My Therapist

Many people don’t understand the role of a mental health therapist. Perhaps they have a priest or elder they trust. Perhaps their mental health issues were never identified as critical requiring professional assistance or were simply tolerated or ignored by their friends and family. Perhaps they didn’t have the financial resources or wherewithal to get help. I haven’t had that luxury since I was twelve when it was abundantly obvious I would never survive without professional intervention. That was over 50 years ago.

It’s not like it’s been easy.  In 1971, my school counselor helped me get an appointment at the county mental health center.  They don’t exist anymore.  (These centers were championed by President Kennedy and gutted by President Reagan. Don’t tell me who’s president doesn’t matter.)  At fourteen, she helped me get out of my parent’s clutches and into a child psychiatric facility.  Unbelievably, it was a gift, which certainly speaks to how bad either of my parents’ homes were, enabling me to finish childhood in my stable and caring grandparents’ home. When I went to high school, there was a conspiracy among school counselors to give me support. In junior and senior high school, my counselors scheduled a study hall period for me. It was unusual at the time. I don’t remember asking for one. In retrospect, I recognize it helped me cope with the out of control voices in my head enabling me to excel in school. I was so damn lucky.  With the immense shortage of teenage mental health resources, I’m not sure how that would have played out today. Without this support, I likely wouldn’t be here.

As an adult, I had to chart my own path for therapy.  Not all therapists practice the same methodology.  Nor do personal styles, locations, or god forbid, insurance options necessarily result in good therapeutic relationships. Bonding with a therapist is an act of trust between professional and client.  As a client and consumer, I have to work hard to identify my therapy needs when interviewing these professionals. Currently, it’s difficult to even get an appointment to see someone. It is intimidating and requires determination. I wouldn’t hire just anybody to remodel my home. I wouldn’t stand back with no plan and say, “Have at it. I’ll be back in six weeks with a check to see the results.”  It needs to be interactive. That’s how is should go with a therapist.  This is a process partnership.  Not to mention that now the bathroom is updated, I also want to do the kitchen, and by the way, I hate that popcorn ceiling. I want to fix that too.

Insurance is a huge barrier to finding a therapist. It’s also a problem for therapists.  I know.  I live with one.  Reimbursement rates by insurance contracts are crappy and summarily lowered with no appeal other than to stop accepting their insured. Therapists must code the issues and submit paperwork for insurance approval and payment. I hate the system. I’ve opted out. Instead of a monthly car payment, I self pay for therapy.  It’s that important to me.  I’d rather drive an older car than continue to use a mind without any ongoing repair or maintenance.  Mental health therapy shouldn’t be free.  Clients need to put out effort to acknowledge the importance of the service. (I don’t have enough eggs to barter.) However, it should be subsidized by all of us similar to public education. A populace operating out of trauma is just as destructive as an uneducated one. (Did the US have a mass shooting today?)

Once I establish a solid relationship with my therapist, I hang in for the long haul. The trust goes both ways. Am I honest about my struggles? Do I keep my appointments and agreements?  Do I fight the need to appear better than I am? This is not for the faint of heart. I’m inviting her to walk with me to look at my trauma, that is, the abuse and violence that caused me to operate out of destructive coping mechanisms including being self violent and suicidal.  These things don’t just go away with medication and dusting off my hands and saying, “I’m all better now.  Glad we took care of that,” and walk away.  It’s a process.  One that can’t be shirked by either of us. I can’t just cover my flaws with new drywall. I don’t believe in short term therapy or quick fixes. A response to familial violence that settles into long term unsafe behavior does not quickly resolve any more than an addict can continue dabbling in their drug of choice.  It is the work of a lifetime. 

I talked to a friend recently who’s facing devastating health issues about the role of her therapist.  Like me, she’s a lifer.  “At this point,” she said, “my therapist is a touchstone. Someone I can talk to outside of my life with no other connection to me.”  Ronnie and I have often talked of therapists being like priests supporting our lives as professional guides. Of course, priests and elders can help unless they too are abusers.

My therapeutic relationships last more than a decade when possible and they continue being helpful. Longevity assists but is not required to have continuity of purpose. We’re a partnership. I bring the crazy and she (or he or they) brings the grounding and skilled push to understand where the crazy comes from.  With luck, that practice leads to a mental map for traversing the brokenness and making it better.  Without that touchstone, I am lost.  I resist changing therapists and only do so where a barrier presents itself that brooks no debate:  a relocation, retirement, or in one terrible case, a death. The depth and breadth of the interminably slow changes I make have created deep caring and mutual respect while understanding the limits of the relationship and the reasons for them.

I am indebted to my therapists. I am indebted to myself for doing the work, accepting uncomfortable truths, and facing demons, all of which, has allowed me to get to a place where I’m safe, where I don’t hate myself, where I don’t wish I was dead, and where I can embrace the richness of my life.  I have been persistent and lucky. Many have supported me on this journey including friends that drove me to my appointments when I wasn’t safe or took late night phone calls when I couldn’t get through the night.

I am now in a place where I can explore the oxymoronic term Post-Traumatic Growth. Who knew there was such a thing? Seeking mental health is like editing my writing. I make a pass at improvement, followed by another and another and another, until the writing gradually gets better. It’s long and painstaking until finally, remarkably, I recognize it’s worth celebrating.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

1.28.23

[Pictures of faces:  Karen, Trish, me in 1972, Barbara, Steve, Kari, Jerry, Stacy, me in 2004]

[NOTE: If you or anybody you care for is suicidal or struggling with personal safety, the following resources are available 24/7: Suicide & Crisis Lifeline - call, text, or chat at 988 or 800-273-TALK or 800-273-8255. Crisis Clinic of Thurston & Mason Counties at 360-586-2800. If immediately life threatening, call 911 or go to the nearest emergency room. Keep calling. Do Not Give Up! Suicide moves the pain to our survivors—a cruel legacy. Enter these resources in your phone where they could save a life.]

Everything and Nothing

Why do I think a thing and many times hear this internal response, “It’s everything and nothing”?  There are two voices in my mind.  I recognize both of them as mine.  This is a good thing because much of my life I had voices in my head that weren’t mine…if you follow my drift.  Anyway, when I hear it, it feels so right.

It maybe this stage in my life at 64.  I’m not sure.  I think for all the things we humans think are “oh so very important” they are everything.  As bombs rain down, as houses burn, and children die, as I age, I see that things and even my life are nothing…ultimately.  Is a thing that can be taken away so easily meaningless on the grander scale?

I am fascinated by old or ancient things like castles, Roman ruins, or those awe inspiring things that are identified as 4000 years or more old.  I’m interested in Anthropology and Geology though I am no scientist.  Those things built by humans were so very important to either the rich or the poor that built them.  Yet those all important activities did not last.  I look at ancient ruins with apartment type housing and try to imagine the people living there.  Their lives as important to them as mine to me and now they are dust.  In terms of human longevity, there is nothing but stones of magnificence, pottery shards, and bones.

There are what are called “Bog People.”  Complete bodies are preserved including their last meal.  It’s quite the scientific industry to determine why specific individuals landed in peat bogs and their lifestyles before death.  I’ve seen pictures where they look like they are sleeping. A few have been dated to be as old as 8000 BCE. In one picture, I see a man who has the face of someone I could know. His life was important to him several thousand years ago. Now to him, it is nothing. He’s incredible to scientists. Most of us don’t get that type of notoriety. This is why people believe in deities, to transition between everything and nothing, and transform it to Nothing and Everything. Adjusting to the temporal state of our lives and most of which we hold dear is tough. If I could make myself believe in a god, I would.  I’ve tried several times but no go. 

There are material things I’ve cared about that were wrecked by another’s inattention; special items stolen; things ruined; or a mean act by another. Occasionally, I catch myself having angst about one of them. I give myself a mental shake, “They’re long dead now anyway. There’s nothing to fix.”

“Good point.”

Or if I get really jazzed about something that’s over and done with, the deep voice says, “Steady.” The get-a-grip reminder is helpful. In a 100 or 1000 years, it will mean nothing. I see refugees fleeing from war with a suitcase and coat or a pillow case of belongings. Their homes and stuff they once cared for are gone. They’re hoping to get out with their lives. I remind myself of the transitory-ness of things. “Don’t waste energy on things, Joceile! They count for nothing.” 

I’ve talked to a couple of dying people with the oddest perspectives. One friend was happy that hospice provided her meds for free even when she had money in the bank. She was in hospice for god’s sake! One very, very ill man with nothing to live on was worried about withdrawing money from savings saying, “I don’t want to take money out of my 401K because I’ll take a hit [in interest].”

Exasperated, I said, “You’ve already taken the hit. You’ve been hit by the proverbial truck. This is the catastrophe it’s there for. You need money now. You can’t wait until you’re 65.” 

There was a pause in the conversation. We went through the whole thing again ending with, “I don’t want to take a hit.”

“You’ve been hit! Now, you gotta figure out how to survive.”  

I say another mantra. “I cannot fix what’s not within my power.” I’m always working to attend to what’s in my power and what’s not in my control. The pandemic taught me this. I cannot make others do things. I can only influence them person to person. They gotta find their own motivation. My desire is to make the tools available to them. 

My other favorite is, “There’s way more out of my control than in my control.” I’m thinking strategically. I only have so much life energy. I have to spend it wisely.

I cannot fix what’s broken in this country or the world. I can vote. I can protest. I can give money to what I believe in. I can rail at the powers that be. But the problems have been in the making since the beginning of this nation. As such, they may ebb and flow. In the historical scheme, we are nothing but we have great suffering which is everything…now.

This is an existential struggle. It’s not new or unique. We all must struggle with our impermanence. It is the rule of life. I don’t know if it’s uniquely human. We are and then we are not. What is valuable to me in the now?

Today, I was in line for the cashier at the auto parts store. A man in front of me was impatiently waiting for his young son to pick out a small toy car. I wasn’t in a hurry. I said, “He’s making an important decision.”

The man harrumphed. The cashier chuckled and smiled at me. Soon the kid walked up with a small red plastic car.  He asked his dad if he could buy a drink next. His dad said no, they’d already spent more than he’d agreed to. They walked away. I know being a parent is exceptionally hard. I also know that time is short. It’s possible love is the Everything when the rest is only so much Nothing.

Reporting from Life’s front.

Joceile

5.25.22

[Picture of The Lake at Central Park in New York City with a person sitting on a distant rock and trees fully leafed in autumn. 2022]

An Uncertain Future

When letting go of a life raft in a stormy ocean, I hope another raft appears because I don’t swim well. Big change has always felt that way for me. I resist. In school, a graduation date forced me to move on. In my state employment, only increasing discomfort has made me let go. So it is with retirement. So it’s been each of the other three times when I felt forced to change agencies. I wasn’t keen on when my daughter left home either but that’s another story. 

I was originally hired as a file clerk. Nothing glamorous or elaborate, just filing thousands of pieces of paper in thousands of file folders. Auditors needed those documents in the files. Eight of us made that happen. 

I was 20 in April 1978. I’d moved to Olympia to follow a lover going to The Evergreen State College. I’d been unemployed for three months and needed a job. My first week as a full time file clerk I took a look around the office and thought, “Oh, hell. This isn’t gonna keep me from going back to the mental hospital.” I started working on plan B.

Two years later, I’d engineered a half time permanent position with the hope that any hospitalizations would be of short duration. They were. I settled in knowing that I could sustain part time but not full time work. I also learned my mental health condition was actually a disability. Having suffered from it since I was 12, I was shocked. However, it framed my understanding of why I needed to work part time. 

It took five years before I got so bored my ability to file any significant amount was impaired. I knew it before my supervisor did. He began to suspect and made probing comments. I needed another plan B and started applying for any part time clerical jobs within the state. They were as rare as hen’s teeth. 

I got a call for a half time clerk typist receptionist position with the Human Rights Commission. A person with a very deep rich voice called me to ask if I was interested. I asked their name. The deep voice said, “Velma Jefferson.”

I was startled as I had made an assumption they were male. “Did you say Velma Jefferson?” I knew I was on thin ice. I didn’t want to offend her from the get go.

“Yeesss.”

“Could you spell your first name?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard it right. 

I said I was interested. She told me she’d get back to me. It was another three months before she called again. At that point, I’d given up on hearing from her. When I finally interviewed, I got the job.  

Leaving my file clerk job with the people I’d known for five years was sad. I knew I needed to go but I was scared. Letting go of one swinging vine in the hopes another will appear is unnerving especially for a person who prioritizes consistency and stability over all else. At times, this doesn’t serve me.

I remember the party on my last day. I woke up with my first cold sore ever and it was a doozy. I dressed up in my finest black jacket with my black lucky New York tie. Nothing could dress up that cold sore. Every time a picture was taken, I made sure my hand was in front of my mouth. I couldn’t wait to have that day over but I was nervous. I knew I had to move on but what did the future hold? God, I hate change. 

Tomorrow is the last day of my 44 year state career. I can’t wait to have that day over and yet…

I worked for the Human Rights Commission part time for twelve years. I promoted into discrimination intake officer, intake unit lead, and investigator.  I loved the mission of the agency.  I enjoyed the work. I shared employee of the year with a coworker. I never wanted another job and hoped to retire from the agency. Civil rights was my mission. 

As happens with state organizations, there was a management turn over with a new director. He tore down our innovative programs. He promoted glum, angry people into management. Camaraderie was destroyed. My friends started leaving for other agencies in droves.  I was ill prepared to make a move.  Once again, I feared I could not get another half time position. My new supervisor was humorless and rude. I did not respond out of my best self. Instead my mental health condition deteriorated.  

I recently found this excerpt I’d written about the workplace dysfunction:

“Do you know what we discussed in the last unit meeting?” I told an ex-coworker. Without waiting for an answer, I said, “We had five agenda items. The first two, we tabled for further discussion after much discussion. The third required further study. And the last two, we couldn’t get to because we ran out of time.”

A good friend with a long state career impulsively quit on a Friday.  I called a personnel friend in another agency on Saturday. She found her a job effective Monday so her pension and benefits wouldn’t be interrupted.  I thought to myself, “How is it I got her a job and not one for myself?” The next weekend, I packed up my stuff including my cherished Andrew Wyeth picture and went on medical leave.  I could no longer manage my mental health well enough to work. When coworkers saw my picture was gone, they knew I wouldn’t be back.

It took three long months of a serious Depression for me to be well enough to work with my personnel friend to get another job—a demotion at the Department of Licensing where many of my friends had landed.  There was no farewell party for me at the Commission.  However, I had received many generous shared leave donations that enabled me to continue receiving paychecks.  With a half time salary, many higher paid employees’ donations went a long way when converted to my income.  An agency director donated two days at her pay level which equaled two weeks for me.  This was recognition enough.  Unfortunately, my new job was full time but I was desperate.

I’ve been lucky in my career that my work was valued enough I could maintain my half time status. I went to work for DOL’s Human Resources as a receptionist once more.  Working full time wasn’t sustainable.  In three months, I ended up in the psych ward for a several days.  Shortly after, I promoted into a personnel officer position and started whittling down on my full time hours based on doctors’ notes and a sincere need.

I continued to promote as a personnel officer which turned into a human resource consultant at a bit more than half time. This enabled me to receive full retirement credit.  My work was respected though I continued to struggle with chronic health conditions.  Because of my civil rights experience, I was the go-to for determining reasonable accommodation options for employees with medical conditions.  Finally, I was promoted with that as my designated job.  For the next 16 years, I built a reasonable accommodation program from the ground up based on legal precedent and best practices.  I was a trusted advisor from the employee to executive leadership level.  

In 2015, I was awarded employee of the year. I was astonished and humbled that a half time human resource employee would be noticed out of over 1200 employees. My team built an award winning diversity program and received statewide awards led by my good friend and manager, Lonnie.  Then, an unethical, self-involved human resource director let it all crash and burn including discriminating against Lonnie.

Lonnie was hired as human resource director at Fish & Wildlife in 2019. I was bereft even though I knew it was the best thing for him.  I’d been one of his references and teased him that I could have sunk his chances. At his farewell gathering, he told one of his funniest soldier stories.  I recorded it.  I’d been on Lonnie’s hiring panel.  I’d teamed up with and partnered with him throughout the years. He’d gone from being junior to me to being my manager. He was my trusted buddy.

Once again, executive leadership had trashed the organization I was committed to and the work I loved.  At DOL, I had seen so much leadership ugliness that I couldn’t unsee it. When Lonnie left he said, “After I get settled, I’ll be back for you.”  I didn’t doubt it but how could I leave my program and adjust to a new agency after 24 years with DOL?  I was 62.

After he left, I cleaned up my cubicle and started taking down many of my prized personal pictures.  My friends knew it was a statement of my heartbreak and intention to leave.  The human resource director also noticed and said, “What are you doing, Joceile?”

I paused and looked at her coldly.  “I have too many pictures up.”  She’s evil but not stupid.  She knew what it was about. 

Lonnie left in July.  In September, I was at his house.  He said, “I want you to come work for me.  Same set up you have now. I want you to stay for two or three years.”

“Who would be my supervisor?”

“The risk manager.”  I knew that manager was a lawyer. Lawyers can sometimes be problematic in the HR world.

“You want me to come to work for you and report to a manager who is a lawyer?”

“We need help.  You can report to me if you want.”

“No.  I don’t want special favors.”  I stalled. I did not want to be the HR director’s special friend who’s hired on that basis. I’d seen too much of that.  “Let me meet with the risk manager and the human resource consultant to help them set up a solid program.”

I did meet with them.  I shared my procedures and templates.  I had a robust discussion with the risk manager.  I thought, “I could actually work with this guy.  I might like him.”

Licensing got worse.  The ugliness continued.  People I cared about were getting hurt and it was out of my control.  I told Lonnie that I would come.  He got busy setting up the position and the recruitment for a half time reasonable accommodation specialist.  Everyone who saw the announcement knew it was for me. There weren’t many half time professional positions out there. I applied.

My new manager told me later that many people didn’t want him to hire me because I was Lonnie’s friend.  When he saw my resume, he thought, “Damn, I want this person.”

Leaving DOL was bittersweet.  We had the farewell gathering with cake.  I told comedy stories.  We all reminisced about greatest April Fools’ pranks I’d played over the years.  I wished I’d recorded that part because I can never remember most of them.  There was a lot of laughter.  

My new supervisor hired to replace Lonnie with no HR experience said, “We’ll call you if we have questions.” It wasn’t even a question.

“No,” I said.

“No?”

“You’ll figure it out.”  I wanted nothing more to do with DOL’s HR management.

I tidied my things and walked out for the last time in November. During the last half of that year, three of my minority group teammates found HR jobs in other agencies after alleging discrimination.  I lamented, “A good manager doesn’t let good people go.  They fight to keep them.”

In anticipation of my new job, I kept thinking, “Who in the hell changes jobs at 62 for a new agency?”  It seemed like a big stretch.  Oddly, it was seamless. My coworkers were friendly and eager to have me take on my specialty.  Generally, no one likes reasonable accommodation work. For me, it’s a natural.  For most others, it’s a big slog.

The new computer system was easy for me.  The files were all electronic which was new to me.  I surprised myself by adapting quickly.  I posted a sign on my cubicle:

“Hi, I’m Joceile, new Reasonable Accommodation Specialist.  STOP BY: Introduce yourself and tell me what you do.  Thanks.”

I was on a common aisle used by many workers.  To my delight, many of them stopped and talked.  Questions came up for me to answer.  I learned Fish and Wildlife work is fascinating and complicated.  The sign was a clever marketing ploy but I did it instinctively.  By being myself and bringing my professional A-game, it wasn’t long before I broke through the uncertainty of my coworkers and became a trusted partner.

I try to never miss an opportunity to inject humor in my work life.  This has worked well in an office environment but then came the pandemic in March 2020. We all went home to work. In zoom life, spontaneity is gone. Dynamics changed. I still managed to make my mark in this stilted environment: employee by employee, manager by manager, executive by executive. My requirement is that I always make a contribution to the greater good. I’m intolerant of anything less.

It’s been three years. Six months ago, I told Lonnie I was planning to retire at the end of the year. My buddy, Lonnie, said, “Listen to your heart.” He’s not a person of a lot of words but these were perfect. 

My manager was equally supportive. I told my disappointed coworkers about my retirement saying, “My mind says no, but my body says yes.  And you know, the body always wins in the end.”

At 65, my chronic pain condition is increasingly wearing. I need more time recovering from the activities of daily living. I crave a break from showing up everyday for others. But I’ve never wanted to retire. I love my work helping employees deal with medical conditions that throw not just their work life but their entire lives into question. Traveling this path into an uncertain future with people who are scared and maybe terrified has been my life’s mission. There is always a course to chart even when we have no clue of the outcome. It’s why we need guideposts and resources. There’s no manual. We can only take each step as it comes. It requires being comfortable with the uncertainty. In addition to professional competence, it requires unfailing hope that we can traverse this path to the other side. It may not be the outcome we want but it will be sustainable for now, today, until more information comes. 

Now, I have to take my own advice. I’ve been lucky a newer coworker showed the abilities and interest for training in this work. We’ve had several months together. She’s enabled me to be confident that my customers will be cared for with skill, persistence, and kindness. This has been a gift to me. 

Last Friday was my last day. I went to the office. Not many people actually go to the office anymore. Lonnie was there. Others I care about came in. I wrote my last procedures with my coworker. A few of us sat and talked reminiscing about great April first pranks I’d played. One coworker attended on video. Lonnie hovered close. We hugged. He’d told me he already missed me. He hesitated about whether to walk out with me. 

“No,” I said, “It just gets worse.”

“I know,” he said. I walked through the doors with a straight back fighting tears modeling one of my most respected management retirees. Thank goodness I’m friends with Lonnie so I can still see him. He lives close to me. 

My counselor asked me about my history of making these big life moves that I resist so strongly. Reflecting on each time in my career, I realized the new change I feared so desperately turned out better than I’d ever imagined. Even when I’d happily settle for good enough, things turned out better. I’m making a leap of faith that retirement will be similar. I don’t know and can’t know for sure. I know I will be on the other side and, damn, I always have hope and know I have options. I’ve told employees many times, “As long as you’re breathing, there’s hope.” I’m still breathing and I’m walking this path to wherever it goes. Good enough is still good enough. I trust I’ll be bringing my A-game. Happily, that is firmly in my control.

L’Chaim. 

Joceile 

1.4.23

[Picture:  My last day, Lonnie (left) with two coworkers, one on video, and me. 2022]