I wrote this piece in November, 2017, following my acquisition and renovation of my own psychotherapy rooms. It was originally published via Medium.
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I recently bought and have been renovating a little office all of my own. It’s in the only building in the city I could ever imagine working in: heritage-listed, high ceilings, definitely filled with all manner of ghosts. Almost five years ago I walked in there for the first time to meet with a supervisor and fell immediately in love. I remember thinking “Maybe one day, in like 20 years, I could work here too.” Two and a half years later I signed a rental agreement for a room down the hall, and as of a couple of weeks ago, I now have my own name above my own door. I’m ahead of schedule.
Being ahead of schedule is something seemingly unfamiliar to the construction industry, who one unfortunately must consult with if one wishes to undertake the renovation of a space. Despite clear, unwavering, eye-contact promises that the work would be done in time for my move in date in mid-October, I have been working for the past three weeks effectively in a construction site. The soundproofing has been patchy (my greatest fear and dread), the doors have been changed and changed again, and there are many little problems (creaks and locks and bits out of place) to be resolved. I could go on about this literally forever, but I will save my rage about this for my own therapy.
I am never so angry, frustrated and burnt out as when my work space is out of whack. To create and maintain space where patients can share the most vulnerable part of themselves in a physical environment that doesn’t work for me has always left me with this sense that I have to cast a giant protective spell around the two of us. This leaves me feeling utterly drained every single day. I’m like a phone with an old battery and too many programs running. The fact that this particular space is mine, and my responsibility, has magnified this ten-fold.
This experience has also reacquainted me with my delusional, persistent belief that it’s my job to be a perfect, unwaveringly loving, constantly available, completely protective therapist. As much as, intellectually, I can see that this is misguided at best and deeply egocentric and problematic at worst, my heart still secretly strives every day to attain this. I imagine the wish to be a perfect parent has a similar quality. In the last few weeks, so many things outside my control have been present (or not present) in my patients’ therapies and I have been plagued with such a deep and persistent feeling of guilt and shame and exhaustion that there have been moments I’ve barely been able to be present at all.
If not unimaginatively ‘perfect’, what am I to be for my patients? The answer is actually not a complicated one. What they, I, everyone, needs is not perfection, but presence in imperfection. Our greatest relationships and friendships, and the most profound moments of growth and love and holding available to us, are actually those in which another person has stayed with us through something going wrong . And in fact, the most heartbreaking and destructive relationships can be those that seemed perfect and are conflict free for a long time, only to completely vanish in the first moments of rupture. The real gift I know I can offer my patients is my capacity to hear about their fears, disappointments and grievances — even (and especially) when those things are directed at me.
I realised this is impossible without first forgiving myself for my imperfection. It’s very hard to hear another air their grievances with us if we are plagued with our own shame about the things they’re pointing out. We are not much use to anyone from inside a cage of shame and guilt, so perhaps we’re best letting ourselves out. For me, the keys were in my pocket the whole time.