After nearly two and a half years working in career counseling at a major university, I found myself bored out of my mind. The repetitive nature of answering the same questions over and over was not what I envisioned for my career. I needed to feel a deeper purpose and I wasn’t getting that as a career coach.
So imagine my excitement when I received a job offer to become a trauma counselor at a non-profit for survivors of sexual assault and domestic violence. As abnormal as it seems to write this… it was my dream job. I had written more than enough research papers about therapeutic approaches for survivors and was thrilled to put my research into practice.
Secondary trauma: the emotional duress that results when an individual hears about the firsthand trauma experiences of another.
I wasn’t naïve. I knew this role wouldn’t be a cake walk. Quite frankly, the agency wasted no time forewarning new hires about the red flags of secondary trauma and encouraging us to practice self-care. But no matter how much self care I used, I found myself depressed.
I think it’s important to emphasize that I never experienced depression before this job. With no personal experiences to depression, I didn’t recognize the signs when they subtly appeared. I assumed my struggle to get out of bed was from the hustle of building Redefine Enough after 36 hours of trauma work each week. I reassured myself that my desire to isolate and “stay in” was just my introvert nature in need of “me time.” But really… it was depression… and I felt embarrassed that I wasn’t able to self-care it away.
It wasn’t until I went two months without a menstrual cycle that I realized that something was wrong. After a year of testing, blood samples, and doctor’s visits, I learned that I had polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). For me, it meant that in addition to fibroids, weight gain, and hair loss, I could expect to miss menstrual cycles when under significant stress.
When provided with a treatment plan, I was informed to eat healthy, exercise, and reduce my stress levels.
Eat healthy? I had already switched to pescatarian and integrated more fruits and vegetables into my diet. Work out? Easy enough, I practice yoga regularly. But my stress levels? How in the world would I do that as a trauma counselor?
I don’t get the option of telling my clients to stop talking because I’ve reached my secondary trauma “quota” for the week.
The primary suggestion offered by many was to go to counseling. And while I highly encourage counseling, it’s expensive… so expensive that I couldn’t afford to do it. I know that’s a shock to many because there’s an idea that counselors make lots of money. Heck, I’ve heard several people tell me that counselors aren’t as kind and caring as we make ourselves out to be and that we’re only in it for the money.
This is all stated as if Sallie Mae/Navient, my leasing office, and grocery stores would accept compliments from clients as payment. I don’t live in that reality. In full transparency, I worked at a non profit providing pro bono counseling services to clients. Unfortunately, the funds for counseling salaries did not reflect livable wages. In fact, there wasn’t a single person who could afford to live alone within our counseling department (if that helps paint a fuller picture).
So while the idea of attending therapy was a great suggestion. It wasn’t readily accessible to someone like myself with limited finances (rather ironic considering the situation).
With few options, I made a bold decision to lower my hours to 30 per week in January 2018.
But less than 6 months later, I resigned from my position.
Trust me when I say that it was a difficult choice that wasn’t made lightly. My loyalty to my clients and colleagues was the key reason that I was able to continue doing such challenging work for so long. It was their resilience that encouraged me to power through…or maybe it’s wasn’t loyalty. The better word is guilt. I felt guilty walking away from clients who had survived so much. I felt like I owed them my time… even if it was to the detriment of my own physical and mental wellbeing.
Sadly, that’s a common belief in helping professions, especially when you belong to marginalized groups. When announcing my desire to take a break from the field, I was met with, “But we need more Black counselors like you… How can you leave?.”
While I recognize the significant need for clinicians of color, I am unwilling to be a martyr for my profession. I will not exhaust my mental energy and watch my body wither for the sake of another.
I deserve the same space to heal as my clients.
One of the phrases that I frequently used in counseling was…“It’s okay to make your needs a priority.”
After a month, I recognize how truly walking out that phrase has changed my life. I miss my colleagues and the amazing clients I had the privilege to meet. But I know I made the right decision for myself at this moment.
My heart and purpose will always be helping others create light in their lives. Right now, I’m creating my own.
If you’re a mental health professional who’s dealing with a similar experience, I hope you find comfort in being reminded that you’re not alone. We all deserve space to heal and prioritize self…including you.
Workplace Wounds
My name is Michael Sussman and I’m a recovering psychotherapist.
My name is Michael Sussman and I’m a recovering psychotherapist.
By this I don’t mean that I am a therapist who attends Alcoholics Anonymous, but rather that I’m in recovery from being a therapist.
Ironically, working as a therapist aggravated the very same wounds that first drew me to the field.
I made a decent living as a clinician, and took great satisfaction in helping people in distress. Over time, however, the strains of practice overwhelmed my own coping capacities and I was forced to close up shop. Ironically, it appears that working as a therapist aggravated the very same wounds that first drew me to the field.
Like many practitioners, my early family experiences groomed me for the role of psychotherapist. As a typical middle child, I felt unsure of my place in the family and hungered for acceptance. I dealt with these insecurities by becoming mother’s little helper and confidante. Outwardly, I did all I could to help her care for my younger brother. But underlying feelings of jealousy and malice toward the intruder drove me to torment my brother on the sly. This, and my failure to somehow heal my parents’ troubled marriage, left me with deep reservoirs of guilt and remorse. As I’d later learn, such feelings—along with intense needs to atone and make amends—supply a powerful impetus toward pursuing a career in the helping professions.
Unfortunately, they also provided fertile soil for the development of emotional illness. By the age of 15, I was already showing signs of depression. In my late teens I dropped out of college and joined a cult, and by my early twenties I was bouncing in and out of psychiatric wards with bouts of both depression and mania.
I eventually stabilized enough to return to school and earn a bachelor’s degree in music composition and performance. And who knows? If I’d become a professional musician or a music teacher, perhaps I would never have suffered another episode of severe mental illness Instead, with considerable trepidation, I entered graduate training in clinical psychology.
From the start, graduate school undermined my emotional stability by weakening my defenses. As I learned in class, we all employ an array of defense mechanisms to help maintain psychological equilibrium. These protective strategies tend to function largely outside of conscious awareness. Why? Because our psychic defenses—like a nation’s military strategies—must remain concealed in order to be effective. If you become aware, for instance, that you’re using denial to avoid facing painful feelings, those feelings are more likely to emerge.
By gaining understanding of these defensive maneuvers, my own defenses were inevitably compromised. And in a variant of what has been dubbed medical students’ disease, I began experiencing the symptoms of the disorders we covered in class.
If studying psychopathology was a bit dodgy, actually working with disturbed people turned out to be downright perilous. The empathy that allowed me to tune in and connect with patients also left me vulnerable to taking on their pain. In addition, I was ill prepared for the enormous burden of responsibility entailed in caring for the sick. During my third year, a middle-aged patient of mine jumped to her death from the window of her 20th-floor apartment, shortly after transferring to a new therapist. Though devastated by her death, it only intensified my dedication to the calling.
But as the years passed, the emotional toll mounted. Overly dedicated to work, I neglected my social life and grew increasingly isolated. Rather than freeing me from an introspective disposition, clinical practice only deepened it. And while clinical successes were exhilarating, they did little to assuage the guilt from my childhood “crimes.” Clinical setbacks and failures, on the other hand, intensified my inner sense of badness. Far from bringing redemption, the practice of psychotherapy engendered in me what the psychiatrist Richard Chessick termed soul sadness.
Ultimately, my career was cut short by full blown major depressive episodes requiring electroshock treatment. I’m better now and have had former patients literally plead with me to return to practice. But my susceptibility to depression precludes me from providing emotional stability to others. Moreover, I can no longer ignore the fact that practicing psychotherapy is hazardous to my own health.
Recovery
So, what broader lessons can be drawn from my saga?
First, wanting to help people is not sufficient reason for becoming a therapist. Admissions committees must help applicants explore their hidden motivations for practice.
Wanting to help people is not sufficient reason for becoming a therapist. Admissions committees must help applicants explore their hidden motivations for practice.
Second, although a mild to moderate degree of emotional conflict needn’t be problematic, training programs ought to be wary of admitting applicants with a history of serious mental illness.
Third, all applicants ought to be fully warned about the potential dangers inherent in learning and practicing psychotherapy, and therapist self-care should be included in the curriculum.
Fourth, the last bastion of the stigma of mental illness appears to be within the mental health profession itself. It can no longer be denied that a substantial percentage of practitioners are significantly stressed or impaired. It’s imperative that the professional community stops fostering shame, and begins creating an environment in which struggling clinicians dare to reach out for help and support.
Meanwhile, I’m writing fiction. I’ve spoken to several former colleagues who are also in recovery. One runs her own bakery, another owns a bookstore, and a third raises llamas. What’s disturbing to contemplate is that, in all likelihood, there are thousands of therapists out there who ought to be doing something else, but continue to practice.
*This article was originally published in the May/June 2013 issue of
© New Therapist 2013
So, what broader lessons can be drawn from my saga?First, wanting to help people is not sufficient reason for becoming a therapist. Admissions committees must help applicants explore their hidden motivations for practice.Second, although a mild to moderate degree of emotional conflict needn’t be problematic, training programs ought to be wary of admitting applicants with a history of serious mental illness.Third, all applicants ought to be fully warned about the potential dangers inherent in learning and practicing psychotherapy, and therapist self-care should be included in the curriculum.Fourth, the last bastion of the stigma of mental illness appears to be within the mental health profession itself. It can no longer be denied that a substantial percentage of practitioners are significantly stressed or impaired. It’s imperative that the professional community stops fostering shame, and begins creating an environment in which struggling clinicians dare to reach out for help and support.Meanwhile, I’m writing fiction. I’ve spoken to several former colleagues who are also in recovery. One runs her own bakery, another owns a bookstore, and a third raises llamas. What’s disturbing to contemplate is that, in all likelihood, there are thousands of therapists out there who ought to be doing something else, but continue to practice.*This article was originally published in the May/June 2013 issue of New Therapist magazine.© New Therapist 2013
