy I was prepared to work with her at her own pace.  I was certain that she would want to talk about it as a part of the group therapy experience, but I was not certain that she would want to share it publicly so soon.  She surprised me.  Not only was she interested in sharing the experience with her peers, but she was also interested in working dramatically with me. 

Using the dramatic process creates a good amount of distance between the patient and the trauma thereby allowing them the ability to access their emotions safely.  For Gina, she wanted to use the drama of the "Broadcaster".   It is not unusual for victims of trauma to want to "broadcast" the experience.  It gives them an opportunity to tell and re-tell the story.  It empowers them by giving them a voice where during the trauma they may have felt silenced. 

As the "Broadcaster" Gina asked me to scribe what she spoke , and I did so dutifully.    She then performed it for me.    The script read: "Nina punched Hope in the face.  That's all we have for now.  Stay tuned for more on Chanel 5 Fox 5 News".

The next day, Gina went through the routine again - each of us assuming our previous roles.  The script read the same, but this time, sensing that Gina might be willing to be pushed a little (and myself falling victim to the pitfalls of short term therapy and insurance companies), I interjected, "I think we have a clip of that".  And she silently agreed to watch it with me on our imaginary screen.  As soon as the violent perpetrator made physical contact with the victim, Gina pushed the imaginary "off" button and immediately switched it to a clip about kittens and puppies.  She would talk about how sweet and cute they were and at one point even asked if I had the clip of "Little House on the Prairie".  I was shocked that she knew anything about Little House on the Prairie seeing as how she is only 6.  But naturally  I obliged.  Gina commented on how beautiful Laura is and then inevitably something would happen to Laura or one of the kittens or the puppies.  They would get kidnapped or hurt or tangled or even sometimes killed.  I sensed by her act of sabotage that she was not quite ready to be pushed.  So, I regressed her back to the more safe words - releasing images for which she was not quite ready.

Later during the same session the group was engaged in round robin storytelling - fantasy story.  Gina's offering to each newly created story was always a sad offering.   If one patient revived a character who died in the story, Gina would kill it.  She even titled the story "The boy who kept dying".  Gina's title seems to suggest that she may feel victimized and re-victimized over and over again - compounded trauma.  After the story was complete she asked if she could tell the story of what happened the week before - her trauma.  I obliged though attempted to create some distance for her by employing the "Once Upon a Time" technique.  But Gina was not willing to let me hijack the time and setting of the story.  She wanted to tell a REAL story, not an imaginary one.  In drama therapyspeak we would say that Gina was underdistanced.  No sooner than I started the story with "Once Upon a Time in a land far, far away", did she cut me off abruptly and said, "No.  Friday at Willowbrooke".  I was immediately aware that she was too close to the trauma and not ready to move away from it, and that our work would become creating appropriate therapeutic distance between herself and the trauma.  At this time she had become too identified with the trauma to let it go.

Over the next few weeks, we were working less and less with the specific trauma and including it as a part of our overall work together.  Eventually Gina was able to tell the story of what happened - or reference what happened with an appropriate emotional response.  Her story referencing lessened over time and her trauma symptoms waned including - fewer to no nightmares - improved peer relations- fewer to no emotional outbursts - and no catastrophizing. And for me, the best sign of progress was listening to Gina tell a story - a fantasy story - where she did not feel the need to sabotage and where death was not a recurrent theme. 


 

Cracking my High C and forgetting my lines

I realize that I forgot my lines.  I forgot the words that asked to be written.  They simply slipped my mind.  They slipped my mind because there was no space there.  It had been filled up with jobs and relationships and life.  It was filled to overflowing with thoughts about my feelings and my body and my work.  This meta cognition was beginning to bore holes into my skull and I just could not escape the rapture of it all. 

Well, okay, this is how I REALLY forgot my lines:

Something happened to jolt me back onto the stage of life - and take me out of the rapturous bliss of simply living life.  An intern said that because of ME, she was unable to fulfill her responsibilities as a clinician in training.  That I was critical and made her feel like she was in grade school.  Logically I knew that it was nearly impossible for me to wield that much power.  But that was what she felt.  Psychologically I knew that she was projecting.  But that is what she sensed.  My relationship with her and the rest of the staff told me that her poor performance was felt by EVERY SINGLE STAFF person, but it was me she scapegoated.

So, I forgot my lines.  I could not think of anything to say and there were no cue cards.

This is not who I believed myself to be as a human being or a clinician.  I had to do some serious self care work around that so that I did not feel like I failed this woman.  I wanted her to take some responsibility for her life - for her work - for how much energy, time and thought she did NOT put into therapeutic interventions. But I could not do her work for her, so instead I focused on me.  I thought about past interns and how I really try to mentor them.  I really try and take time to listen to them, explain the impulse behind my interventions, give them helpful, honest feedback about their own work, help them write a perfect clinical note, describe the ins and outs of expressive therapy, etc.  And I had to ask myself, "Did I do all of that for her?"  I would like to think that I did, but maybe I did not do all that I could for her.  Maybe I had a bit of countertransferrence going on.

Ultimately, I read this as a lesson: Not every encounter I have, not every workshop I do or therapy group I lead is going to end on a High C note (as my opera singing sister would describe it).   Sometimes you are going to Crack your High C AND forget your lines.  But, of course, the show must go on.

Oddly enough, a week later, I got a message from one of my former interns asking me if she could write about me for a paper she was completing for a Master's level course about  a leader in the field of counseling who is also an advocate.  I felt honored... and relieved.

I hit my High C AND remembered my lines!

The Gift of a Name

I started this post in Jordan.  And returned home with it unfinished.  I soon came to realize that I needed time and space away from the world I had engineered as a safety net for myself.  I needed to break free from time and space limitations. 

 I could not imagine writing another post.  Facilitating another drama therapy group.  Sitting in my apartment.  Feeding my cat.  Writing clinical notes.  Taking out the trash.  All of the day to day things that normalize one's life. 

Jordan changed me.  While there I considered staying.  While here I considered leaving.  It took me until now to be back. And I needed to BE back.  I needed to need to be back - to return.  Fully.  And so, now I write this post as an homage to one of the most meaningful gifts I've ever received.  The true gift of my name. 

A few months ago I published a post discussing the merits of professional identification - or as some people would call it "identity politics". And in Jordan I find myself having an identity politics of the most salient nature.

My name is Karimah Lateefah.

I was born in the early 70's on the heels of the Civil Rights Movement and in the throes of the Black Power Movement. 

My parents both participated in the Civil Rights Movement.  My father marched with Dr. King and my mother was a freedom rider.

When they found that I was coming to be in the world, they decided to name me something that reflected the significance of the time, so, they bought a book of African baby names and picked out Karimah and Lateefah.  My daddy wanted my first name to be Lateefah.  Mommy wanted my first name to be Karimah.  I am happy that my mother won one of many arguments they would come to have.

My name is Karimah Lateefah.  I am certain that Lateefah was meant to be spelled Latifah.  It is a bit softer.  I used to tell Daddy that having that many ee's in my name made it sound heavy - like I had a bunch of teeth.  But in Jordan I heard Arabs pronounce my name the way it was meant to be pronounced.  (care-ee- mah).  They spoke it so softly and gently pushed air through the h at the end.  My name levitated.  It sounded like a cloud. 

As I was laboriously finding my way back to the entrance of Petra I finally met up with Edna, the esteemed Art Therapist from Atlanta and our lovely driver, Ahmed.   As we drove back to Amman, we stopped at a local shop for "refreshment".  After coming out of the bathroom I noticed that some of the shopkeepers were refrencing me while talking amongst themselves.  As I came closer I noticed that they were pointing at my hair.  It is curly.  They wanted to know how I got it this way.  I didn't know how to explain it to them.  They finally asked me what my name was and I told them.  Like every other Arab I'd met they indicated their surprise and then asked me if I knew what it meant. 

Of course I knew what it meant.  It means kind and generous.

They informed me that according to the Quran, it means someone who is so kind and so generous that they will give you whatever it is you need even if they need it themselves. 

That description was so beautiful it nearly brought me to tears.  I thought about it.  I thought about me.  I wondered if I am a martyr.  I wondered if I sacrifice myself for the greater good of the whole.  I wondered if it is at all self -serving.  I wondered if it consistently leaves me at the shit end of the stick.  Always and ever. 

But hearing them say my name... it never sounded so beautiful... like a song.  I have heard people say that my name is beautiful before.  But I never heard it myself.  I never heard the beauty.  But in Jordan, I could hear it.  I could FEEL it.

Two days later we were in the community center in the heart of Zarqa, a refugee camp for Palestinians who have migrated.  As we entered the center we saw a row of children sitting on benches and chairs waiting for us to arrive.  My colleage, Edna, walked in first and there was a spunky, little girl, sitting at the front desk.  She asked Edna,

"What is your name?"

Edna replied,

"My name is Edna"

The spunky little girl responded,

"My name is Karimah".

I was stunned.  It was like bumping up against my 8 year old self.  Looking into a mirror from the past... as if I had just stepped into a wrinkle in time.

"Ah! My name is Karimah".

A few moments later the 8 year old Karimah rushed into the group room where we were setting up our supplies and she looked at me and said, "I love YOU!' and ran out just as fast as she ran in.

I was thrilled!

When creating name tags she asked me to write hers.  So I wrote my name and she nodded in approval and stuck to me like glue for the rest of the day.

I felt my heart leap.  We took a picture together.  It is amazing how much of her spirit seems to be reflected when I see myself in the mirror now.   Honored to have known her.  Grateful to have come to a greater knowledge of myself.

The little girl and her godmother

My name is Karimah Lateefah.

I am in Amman, Jordan.

I am an American.

Black.

Woman.
My names were given at birth; by my parents.
They were both active during the Civil Rights Movement and wanted the name they gave their child to reflect their freedom and pride in being black.
It was not until I stepped foot on Arab soil that I finally  fully understood my name.
Deeply.

I was told by a Bedouin that in Islam the meaning of Karimah Lateefah is not just kind and generous, but it means that if you have something that someone else needs you give it to them even if you need it yourself.

The day I made this discovery I had been to Petra and had the following storybook experience:

Once upon a hot summer day, there was a little girl who lived in a large village full of a people who honored their ancestors and worshipped nature. She was happy. This day the little girl was running late to meet her friends for a great play. Though her godmother really enjoyed plays she knew they needed to get to the other place,  while the little girl was enjoying the play the godmother started to walk ahead.

After the play finished the little girl looked and looked for her godmother.
"We haven't seen her".
Others said,
"She has gone to another place".
The little girl couldn't find her, so she began to walk.
The day was hot and the road was far. On her way to meet her godmother she passed many different kinds of people who spoke many languages.  These people were of many colors and were going in different directions. Some of them were amazed with what they were seeing while others had seen it all before.  The little girl was running late and was afraid her godmother would leave her, so she started to run, but was so hot that she had to stop to catch her breath.  She was so thirsty that she stopped to drink some water. There was a young boy on the side of the road and he was crying.  The little girl saw him crying and he asked for some water. She gave him all the water she had and continued to walk along the road.
After she had been walking so long she came to a hill.  The little girl was so hot and tired she was afraid she couldn't go on anymore. She felt sad that she hadn't seen her godmother waking along the path and was afraid she would be left for sure, when suddenly she ran into some friends do said they'd seen her godmother walking ahead.  The little girl felt so excited that she started to run again.
The little girl was sweating and the flies were swarming. They could sense that something inside of her was starting to rot the little girl started to look around for a horse, camel or a donkey.  She found none.  So she continued to walk and pant and sweat. Finally she came across a horse and his runner.  She felt so thankful to have come across the horse until the handler told her it would be 15 coins and she only had three. She climbed do won from the horse and apologized to the runner. The runner felt sad for her and agreed to take her to the main road.  But as the runner guided the horse he complained most of the way about how little the money was that she had given him.  The little girl continued to apologize to the runner, but he kept on.  She felt badly but had nothing more to give besides her sincere gratitude for his generosity.  He seemed to be touched by her sincerity.

Finally the little girl stumbled upon her godmother who had been waiting for her all along, and they continued on their journey.

Journey to Jordan - Paris, France

An 11 hour flight to Paris. And I only get to see the inside of the airport.

Narrow seats. And lots of 'em.

I was flanked by two very tiny women. I felt quite large.

They keep the alcohol flowing though so that you can either imagine yourself smaller than you really are, fall asleep, or find yourself so inebriated that you no longer care.

When you travel to a foreign country your brain automatically attunes to language. Your ability for discernment sharpens and you become grateful for all of those years of high school Spanish which have made your ears a bit more sensitive. You start to recognize words - word stems -roots. And then you just stop and listen to the beauty and fluidity of the language only to be disappointed by its often lackluster English translation.

And then you stop listening and simply look at the array of people.  You start to make up stories for them. Maybe they are going to Paris because a loved one passed. Or maybe they are reuniting with a long, lost love. Maybe they are on holiday.  Maybe they have won the lottery or their art has been commisioned. Perhaps they were called in under special orders to investigate a crime.  Maybe they are birdwatchers or olfactory specialists. Maybe they even work for the CIA.

Students.
Profilers.
Pilgrams.
Maybe their final destination is somewhere else.  Like me.

When people have asked me about where i am going their first question is usually " are you going on a mission?" How sad that going out of the country is almost always associated with a mission.  But I gave it some thought and yes, of course it is a mission!"

Eros & Athena: a common dialogue

Below you will find a dialogue I recently had with two parts of myself - or as Robert Landy would call it, a dialogue between my role and counterrole.  If we intend to play out the premise of role/counterrole/guide and its function then it might well be said that the writer functioned as the organizer - the guide or filter through which the dialogue was funneled.

The inspiration for this dialogue came as a result of a genuine conflict I was having with myself in preparation for Jordan. Reason and Desire were at war and I needed to make a thoughtful, rather than impulsive, decision. So I turned to my drama therapy roots and had a good old fashioned conversation with myself.

Desire: if I buy an iPad I can fit it snugly in my purse and won't have to lug around my heavy laptop.

Reason: but you don't need an iPad. You don't even have to take a computer with you at all.

Desire: we are talking about someone who wont even get an ipod , cable or even a damn converter box to watch local tv.

Reason: on principal. I have a DVD player and an mp3 player. I stay on top of things in my own way.

Desire: if i had an ipad i would be able to blog and stay on top of emails and do other cool things.

Reason: unless you have wifi you will have to pay for those cool things.

Desire: I checked the hotel website - free wifi. I won't even have to call internationally unless I have to.

Reason: why can't you just read a book and journal?

Desire: I can. But this is 2012. I want access to my life in America.

Reason: what if its stolen?

Desire: that is a risk. I'll agree.

Reason: what about the money? Let's say all you have is $600. You may only have $100 left after you buy an iPad. What about bills?

Desire: whether I pay $100 or $600 I will still owe.

Reason: you're right about that.

Desire: what if I insure the iPad?

Reason: its still money. How will you feel when you get home and find that you have 2 computers?

Desire: a little gluttonous.

Reason: but how will you feel when you find that you have paid $600 of a $1200 bill?

Desire: not much better. Its not like it takes care of the whole bill.

Reason: right.

Desire: I would feel better if I could somehow do both...

Reason: what about the other stuff you need?

Desire: well $50 for the voltage converter and adapter, $100 for shoes, another $50-100 for clothes and incidentals which will work if we plan to use a part of our check that comes a week before departure.

Reason: you've got it all worked out dontcha?

Desire: yes.

Reason: how do you even justify having two computers and not one of them is a desktop?

Desire: I can't.

Reason: try.

Desire: well I want things in real time.

Reason: use your phone!!

Desire: what if I try and get one through Craigslist?

Reason: wait a minute. Does it have to be an ipad or can it be another kind of tablet?

Desire: a tablet? I hadn't even thought of that. I could find a tablet that can do everything an iPad can do.

Reason: and we are talking half the price.

Desire: yes! Yes! Yes!

Written courtesy of the Acer A100.

It dawned on me after reading the dialogue that it reads as if it were a conversation between parent and child. Is it not arguable that Reason often gives birth to Desire in a metaphorical sense? is it not so often the case that we spend so much time reasoning our way through life that desire comes to shift us off our axis, thus restoring us to some semblance of balance? Melvin Van Peebles once said "if you have everything you've always wanted. You won't do what you have always loved ".  Desire keeps us hungry and moving forward. Reason keeps us safe and surefooted which is self protective and also progressive. Desire plants the seed. Reason protects the eggs. We need both to survive.

Queen for a Day or at least 45 minutes

 I drove myself to work this morning, languishing over the work week that was just getting underway.  It was Monday.  I was tired. I did not want to be a therapist today, and, yet my patients demanded it of me. When I am exhausted this way, I tend to step into observation mode and simply take note of my environment - how my patients engage one another and what naturally emerges from the primal sludge of individuals coming together as a group.

Initially they colored, teased each other, talked a bit about their weekends.  I asked them to draw what their weekend looked like, and they did. It seemed that they all had pretty good weekends (which is highly unusual).  They finished one at a time and each one of them asked for an extra sheet of paper.  Instead of drawing on the paper, they made things.  A bat.  A telescope.  A sword.  A gun.  Soon, they spontaneously erupted into a drama where they became combat soldiers. I was mystified by this incredibly organic process.  As I watched this play unfold, I had a flash of insight.  I wanted to find a way to organically morph into a presentation of their pictures as well as to discuss their new weekly goals.

So, I took on the role of the Queen, during which time I knighted a few of them and bestowed wands and shields.  The Queen informed them that they would need to prove their loyalty to the throne by presenting her with something they made (after of course they surrendered their weapons).  They had the bright idea to present her with the pictures they drew (Perfect!). 

Between bows, a courtesy and a knee or two, the Queen received lovely pictures of gardens, lakes, homes, families, and a roller coaster.  After receiving their gifts, the Queen received word from her most trusted subject that the Kingdom was soon to be under siege.  The Queen entrusted this newly formed royal guard with the task of protecting the throne.  The Queen herself, however, had a direct line to the  General of the opposing side who told her in confidence that they planned to use very sophisticated weaponry.  Instead of using tanks, guns and missiles, they would find out the one thing that each soldier loved the most.  In order to be well informed, the Queen herself had to know ahead of time in order to put up a proper defense (of course). 

My mom.
My heart.
My dog.
My family.

In preparation for battle, each soldier shared with the Queen a time in the past when they'd been brave (ego strength!).  After each had shared, it was time to go to war. 

They fought gallantly - even took down a few of the enemies' (imaginary) soldiers.  After the first two soldiers had been downed, the Queen received a call from the General.  The General said that there was a soldier in the ranks whose mother was preparing to go to court this week and he understood him to be very nervous.  Innocently, my patient, we will call him "Harry", whose mom has to go to court this week identified that he too had the same condition. 

Well, naturally the General asked to speak to the soldier on the phone.  On the phone with the General who, by the way, was not represented by any human form, Harry identified that his mom had to go to court because "I just keep lying and keep lying".  Just then Harry had a moment where he realized he'd said more than he intended to say, and quickly returned the phone back to the Queen.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore".

The irony of that enactment is that this patient has known from day 1 (which was 4 weeks ago), that he was in the program in part because he told school faculty that his mother hit him and left a bruise. This never came up in any of the assessments or traditional talk therapy groups.  It was not until one day during a family session with our family therapist that his mother identified that Harry would not be here one day this week due to having to go to court.  And then she explained why.  After this disclosure, I used traditional talk therapy methods to try and allow the patient to verbalize his thoughts and feelings about it, and I was met with resistance EVERYDAY!

"No!"
"Nothing!"
"I don't know"

It was only through the enactment that he was able to not just acknowledge that it was happening, but to acknowledge why.  And it required far less work on my part. I did not have to ask one, single question. 

AMAZING!!!!!

And then he killed me.

Even MORE AMAZING!!!!!

Another one of them buried me in full honors.  The others pilfered.  They took my crown, my scepter and... the phone.  They spoke to the General themselves.  They did not need me anymore.  After all, I was nothing more than a middleman with no real powers. 

Someone revived me with her magic wand full of bubbles.

And he killed me again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I wonder what he is killing in me.  Is it my authority?  Is it his mom?

When I have days like this I am always reminded of how much I love what I do!  I felt energized by it.  It could not have been more perfect. I got more out of that 45 minute enactment than I did out of the entire 4 weeks he has been in my program.  Look what happens when you allow things to emerge.  Look what happens when you just agree to remain present.  To not strive.  To not try.  Just allow and accept.  Allow and accept.

Rejection... humility...and something, something else... some kinda way

Sunday morning I woke up in my sister's bed, preparing to help her with breakfast, when I opened one of my four email accounts. I skimmed through the superficial nonsense to discover an email that was sent from the North America Association for Drama Therapy. 

I noticed it was long.

And wondered if it is long, would it be like getting a thick envelope in the mail after applying for school or a grant or a loan?

No.  It was just long. 

"We... thank you... your submission... conference... unfortunately..."

I did not read it in full.  I could not bare it.  I had been rejected by own community.  I didn't want to know why.  I surmised that this was retribution. My penance. I felt my insides wretch... humiliated... confused... unquestioning.

And then that still small voice inside of me said,

"But Karimah, didn't you reject them first?"

"But I recanted!  I recanted!" I did.

I really did. 

I recommitted my life to drama therapy, proselytized for the sake of theatre and healing and wellness and good.  For some of my colleagues, drama therapy is both a religion and a cause.  It is the how and the why.  My daddy said that getting rejections is a sign of growing up.  It is a sign that you are doing good work.  It made me feel a lot better.  I felt 12 again.

Just a day earlier, my nephew lauded me on my acting chops - or perhaps it just was my capacity (not to be confused with propensity) to lie.   He doesn't like surprises because he does not like being lied to.  But he was admittedly impressed by my ability to genuinely surprise him.  I, myself was impressed by my improvisational skills.  It seemed to allow something to well up in me and I was reminded of how much my body misses theatre.  I started to remember my days training with the Margolis Brown Theatre Company in Minneapolis.  I trained with the world renowned Kari Margolis herself.  I felt more alive in that week than I had in many, many years.  My body teemed with excitement as I recalled how Kari pushed me, pushed me, pushed me.  Hard.  By the end of that experience, Kari wanted me to train with the company - really train.  Become a part. 

I chose to become a drama therapist.

My meditation today has been on my heart's deepest desire. 

I thought for a spell that it was getting my PhD.

I soon realized that getting a PhD is my head's desire.

My heart's desire is to go and train my body to perform.

And perform.

I still want to facilitate workshops and teach.  I could study expressive therapy and prepare my body and my spirit.  And travel... what if I really could do it all? What if I really SHOULD do it all?

Unpacking the Mystery of Poop

Reasonable solutions to my little one with encopresis, which to the lay person means he shits himself.
1. It's a medical condition.
2. He has been sexually compromised.
3. Inappropriate anger management tool.

Or

4. Regression.

After my last post I charged myself with gaining insight into my patient's pathology through dramatic intervention. What impresses me most about drama therapy is that it can do in one session what it can take weeks to accomplish in traditional talk therapy.
I decided that it was time for us to do some role play. And without even realizing it he started to play out his entire relationship with his mom right before my eyes.  And suddenly I began to see the poop as a way to keep himself infantalized. He began to talk like a baby and became very dependent. 

When we started to process the play, he acknowledged that he wishes it could be just him and his mom forever. No brother, no step dad, no grandma. He is seeking to monopolize all of her attention.  And pooping in one's  pants gets one lots of attention.Just from that acknowledgement alone, he has gone four consecutive days without soiling himself. Now the trick is going to be to build his ego strength and improve his social skills in 2 weeks!!!!

A little Carnival

<p>Preparing for Jordan has been an adventure in itself. So as not to feel completely overwhelmed, I took a little break this weekend and rendevouzed with my little brother at Atlanta's version of Carnival.  I danced, ate good, authentic carribean food and laughed until it hurt! Today I recovered by lounging at the pool and watching old movies while napping on the couch. </p>
<p>Things at work have been rather tense lately and as my census rises so does patient acuity. I have one patient who I have seen on three separate occasions and it has only been on his third visit that he has presented with encopresis. ENCOPRESIS! In my group room no less!  Did I conjure the shit or what? So now I am charged with uncovering the etimology of this new symptom and treating the child all before leaving for Jordan in three weeks. But of course the real challenge is how to do it all expressively... this would be a very interesting case presentation.  Stay tuned!

Jordanian Monarchy: Normal abnormalities

The Royal Family... They look like an average middle class family that you might see at Lenox Mall or in Whole Foods or maybe driving their Mercedes SUV on their way to church. Just to look at them one would never imagine the fascinating history of the Jordanian Monarchy. 

I had a phone conversation with my father about a week ago as I was leaving Buckhead and our first planning meeting for our trip to Jordan, and booking it to the southside to see Rachelle Ferrell in concert.  My father spoke very intelligently about his understanding of Jordanian History with special emphasis on the Israeli-Palestinian Issue. 

"Why do you know so much about Jordan?"
"Well, I read the paper and watch the news".
"But JORDAN? Daddy, are you secretly working for the CIA?"
He chuckles.
"No, I just pay attention. And you need to pay attention too.  You need to study this issue and become very familiar with it so you don't get out there and put your foot in your mouth."

It was not the fear of God that daddy put in me that day, but a fear of causing an INTERNATIONAL CRISIS.  So, what did I do? I went to the library and checked out a fantastic 723 page book: Lion of Jordan: The Life of King Hussein in War and Peace.  I am not quite midway through the book now (It is Sunday) and I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about the history of Jordan. 

Honestly, I started reading the book Friday morning and could not put it down.  It was full of espionage, intrigue, assassinations, dodging bullets, mental illness, visits to the King from the CIA  accompanied by suitcases full of millions  (daddy, did you know about these?) and war, war, war.  Arab nationalism, Zionism, land grabbing, border protection, imperialism and liberation, lots of interesting words I'd never seen before and more violence - always more violence. 

Imagine, King Hussein, the father of the current King Abdullah II,  a boy king of 17, taking responsibility for a country.  When I was 17 I could barely take responsibility for my room staying clean!

Susan Anderson invited me and Edna Bacon over to her house last Saturday so that we could talk about what to expect.  She invited a Syrian named Rimah over to talk to us about Arab culture.  I personally felt that she minimized quite a bit.  She talked about how welcoming they are to Americans because they separate their feelings about the American people from their feelings about the American government.  I asked her what their thoughts are on black Americans and she said that they identify with Black America's struggle for liberation from slavery and such...  that if anything they would see me as exotic.  Great.  Just what I always wanted.  To be seen as Exotic.  When I think of exotic I conjure memories of seeing Grace Jones on MTV in the 80's.  Not the most flattering of all images.   Rimah spent a good deal of time talking about how the American government has to paint this evil picture of the other in order to justify their engagement in the middle east.  She eventually acknowledged that the Middle East must do the same.  Naturally, I thought to myself that no image is actually real.  They are mere projections - inverted mirrors of each other.  Rimah almost gave a romantic, Lawrence of Arabia perspective on Arab culture and I wondered how much of it was her own nostalgia - missing her homeland.  She has been here for almost 20 years.  And right now with the fighting going on in Syria, she cannot return.  She has family there.  This is the closest I've come to meeting anyone directly affected by Arab Spring.  I heard a news report this morning that says the fighting in Syria has spread to Lebanon.  Jordan is in the heart of the middle east, bordered by Syria, Egypt, Iraq, Israel, Saudi Arabia, and Lebanon. I remain prayerful.

I asked my father what his thoughts were on the Israeli-Palestinian issue.  He said he believes that there should be two states.  One Israel, one Palestine.  And added that it is the official position of the US as well.  I believed that I had the same opinion, though honestly I had not given it much thought.  It was so far from my personal, everyday experience that it had not occurred to me to take an official position on the issue.  I have known Israeli's.  Women who were trained to fight.  Women who had to join the Army when they turned 18. I thought it was fascinating - terrifying.  But we never talked about the Palestinian issue.  It was just never a part of our discourse.  We talked about social issues in the US, our families, our friends, but mostly we talked about our feelings.  We had a lot of feelings.  But we never talked about war.

We recognized that we were asking Rimah to make generalizations about the Arab people - and made a few distinctions between Islamic Arabs and Christian Arabs - but we were curious about the Arab view of mental illness is.  She talked about how it is shaming for a family to have someone with any sort of disability.  It looks bad for the family in particular if you have a mental illness.  She never mentioned that the Royal Family had a mentally ill King!  King Hussein's son was diagnosed with schizophrenia.  When Talal's father was assassinated, he was in a mental institution.  They brought him back to Jordan, crowned him, and he remained King for something like 2 years - until he became more and more unstable and they shipped him off to Switzerland where he lived the rest of his days locked away. I couldn't believe it.  Rimah never mentioned this.  Maybe she never knew.  Maybe she did.  Maybe she was shielding the Royal family from that same shame.  If I ever had the good fortune to meet King Abdullah and Queen Raina, I dare I would ever mention it.  But it is interesting to note.

Jordan Update!

Jordan... wow... in just over a month I will be travelling to the Middle East.  Never in a million years did I imagine I would be travelling there.  Africa? Maybe? South America? Perhaps.  But the Middle East? Sand, heat, hijabs. And yet,  I am so excited I can't sleep!!!!!!  We have our first official planning meeting in two days.   I have been reading novels and doing historical research on Jordan.  One of the novels I read had to do with Honor Killings.  I had no
idea that in a country as progressive as Jordan purports to be, that the number of Honor Killings would be so high.  I am reading a book right now about Marrakesh and am finding that the situation there is similar to Jordan - particularly with regard to the treatment of women.  I have to check my judgement here, but it is difficult not to hold the men of these Muslim Nations in contempt for treating their women like chattel.  Once they get married many Muslim women cannot leave the house.   This Holy Land.  The land where Jesus walked, Aaron is buried, the ark of the covenant is stored.  Where Jesus was baptized and the Dead Sea gives life, there are also young women who are murdered if there is even the suspicion that she has had sex with or kissed or talked to a man without the approval of her male relatives.

To be fair, it is also a place of refuge for thousands of people seeking safety and shelter from other, neighboring war-torn countries.  Jordan refused to fight in the Gulf War and has kept peace with Israel since war for control of the West Bank with other Arab nations, in the 70's and 80's.  It is now... neutral.

And here I am, this black girl from Georgia, going over to the Middle East to do some art.  wow...

"Shit! I missed the deadline!" or "Clean up Your Shit!"

I have hit an impasse, and interestingly, my first thought was to blog about it... sending my thoughts out into the ether to land where they may...seeking the beauty that exists somewhere between work and play - that ephemeral silence between the notes - the sultry slip of dusk into night... waxing poetic about my life makes a jagged pill just a little bit easier to swallow.

I was running an expressive group the other day with a group of 7 men.  One of the guys is clearly overidentified with the role of "the tough guy", and he plays out this role so dutifully that it ends up being terribly entertaining - so much so that he has not yet been able to identify the shadow side of this role.  The side that is a disservice to the self.  For example, he stepped in some dog shit prior to coming to group and didn't realize it until one of the guys sat down next to him.  He thought the other guy smelled bad, and quickly realized that the dog shit was on his shoe.  He quickly got up and spent a good deal of time and energy cleaning off his shoe.  He walked back into the group room wearing one shoe.  He'd left the other outside.  But the shit was still on the floor.  He picked up the shit, flushed it and returned.  But the shit left a stain (and a smell that only a few could detect).  He tried wiping it, spraying it with air spray, etc.  But the shit was still there. 

Clearly this was a metaphor for the shit that we would rather clean up cosmetically - even kick out that which has been compromised by the shit - eventually get rid of the shit itself, but forget that we have to deal with the residue.  There is always residue.

I posted an excerpt from my blog about my Hill visit on my FB page and got some really wonderful feedback.  I went back to read the post and realized that I have my own shit.  My own residue.  The good news is the residue can be cleansed, but it has to be cleaned, not covered up.  And you have to cleanse it thoroughly because if you don't, the stain will go away temporarily, but it will always return.  And sometimes we are so close to the shit (or so used to the shit) that we can't smell it and it takes others to remind us that the shit is still there. 

So what's my shit? The Critic which lives inside of my head is always there to remind me that my shit is feeling inadequate.   No matter how much great work I do, or how many people there are to tell me that my work is great, I still fear that one day I am going to be discovered a fraud.  And then the critic's voice is silenced for some time, and I once again feel good about the work I do, and then something happens to remind me that, yep, I am a fraud, and everyone was wrong about me, and I'm always able to find evidence of this in my environment.  Enter into State's evidence, my shining moment on Capitol Hill.

And now, the deadline has passed for my submission to present for the Expressive Therapies Summit.  The easy justification for letting the deadline pass for the second time is that the National Association for Drama Therapy conference is going on the week before in Connecticut and I will need to come back to work and then fly up again to New York a week later to present for this conference.  I will be taking off two weeks to go to Jordan in June and I will not have accumulated enough PTO (paid time off) to take off several days again.  Not to mention that I would have to cover air fare for one trip and hotel and conference registration for another.  I can't afford it.  The difficult justification for letting the deadline pass for the second time is that I went on line and looked at the presenter bios from last year and... WOW!  Who am I again?  I looked at the workshop descriptions and, again... WOW!  What do I do again? 

Taking a break from self deprecation for the moment, in my own defense, I have been and will be outputting a lot this year, and I think in all fairness it would be wise to fill up from time to time.  I would love to be a participant at one of the conferences.  To simply play and enjoy the process. 

And yes, I know that I have idealized what my life could look like over and over again: travelling all around the world facilitating workshops, getting my PhD, writing books, teaching classes at the graduate level, etc.  And if I submitted to both conferences I would be a full participant in that vision.  But I am already a full participant in that vision.  I am constantly facilitating workshops, I will be going to Jordan soon; ArtReach is gaining more and more recognition and sliding me into conference proposals all of the time. I will be presenting for the Georgia Teachers Association in November and am constanlty running workshops around town.  Choosing to go or not go to one conference or another does not change the dynamic of that vision at all, says the voice of reason emphatically to the critic.  When what she really wants to do is say "F-you!"

The Drama of Music on the Hill

Back from Capitol Hill. 

I was among the fortunate chosen to do a presentation on drama therapy before some members of the House of Representatives.  Admittedly, it was not one of my most shining moments.  I flopped.  I could argue that I was star struck.  Hill Harper walked in just before I was to give my presentation.  I could really romanticize this moment.  And trust me, on many levels I have.  I imagined that he came in just to see me and that he would be so taken with me that he'd whisk me away and refuse to let me get on the plane to come back to Atlanta.  That he would become the national spokesperson for the National Association for Drama Therapy, and owe it all to me - the one who introduced him to the wonders of drama therapy.  But alas, reality struck, and there I was plopped down smack dab in front of a power point presentation.  I have presented on drama therapy dozens of times, but this time was different.

It felt like a conspiracy.  A conspiracy on the part of music therapists everywhere.  Before I even stepped foot on Capitol Hill I met with my cousin, Robert, who shared with me stories of my grandfather, Big Daddy.  He told me stories of how Big Daddy would sing.  He would sing and hum spirituals that seemed to resonate from his soul.  He would sit and hum, "Come to Jesus" on the steps of the Big House.  Robert talked of how much he loved to hear  Big Daddy's deep, baritone voice singing, and how comforting it was to him.  I never knew my Big Daddy that way.  I only knew him as a sick person.  I wished I had known him as one who hummed more than he spoke.

Fast forward two days, and I am sitting with others of my creative arts therapies colleagues waiting for 2:00pm, so that we could share our enthusiasm for each of our respective fields.  Dance Therapy was scheduled to go first.  She had a lovely presentation detailing the specifics of the National Dance Therapy Association's membership - some of the benefits of dance therapy - but mostly about what it takes to become a dance therapist.  Their journals, their licensure, their exam.  Next, Art Therapy.  The big Kahuna!  With thousands of members, two peer reviewed journals, etc., etc.  Then, in walks Hill, along with Ben Folds.  We were actually told that we may have to stop in the middle of our presentation when they walked in.  Thankfully Hill and Ben had more class than to interrupt our presentation.  We stopped after Art Therapy spoke, Hill spoke, then Ben. 

Ben Folds, a talented musician, talked about how wonderful music is as a healing agent.  Hill, an actor, did the same.  I suddenly felt betrayed.  Completely.  After going to the Kennedy Center the night before to hear Alec Baldwin speak at the Nancy Hanks Lecture, I was incredibly disappointed that here we have another actor talking about how great music is.  Alec talked about his love of classical music and Hill talked about how music and creative writing helped him through his bout with Thyroid cancer. 

I was slated to speak next.  I felt this awful tug of war within my spirit. I did not hate music. Hell, I use music in my work all the time. But what about drama? And then I felt like a hypocrite. Wasn't I the one, just one blog ago, talking about "no exclusivity" and how we all work better in tandem? Am I not the one who considers herself to be an Expressive therapist?!  My power point had nothing to do with our membership.  I did not feel the need to legitimize us.  Not to mention that we don't have much that legitimates.  We don't have any peer reviewed journals, no national exam - we don't even have a thousand members.   I felt the need to share my enthusiasm for the profession.  Since my colleagues had done such a great job "professionalizing" dance and art therapy.  I wanted to show them what it looked like - what it felt like. So, I took the advice of my Government Affairs Chair, who suggested that I engage them in a theatre game: "I want it.  You can't have it".   After the invitation, Hill's face LIT UP!  He smiled wide and put his hands on his face and immediately grabbed a partner and began the dialogue.  I felt like it was my sole responsibility to make him fall in love with drama therapy, but it was all down hill (no pun intended) from there.  My need to convince him of how great drama therapy is seemed to overshadow how great drama therapy is.

I talked about my work with ArtReach using drama therapy with veterans.  I showed pictures of sculpts and improvisations, talked about the men and women coming home from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the number who have already returned with PTSD diagnoses, or undiagnosed mood disorders; about the rising suicide rates.  And then, at some point, I felt small standing next to my colleagues who did not feel like colleagues at all.  They were Executive Directors and PhD's.  I was just a practitioner.  A member of the Government Affairs Committee, so I quickly fumbled through the rest of the slides and sat down.

And in walked Music Therapy.  And they talked about Gabrielle Gifford's story of how she was healed from her trauma through none other than Music Therapy.  And they talked about their peer reviewed journal and their national exam and their licensed clinicians.  And I thought to myself, " And the Oscar goes to... Music Therapy! and the crowd goes wild!"  Hill and Ben exit stage left as they raced to the White House (literally) for yet another presentation.

I could not get out of there fast enough.  Someone asked me for my card in the elevator and my hands were shaking so hard, I could barely retrieve it.  I jumped on the Metro as I rushed back to the hotel to get my things so that I could head to the airport.  Sitting on the train I did the presentation a thousand different ways.  I was so obsessed with what a horrible job I'd done that I was literally struck by the sound of guitar as I made my way up the escalator.  And then I could not help but smile as I recognized the tune.  It was Anita Baker's "Angel". 

"Sing it for me.  You know it.  You know it.  Go on and sing it."

As much as I wanted to sing the song for this lovely man, I knew that if I opened my mouth I would have burst into tears. I thought of my grandfather, Big Daddy, and wondered if this could have been him reincarnated.  Showing up right at that moment to remind me that I am still okay.  I didn't want to make music therapy out to be the enemy of drama therapy, but couldn't help but feel jealous.

I simply thanked him.  I fished for some cash, but couldn't find any.  I never carry it anymore. 

On the airplane, a baby started to whimper, then cry, then scream.  Reluctantly I reached for my ipod which is not an ipod at all, but a Microsoft Zune.  Before I would commit to using music in that moment to save my eardrums, I pledged to use more drama in my expressive therapy and continue to share it with the world.  Once agreed, I slipped in my earbuds and listened to classical music as I read about Honor Killings in modern day Jordan in preparation for my upcoming trip! 

Constantly evolving definitions

 I remember coming home to Atlanta from NYU, and wondering what to call myself.  I felt instinctively that Drama Therapist was too limiting, but I did not have another word for it.  So, I felt resigned to calling myself that, and then educating the public on what a drama therapist was and was not.  I spent a good deal of time defining myself against the other creative arts therapies such as art and music, so that people would at least have a frame of reference - which also did not seem fair to drama therapy as it is, distinctively, its own, wonderful modality.  Over the years I began to hear more about Expressive Therapy and instantly felt a kinship with that community.  It is almost like knowing I am black and feeling a certain love and affinity for my group, and also defining as a human being and knowing that those two parts of myself must and do co-exist.  Defining myself as an expressive therapist rather than drama therapist is a definitive choice I made in going forward with my website, blog, business cards, etc.  It is the way I brand myself.  Of course I am a drama therapist and feel nestled by my community of drama therapists, but I am also a part of the Expressive Therapy community and feel it necessary to nurture that bond as well.

I was talking with a drama therapy colleague of mine today, as we prepare for Arts Advocacy Day on Capitol Hill next week.  I was asked to be a member of a panel discussing the arts in healthcare for some members of the House of Representatives as a part of AAD.  They have asked for power point presentations from each of the creative arts therapies that will be represented   So, I looked on YouTube to see what was already out there in the realm of drama therapy.  I was happy to see that there was a lot, but sad to see that if you were not a part of the drama therapy community, you would think it was at most, interesting, and at worse pure idiocy.  So, I called up my colleagues from ArtReach to see what we had that was specific to work with Veterans since I know it is a hot button issue in Congress right now.  They immediately got to work on putting a CD together for me.  When I informed my drama therapy colleague of this I was reminded that I needed to focus on drama therapy exclusively because "it's just better, and we don't want to talk about how great somebody else's organization is and drama therapy really is the only one that consists of everything.  we do masks and poetry and music..." 

 I reminded my illustrious colleague that "in the coming days we should probably get used to there being an integrated arts approach rather than focusing exclusively on one or the other because I think they work just as well, if not better, in tandem".   What I really wanted to say is,"if drama therapy incorporates masks and poetry and music, then why not call it expressive therapy?"  All of this exclusivity seems a bit ridiculous to me when we are all fighting over crumbs!!! All of us - art therapists, music therapists, drama therapists, movement therapists, dance therapists, poetry therapists, drama therapists and the like - are all fighting over the same piece of pie.  Why don't we fight together?   The reality is that some people may think drama therapy is "better" and others may think art or music is "better" And believe it or not, I am biased.  I am happily biased.  I do the work of a drama therapist.  I was trained as a drama therapist, but one things for certain, the public has been exposed to more feature stories touting the efficacy of art and music therapy than they have of drama therapy.So, I definitely want to expose drama therapy to more people, but I want to do it as a part of the creative arts therapies, not as a rogue method out there on its own. 

We are fighting so hard in so many different places for reciprocity that we cannot afford to exist in a vacuum.   And I guess it really seems a bit ludicrous when I hear that after creative arts therapists in New York have worked so hard to get licensure, now agencies are starting to hire non -licensed clinicians - even non clinicianed artists - to do the same work.   It sometimes makes me ask, what the hell are we fighting for?!  And then I remember how lives have been transformed by drama therapy.  My own life has been transformed by drama therapy.  And so I keep on truckin'. 

I do think it is ironic that I got a specific request from Barry Cohen to do a workshop for the Expressive Arts Summit in New York this November, while I am waiting to hear back about a proposal I submitted for the National Association of Drama Therapy conference - also in November.  Things that make ya go hmmm...

Praise!

Admittedly, I am a movie nerd... to tell the truth, I am a book nerd too.  I like to watch a movie and then watch it again with the director's notes.  Then I look at the deleted scenes and watch the movie a third consecutive time with gained insight.  With books, I like to read the acknowledgements, author's notes and anything else the publishers feel like putting in the book.  And before even reading a book I always take a look at what others have to say about them in the "praise" section on the back of the book.

I'd like to take a moment to reach deep into my imaginal realm and pretend that I am world renowned, and share with my readership (wherever you may be in the stratosphere) a little bit of real life "praise", for my work; not from the New York Times or San Fransisco Chronicle, but from a small group of Master's students from Dr. Chibarro's Play Therapy class at the University of West GA:

"What a wonderful presentation! I learned how to apply drama therapy in use with adult clients, which I had never contemplated.  I particularly appreciated the experiential approach that was used with your visit.  Allowing the class to participate in work of this nature made it far more practical and plausible.  Had I not participated in this type of therapy, I would not have believed in the validity of its effectiveness".

"I loved your calm easy-going and fun personality.  I think this is a gift you have and only adds to your ability to help clients with drama therapy.  I had fun doing all the hands on activities - especially the name introduction.  I even tried to use it in my class and the students loved it!"

"You did a great job when you came to our class.  I've been in school for what seems like forever and I had never done any of the activities you had us do!"

"The activities that we did were amazing! It can even make a shy, reserved person open up while being in therapy...it was a different and exciting way to show others' points of views...Karimah had a great personality! She definitely seems like she is great at what she does! Thank you for the experience!"

"I talked more during our Drama class than any other.  Getting up and acting silly with everyone helped me with letting my guard down.  I can definitely see how a client could have a similar reaction. The living statue at the end was very meaningful and moving.  I greatly enjoyed the techniques and the opportunity to play".

"The experience and activities you shared were so helpful! I hope to be as passionate for my future career as you are for yours.  I will surely use the ideas you shared and what I learned about myself to help become a better counselor".

Permission, Playfulness and Projections

O, I attempted to invite playfulness into my day today, and the most I was able to muster was changing my profile picture on facebook.  My body is weary, and yet my mind still teems with excitement.  I am  still flying high off of the energy generated from the dream healing intensive last Sunday.  And yet, I must acknowledge that there were a few moments when I felt some trepidation.  There is something about working with dreams... people really own their dreams and are completely identified with them - sometimes overidentified... it is sometimes difficult to see the dreamscape as a mere projection, perhaps because the dream itself leaves such an indelible imprint on the psyche and influences emotions so deeply that it can be hard to play - to see it displayed as something outside of oneself.  Which can also be a bit complicated as the dream exists within your own mind.  It was generated from you, by you and for you.  And so, in many respects, it is you.  And it is also a story.  And it is also information.  And it is also an event.  And all of these things we have Divine permission to play with.  And we did.  We played and we laughed and we supported one another.  Even when it was scary and hard and strange.

We flew in the face of Mercury AND Daylight Savings Time and we were playful, insightful, intuitive and imaginative.  I was able to be a full participant myself, which was fun, but presented its own set of challenges.  I was reminded of why I typically don't try and fill the roles of participant/observer/facilitator as it is nearly impossible to do them all well.  Lesson learned.  I believe that I would like to do this again in November. I like doing it at transitional points - Spring and Fall.  My mother's birth month and my birth month.  That feels good and right and substantive.   The feedback I recieved was great and I felt very satisfied and fulfilled by the day's end. 

Gratitude for a Successful Dream Healing Intensive!!!

Dreamsapes and the Divine

As I contemplate the imminent dream healing intensive, I feel it fitting to include some of my personal philosophies on dreams and dreaming.  I believe that dreams provide some of the most powerful, creative imagery for living a fulfilled life.  I came to appreciate dreaming when I was five after being plagued by recurrent nightmares.  My mother was my first Shaman.  She taught me how to lucidly dream.  Since then I have paid close attention to my dreams.  I have joined dream groups, taken dream classes, read dream books.  I have kept a dream journal for most of my life and there are dreams that I have had many years ago whose images have stayed with me and on some level continue to guide and shape my life choices.  I receive important messages from my dreamscapes and have come to respect rather than fear them. 

Over the  past 15 years I have become a huge fan of Jeremy Taylor, an expert on dreaming, who writes: "...dreams always come to bring us closer to a deeper experience of the Divine".  And I acknowledge that with my entire being.  He also says that dreams always come in the service of health and wholeness, "...and they always start wherever the sense of transcendent presence is injured or broken... in the name of wholeness, my dreams will respond to my desire to become more conscious of the divine energies at work and play in my life by taking me directly to my unresolved emotional dramas that stand between me and the deeper sense of archetypal self and cosmos". (Excerpted from Where People Fly and Water Runs Uphill, 1992. Warner Books, New York, NY.)  Clearly there are some dreamscapes that present themselves as a reminder that I have hit a "sweet spot" so to speak.  These are dreams where I fly or, as my uncle tells it, he "runs like the wind".  These dreams come to remind us that freedom is our birthright!  These types of dreams always leave me feeling closer to the Spirit world than I ever have in waking life.

There seems to me to be no greater purpose in life than working through my own issues in order to move closer to the Divine - therefore moving me closer to the collective - all of which I am a part - and then extending that to sharing it with others so that they may themselves have the same experience, thus evolving the very nature of archetypes.  Applying the expressive arts to working with dreamscapes seems to be a natural part of the evolutionary process in the sense that creative expression is organic, and emergent.  It is how we as a species have evolved - it is how we build relationships with others.  It is how we build relationship with ourselves. 

I am told that Mercury goes into retrograde tomorrow, and what that tends to mean is that life becomes more difficult for me and a few of my friends until Mercury gets back on course.  In doing a bit of research on Mercury, I discovered that the greco-roman god Mercury carried Morpheus' dreams from the valley of Somnus to sleeping humans.  So perhaps this day is meant to celebrate Mercury in deepest gratitude for the gift of dreams. 

I am hopeful that this offering tomorrow is received by all with the intention which I set many years ago and that is to share what I know of expressive dream work with others so that they can apply it themselves - anywhere , anytime.  I am hopeful that the spirit of compassion, joy and connection sings through the work, that Mercury is pleased, and that we have lots and lots of fun!

Excitement Builds!!!

I have collected all of the materials for Sunday's Dream Healing Intensive and made the music playlist.  I am so excited I can hardly stand it!!!  I wish I could stay home tomorrow and just make art all day.  Sunday soon comes...

Another Thursday and All that Could Go Wrong

Thursday just happens to be my favorite day of the week.  I think I came to really know and understand this towards the middle of last year.  I don't think I was ever conscious of it before - didn't notice the patterns and shifts... but I tend to be "happier" on Thursdays than most other days.  More productive.  It is like Christmas Eve to me - pregnant with anticipation. 

Well, I can't say that today was necessarily my favorite Thursday of all Thursdays.  I awoke this moment ceased with terror!  It hit me that in THREE MONTHS I will be headed to Jordan, and in THREE DAYS I will be facilitating my Expressive Dream Healing Workshop - disconnected from any hospital, non-profit or entity.  At once it hit me that everything I have been saying I wanted for the last six years is right in the palm of my hands.  And I am afraid I will sabotage it. So I began to conceive of everything that could possibly go wrong. 

How they may not let me out of Jordan because my name is Karimah Lateefah.  How I may leave my passport or my wallet sitting on a chair in some random cafe in much the same way I did one of the last times I was in NYC (though much to my surprise everything was found exactly where I left it - unmolested).  How I may find myself scaling short buildings and running through random strangers' back yards and clotheslines because of some remnant of an Arab Spring uprising that has finally hit Amman.  That my translator will say the complete opposite of what I meant and I will have people angry and disgusted with me - making mental reminders of my face so that they can add me to their Most Wanted lists. That all of these wonderful things people have said about me and my work will mean nothing because I will get there and fall flat on my face.  That no one will show up for the dream workshop.  That people will show, but will "forget" to pay.  That they will be in search of a particular medium and I won't have it.  That I will run out of materials.  That they won't like the interventions.  That they will think I have been a fraud all of this time.  That they will look at me crazy when I say, "Now find your dream image in your body".  Or maybe they will just leave - or worse than that, stay, out of sympathy for me and my "effort".  That I will run out of steam, or get sick, or have an accident, or LOOSE MY MIND!!!!!!!

Yes, this was not my favorite Thursday of all Thursdays, but I still managed to remain productive, complete my groups, give feedback to interns, complete administrative tasks and gather some things together for my workshop.  And I did so without having an accident, or getting sick or loosing my mind.  I say this not because I believe there always needs to be a happy ending, but as a reminder that I am still here.  I am still on track and tomorrow is another day (sadly, however, it won't be another Thursday).

A Suprise Invitation: Jordan in June!!!

So, I got a call this afternoon from Susan Anderson, founder of the ArtReach Foundation.  She says to me, "well... I have a surprise invitation for you" and everything in me just sort of stopped.  Once the word "Jordan" came out of her mouth, everything else was just babel.  We had discussed Jordan before.  Three maybe four weeks of doing expressive therapy workshops for educators, refugees, caregivers, patients., etc... but it did not happen.  Things just did not line up.  Not to mention that it was right on the verge of "Arab Spring".  I was devestated.  I had been preparing.  I used "Jordan" as an opportunity to finally change my name.  I had been carrying my married name for years after my ex-husband and I had divorced for no good reason at all.  I was not holding onto something or avoiding something else.  I was just too lazy to do it (said the excuse maker).  So I took going to Jordan to get a new drivers license (and take a new picture for God's Sake!) and renew my passport.  I finally, officially, changed my name from Chambers back to my family name of Dillard.  I was starting to re-invent myself.  Starting to remember who I was as a human being and who I was professionally. My sister once left me a voice message saying that we must really love our names because we both referred to ourselves on our outgoing messages by our first AND last names.  And now it's KarimahDillard.com and karimahdillard.blogspot.com.  It really has been a reclamation of sorts.  A re-naming and re-claiming of myself. 

And now the opportunity to go to Jordan has presented itself again.  Jordan in June is now a reality.  Stay posted.

Light and Shadow

On invitation by Dr. Julie Chibarro, I taught a play therapy class the other day at the University of West Georgia.  I've taught this class for the past three years and am always amazed at the energy and thoughtfulness of her students.  I was pleasantly surprised that they were so willing to play, perform, tell stories and reflect on their own process. Every time I am introducing drama therapy to people who are relatively unfamiliar with the process, I have the same butterflies I have just before stepping on stage to deliver a performance.  Part of the excitement is not really ever knowing how your work will be received by your audience.  Part of the fear is not really ever knowing how your work will be received by your audience.  This is how the dual aspects of light and shadow function in reality.  The challenge is to not be stopped by either aspect.

While engaged in the storytelling portion of the class, the other night, it occurred to me that the story we were weaving had an undercurrent of professional uncertainty.  I had to remember how many times I, myself, have experienced professional uncertainty - especially living in a state where there is no reciprocity for creative arts therapists... how many times I have had to put on what felt like a magic show of sorts to prove the efficacy of this practice.  And now I seek to marginalize myself that much more by concentrating heavily on dreams!  (Am I a glutton for punishment or what?!)  If I were someplace like California or Arizona or New Mexico or even New York, doing expressive work alone would not be unusual - applying expressive work to dreams, a natural transition.  But in my home state of Georgia which as a whole tends to be more conservative than not, instead of writing my own ticket, some might say I am digging my professional grave.  And at the same time, I am so excited about this venture - so committed to its relevance and healing properties, that I can't think of anything else.  I am planning a dream intensive workshop for next Sunday and Sunday can't seem to get here fast enough!  It is going to be an amazing adventure, and I am so grateful to those who are willing to take this journey with me.  So, hold on tight and enjoy the ride!  I can't wait to share the insight.

Panic!!! Painting and Peace...

So, the other night I was in the ER doing a psych assessment and I thought for sure there must have been cameras in the room.  No, I was not hallucinating, but I was completely mesmerized by what was happening.  This night I walked into room 6 and much to my surprise there was a woman there whom I had seen just a month before for suicidal ideations.  As soon as she saw me she ran up and hugged my neck in a fit of tears, "I was hoping it would be you!"  As she talked to me about what brought her to the ER  (OCD, panic, depression, etc), she pulls out a picture she drew and started reading from her journal to me as if she were delivering a monologue (facial expressions and all)!!!!  I had to force my mouth closed because it wanted to drop to the floor!!!!!  This has NEVER happened to me in the ER before and I have been doing psych assessments for over two years.  My patient had no idea that I am an expressive therapist.  She still doesn't know.  Actually she gives all the glory to Risperdal for "bringing back my art".  But it dawned on me that the vast majority of my thought energy/emotional energy and time have been almost exclusively devoted to expressive therapy lately, and that what you give your attention to tends to grow (for better or for worse).  I felt such a connection to the Universe in that moment.  And so grateful to my patient for sharing her story and her art with me.