"You are showing them that they exist"

Excerpt From the transcript of the On Being show in which Krista Tippett interviewed Michel Martin:

MS. MARTIN: What we are simply saying is, I see you. I mean, I know for example when — you know, when I was working for “Nightline,” and I went to Turkey after there was a terrible earthquake there, and like, you know, thousands of people were killed. And I was feeling really useless. Um, thinking, boy I wish I were a doctor. I wish I were a structural engineer. I wish I could do something more useful. But then people would come up to me and say, thank you for being here. And I would feel, like, wow, why are thanking me? And then I thought — and I called my — you know what we do at a time like this. You know, I called my husband, because [laughs] I really feel like so useless. What am I doing here? And he said, you are showing them that they exist. And I appreciated that, because I’ve held onto that. It’s like sometimes the best thing we can do for people is let them know that we see them.

MS. TIPPETT: Mm-hmm.

MS. MARTIN: And so sometimes, you know, other people’s bad news is, you know, their lifeline, and letting them be understood. In fact, this was the very first story I did when I was at The Post as a little baby reporter at The Washington Post, and I was sent out on the summer — it was one of those terrible stories that you hate to do because some little boy had fallen out the window of the projects.

MS. TIPPETT: Yeah.

MS. MARTIN: And I had to knock on the woman’s door to get a comment from her. And I kid you not, I walked around the block three times before I mustered the courage to knock on her door, because I knew I had to. And I felt like, you know, and I knocked on the door. And she — and I said, I’m so sorry, I heard about your son, I came to see if there was any — a comment that you had. And she said, where have you been? Because she felt that if someone from the media didn’t come, then this was invisible and it had no meaning. And she had things she wanted to say, like why weren’t there any safety screens on the windows, which there were supposed to be. So, I bring that up to say a lot of times, what sometimes what middle class people see as intrusion, other people with no power see as validating their existence.

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This part of the conversation was so meaningful to me, particularly a day after sitting with my clients in their "I hate this place!" rage, fear, anxiety, uncertainty. Literally, from the first session to the last, I heard some variation on this experience of powerlessness. In the first cottage, one of the women was screaming about how much she "hates this place!" The person I actually went to pick up for her session was having a rough time of things, and I found myself feeling quite lost and powerless to be of much help to her. The person I worked with in the afternoon was clear in his wish that I would take him away, because he indicated a wish to leave the session space for a while and he directed me straight to one of the vans sitting in the parking lot. 

My last session was with a challenging group of men who live in an untenable situation- stuck in a room, all day long, dependent on whoever was coming in to support them, and angry, frustrated, powerless. One of the men, the youngest in the group at only 31, yelled and yelled and yelled, as he often does, but this time, even though he doesn't use words to speak, I distinctly heard, through his yelling, the words "I HATE THIS PLACE!! I HATE THIS PLACE!!" 

Our session had begun with one of the guys being pushed back into the room by his annoyed staff person. I knew he preferred not to be with us, and I had encouraged him to go and be in the other area, so instead of taking off his shoes, his shirt, his pants and grabbing at me, he kindly got up and walked toward the door. His staff person pushed him back in, because, she said, "he keeps going and leaving the day area and eloping, and we are so short-staffed, I can't watch him and all these other guys as well, so he's going to have to stay in here! Everyone gets frustrated that there aren't any staff, and then they call off!" She, too, was in an awful situation.

It was hard to know what to offer the men, musically, that could even come close to supporting them. All I could do was acknowledge it and let them know, "I hear you, and, yes, it is very hard to live here, and right now it's also very hard to work here. And I hear you saying you hate this place, and I'm sorry you're feeling so disrespected." 

And so, as I felt as if absolutely nothing I could do would be of any help to the guys, one of the most poignant moments was when the young man who was screaming came over to me, after four times, handing me my guitar case and seemingly letting me know he wanted me to leave, picked up a brush that was sitting on the table, and he handed it to me. I was holding my guitar, and I thought, "Whaaaa?" Until he pulled my hand to his head, and he kept a hold on me as he slowly had me brush his hair. 

So, Michel Martin, thank you for reminding me that what I do have to offer my clients is "show them that they exist."

Asking for help (the hard way)

Some days I come home from work feeling as if my clients all hate me.

Now don't all jump in with the "oh, come on, they don't hate you! Why do you insist on seeing yourself that way? They appreciate you, why would you say such a thing?!" comments. 

Because that would be missing the point.

The things is: it was hard being a music therapist today. And, yes, I did (and always do) say to myself, "oh, come on, they probably don't hate you. Well, maybe they do, but probably it's not really about you." 

Here's what I'm thinking (hoping) (thinking and sooort of hoping, because, really, it's not a great thing to hope): I'm thinking my clients absorb so. Much. Hate. Every. Single. Day. And here I come in, Ms. Gosh-I'm-so-glad-to-be-here-guys-let's-listen-to-each-other-and-see-what-we-can-hear-in-each-other's-music. And there's crying and yelling and toileting accidents and more yelling and more crying and running around and trying to run out the door and handing me my guitar case and climbing on things and hitting each other and pulling and pushing and more toileting accidents.

And we sing, and we play about it, and we stop to get people cleaned up. Okay, well, usually I'm the one playing about it and singing about it, because my clients don't really use speech, and they are often too busy being overwhelmed. And I put it out there, "I know things have been really difficult for you, and it's a lot to cope with all the time." 

And I feel inadequate. I feel like one of those teeny little bandaids that keep falling off. My words and my music hardly cover any one of my clients' deep wounds. And I try to remind myself, "this is what chronic trauma and chronic grief look like. What can I offer in the music, in my words, in my presence? Will it mean anything?" 

Thanks to juliaf for the image!

Then I start in with the whole internal drama of "What if I'm just making assumptions? What if they just think I'm being a pain in the ass? And wrong? What if they wish I wouldn't come because I just remind them of what sucks in their lives and then I'm standing there singing and talking about it and happy to see them, for God's sake?"

So there I was driving myself home (and crazy) today, feeling kind of crappy. And I reminded myself of how much hatred my clients have internalized. How there's nowhere for it to...go! I mean, it just...sits there and festers in them. And my acknowledging it and hearing it is probably new and unexpected. And uncomfortable. 

Listening to the hatred many autistic people (especially those who live in congregate care) have been asked to hold over and over again is plain intense. And I leave sessions feeling as if my clients hate me.

Actually, though, after the initial "oh, woe is me" phase, I do manage to realize, "um, this is countertransference." And I start to wonder if what's really happening is that my clients are asking me to help them - to help them cope with the hatred they're having a hard time metabolizing. In their own way, I think they're asking me to hold on to the hate, to figure out what to do with it, say it out loud for them, and help them find a way to make sense of it. 

And the only way they can ask for that help is to get me to a point where I feel as if they hate me. And I have to be able to experience that awfulness. That terrible "nothing I do has any effect on you, I feel as if I have no power over my life" feeling.

Because until I've fully gone through the pain and rejection with them, they don't know that I've heard them. And until I go through it I don't know how they're feeling.

Next week, I will go back to them. I will sing about it, and I will say it out loud and give it a voice in the music. And hopefully the relationship will grow just a little deeper. Because I allowed myself to feel as if they hate me.


This is one of the songs that came up in the session. 

5 Reasons Why You Need To Process in Music Therapy

I was off listening to a terrific podcast on processing over at the Music Therapy Round Table (and I highly recommend you go over and give them a good, solid listen). Well, I wanted to make a comment, but it turned out to be, like, six paragraphs, so, um, I figured I'd better head back to my own blog home and write it all out here and link it back to the hardworking Round Table folks: Kimberly Sena Moore, Rachel Rambach, Michelle Erfurt, and Matt Logan! 

As Michelle mentioned (either in the Round Table podcast or the Music Therapy Pro podcast), this business of processing (especially in clinical supervision) is kind of my "thing" (which makes it all sound a little...suspect) (but, really, it's not). I mean, if we're going to be honest (and I think we must), this whole blog is about me processing my experiences as a music therapist. 

I'm determined (determined, I say!) to convince the  music therapy world that we need to make processing a regular part of our work routine. And, yes, I'm sure I've probably said all this before, but I'm saying it again. And this time I'm going to try to be more succinct (stop snickering, I can do this). Okay. Here goes:

5 Reasons Why You Need to Process in Music Therapy:   

1. Processing helps you move your work to a deeper level.

Put simply: processing helps you move beyond observation to trying to understand what you’re seeing, experiencing, hearing, noticing in a session. Matt Logan wisely pointed out that a part of processing is looking at the relationships between the therapist, the client(s) and the music. It's so easy to get caught up in “what do I do? What should I do next?” and completely forget to look at what’s there in the session in a deeper way.

 2. It helps you gain a better understanding of what you're doing and why. 

Thinking through your sessions and trying to understand what happened in your sessions helps you get a stronger grip on the ever-present question:

 What is music therapy?

The longer you practice, the more your understanding of the work you do evolves and your answers to that question change and grow more meaningful. Processing asks you to consider: what is the role of music in my work? What is therapy? Who are the people I'm supporting? 

The more deeply you understand your work the better able you are to communicate why a client, a facility, an organization, a state, a country, the world needs music therapy.  

3. We all have feelings about our clients, and it's important to consider their impact on the therapy process. 

You have feelings about your clients, I have feelings about my clients. It's a normal part of therapy called countertransference. It doesn't matter who you work with (infants right on up through elders) and it doesn't matter how long you've been working and it doesn't even matter what approach you use. It's all part of the process. 

And the things is: just because you aren't necessarily having strong feelings or reactions you might think of as being "negative" (sad, angry, frustrated) it doesn't mean that your feelings aren't getting in the way of your clients' growth. Of course, I'm not saying that they are - just inviting your awareness that they have the potential to do so. 

I'll use myself as an example:

When I pause and reflect on the folks who are in my caseload, I notice there are some clients who stick with me all the time, because the work with them is difficult (or because they appeal to me in some particular way), there are some folks who I avoid thinking about, some who I forget about entirely, and some whose sessions I truly enjoy. 

Processing helps me step back and look at the larger picture of what’s happening. Otherwise, I can easily get bogged down in the "session notes version" of things (you know...what happened first, then what happened) and never move beyond it. 

Processing means I start to be curious and ask questions: 

Hm, why do some of my clients appeal to me more than others? Why do some not? What is it about some people that makes me completely forget about them until I see them in a session? Why is a particular client frustrating me so much? What's my role in this? Is s/he reminding me of someone else in my life? Is my complete joy in working with a particular group of clients making it hard for them to explore feelings of anger they may be feeling toward me (whether it's about me or not)? Is my discomfort about a specific topic obvious to my clients to the point that they're they avoiding looking at it to "please" or protect me? 

4. Processing helps you realize that music therapy doesn’t usually happen in one single session 

Well, okay, depending on where you provide services, sometimes it does. In general, though, processing helps you start to put things together (from one session to the next, over a period of time of working with someone, etc.). If you’re someone who tends to use an activity/therapeutic music experience approach, it’s important to think about what’s going on from moment to moment in a session that you might not have thought to look at. A process paper can help you do this and encourages you to ask questions, such as:

What happened? What patterns am I noticing in our sessions?  Then you move on to: What was I hoping to do with this particular person/group? How did it go? What do I think about that? 

5. Processing with a clinical supervisor helps you see your blindspots.

You don’t see your blindspots. That’s why they’re called blindspots. You don’t know what you don’t know! And, like anybody else, you don’t think to ask yourself something you wouldn’t have thought or known to ask yourself.

And that's okay! That's why there's such a thing called professional clinical supervision!  Yaaay!

Processing with a clinical supervisor helps you begin to see things you might not have looked at before. It doesn't mean you're a bad therapist. It just means that having an extra set of eyes and ears (who happen to have more experience) will help you think about things you hadn't thought to think about before. (Shout out to Michelle Erfurt for your great point that you didn’t really look at stuff to the extent you did until you had supervision!)

So, lovely music therapists: What new and unexpected thoughts are you thinking about your clients and about your work? 

"I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free"

It started some months ago when I, quite by accident, discovered that one of the men I work with (he's autistic, he doesn't use speech to communicate) can indicate "yes" or "no" by pointing to (well, usually by grasping and releasing) one of two index cards. He doesn't need my help (other than to hold the cards in front of him). 

He doesn't always do it. In fact, sometimes he very pointedly chooses not to do it. Sometimes he crumples up the cards and tosses them aside. Which is why they're laminated.

I think, understandably, his feelings about communicating and being heard are deeply conflicted. Even if he were to begin pointing at more words and letters to communicate, the likelihood he'd be listened to is...well...slim. The people in his life are largely committed to seeing him as severely disabled. Period.  

We've been sitting in that unsettled, anxious, frustrated, what-the-hell-do-we-do-now state for a while. I can see he wants to say more. He picks up the letter boards I keep nearby, but he gets upset and then tosses them on the ground.

Aside from trying to come to terms with the whole idea of actually communicating with me and having me understand him- overwhelming in and of itself for him, I think- there's the fact that it probably won't change his life in any appreciable way. 

When it was time to stop we walked back to the unit and I dropped him off in his group (letting him know when I planned to return for his next session). I went into the office and signed him back in, and then I walked around so I wouldn't upset him by walking back through his group. He doesn't tend to like when we have to end.

But he knew I was there. So he left his group (much to the dismay of his staff) and wanted to follow me. He doesn't usually do this, so I sat with him for a little while in the back hallway. 

I wasn't sure what to say, but the words that ran through my mind were the title of a Billy Taylor song, I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free. 

I didn't remember much of the song, and I wasn't sure it was something I could conjure up sitting there in the hallway. All I could think to offer him was the reminder that "nobody can take away who we are inside." 

We sat quietly as the shift changed and after a few minutes he got up and headed back in to his day area. 

Sometimes this work is really hard. Really, really hard. 

A book chapter, a presentation, and an interview

Whew! What a fascinating and busy few months it's been! 

Aside from my usual and intense immersion in work, there have been some nifty things happening. Here's what's been up:

First, I am extremely honored to be a part of a new book, edited by Sue Hadley, who is one of the people I greatly appreciate and admire, because she's willing to talk about the stuff nobody else talks about. This time she's talking about race and culture in terms of how it's experienced by music therapists. Here's the description of the book from Barcelona Publishers:

Experiencing Race as a Music Therapist: Personal Narratives is a compilation of critically engaging narratives that grew out of conversations with 17 music therapists living in different parts of the world, from various “racial” groups, about their experiences of their racialized identities in the therapy setting. The music therapists describe the raced and cultural contexts in which they were born and describe the racial demographics of the places they have lived at various times in their lives. The countries in which the individual music therapists spent their formative years include Australia, Canada, Iran, Japan, Korea, New Zealand, Puerto Rico, South Africa, the United Kingdom and the United States, with many of them also having traveled to other countries. The music therapists discussed their specific experiences of their racialized identities when they were studying music therapy and how they experienced their racialized identities in their professional lives. Many of them also described the differences they were aware of in terms of how they experienced themselves as raced or how they experienced the therapeutic relationship when they were working with people of their own “race” compared with working with people who were from a different “race.” From these narratives, we can see that our life experiences shape how we understand ourselves and others, our assumptions and biases, and the effort with which we form relationships with different groups of people. The music therapists in this book have shared their experiences in the hope that we can learn how to sit in our discomfort, without judgment, lowering our defenses, in order to learn more about ourselves and others, so that we can deepen our understandings and our relationships across racialized lines.

I've been slowly reading through the narratives, and they are engaging and thought-provoking. I encourage you to check out this book. It is a wonderful invitation to deeper reflection and conversation about a topic that does not generally come up in our field.

Second, I spent a lot of time trying to organize a presentation I did for the most recent Mid-Atlantic Regional music therapy conference, "Countertransference Songs: Another Way to Listen" (you know- countertransference- one of my favorite topics!). Here is how I described the session:

Far from simply being a means by which to convey skills and the general expression of feelings, music can be used on another level to better understand our clients- especially those who don’t use speech as their main communication modality. Paying attention to the music that emerges in sessions- for example, the sounds we typically use in response to particular clients, or songs that suddenly pop into our minds as we work intensely with someone - can offer us another avenue by which to understand what is going on within the therapy relationship.

Starting from the premise that the therapy relationship is the healing element, the focus and, more significantly, the work of dynamically oriented music therapy is to look at and explore the relationships that develop between the therapist, client and music.

As active participants in the therapeutic relationship, music therapists experience a range of countertransference responses when working with clients, some of which are explored in supervision and some in personal therapy. In this presentation we will start  from the assumption that countertransference includes all of the feelings, reactions, fantasies, thoughts and ideas the therapist experiences in relation to clients, either in response to how a client/group is perceiving him/her, or based on the therapist’s own personal history. Of course, one of the ways countertransference may be expressed within a music therapy relationship is through the music.

Two case studies will be presented, the first of which will describe how musical countertransference became apparent within the context of the type of music improvised in a client’s sessions. The second will follow a lengthy series of countertransference-generated songs that emerged as a part of the therapy relationship. In both cases, exploring the therapist’s musical responses moved the therapeutic process toward deeper understanding of the clients’ internal worlds.

I actually only ended up presenting one case study (since it had all the elements I described). The biggest challenge was trying distill many years worth of therapy (and tons and tons of examples) into 90 minutes! 

As often happens, in the process of reviewing the (volumes of) notes and the songs and the music that came out of this man's sessions, I gained a lot of insight into some of the ways my countertransference reactions caused me to miss some aspects of what may have been going on with him at various points in the therapy. 

Honestly, there was just so much, and it's such a complex topic, I'm wanting to present this material again within a longer context (meaning, maybe a CMTE proposal is in order). 

Meanwhile, the third exciting thing was being a guest on the music therapy world's answer to The View- yes, I got to chat with the lovely ladies of The Music Therapy Roundtable! I mean, look! They even have their very own mug (and, see, they sent me one too). How cool! Heck, how organized! 

I got to blather on and on with Rachel Rambach (of Listen & Learn Music fame) and Michelle Erfurt (the original Boom Tote designer herself!) - their third partner, Kimberly Sena Moore was in transit so she couldn't join us - about one of my other favorite topics: professional clinical supervision! And you'll be thrilled (I'm sure) to know that I discovered I have a shocking tendency to rely on the word "um" while being interviewed. Oy.

And, if you've taken it to the next level and you're a Music Therapy Pro subscriber, you can listen to yet more of my incessant chatter on their Pro podcast. 

So that's what's been happening in my land. I'd love to hear what's going on in yours! 

Fifty shades of "no"

I've been sitting and stewing over the fact that one of my clients decided not to come to his session yesterday. Obviously, it's not the end of the world, and it's mostly likely he'll be back. But I know he's upset with me and he's struggling with a lot of feelings because of the difficult work we're doing right now.

Occasionally, clients with whom I've developed a fairly stable relationship (and I can tell you, that has usually come after quite a long time of working together- usually years), who I can almost always count on to be there for their sessions, refuse to come to music therapy. 

And  when I say "refuse to come to music therapy" I mean I've walked over to their building, signed them out, collected their outer gear, walked in to the group where they spend their days (along with the rest of the people who live with them and along with their staff people), and asked, "would you like to come to music therapy today?" 

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I'd like to pause here to say what a vulnerable moment this is- for me anyway- as a music therapist. I mean, I'm standing there, exposed, and, honestly, it's like inviting someone out on a date in front of their entire family. Only it's therapy (which is just as intimate as a date, if not more so at times) and the other people in their group may have feelings about this particular person being invited to go to music therapy (when they themselves are not being invited) and their support staff who usually have their own feelings about the person who's scheduled for music therapy as well as a series of opinions about me and what I represent (sometimes good and sometimes not so much). Additionally, support staff have a series of beliefs and understandings (usually passed down from their supervisors) about their role in clients heading out to programs (such as music therapy). Commonly, those beliefs and understandings involve making sure the person is clean and tidy and goes and does what s/he is supposed to be doing. 

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Now, most of the time, the folks I've worked with for a long time jump up and come over on their own and then pull me to the door. Others go and sit in their wheelchairs, waiting for me to take them out. Some people who have a harder time initiating actions or simply have a lot of physical involvement making it more difficult for them to stand and greet me, wait for me to approach them and let me know they want music therapy that day by making an effort to get up and go with me.

Over the years I've discovered a large (and important) part of my work is figuring out how my clients (most of whom don't use speech) communicate "no".  Some people (the ones who usually hop up to meet me) simply don't get up when I appear and remain seated. Some (who need more physical assistance) let me know by not allowing me- or just not helping me- to put on their coats. Others avoid going toward the door, and I've had a couple folks  pretend (vigorously) to be asleep. A few of my clients will come part of the way with me and then stop repeatedly or keep going in the "wrong" direction, and still others come to the session, wet themselves and have to return to their buildings to get their clothing changed. 

The gentleman I went to pick up yesterday is someone who usually gets up the minute he sees me and comes quickly over to take me by the wrist and pulls me toward the door. His "no" came after a particularly hard series of sessions in which I've been challenging his way of thinking about me and about the role of music therapy. 

His "no" started when he stayed seated, looking at me with a rather unhappy face, leaning his head on his hand. I wondered (out loud to him) if he had a headache (it was pretty loud) or if he was tired (sometimes he doesn't sleep too well). I waited a short time and then I told him I'd go out for a few minutes, come back and check again with him. "If you still don't want to come, that's fine, and I'll check in with you again next week."

So I went and stood in the hallway for three or four minutes and then tromped back in with my armload of sweatshirt, coat, gloves and a hat for him. He still didn't move. 

Mercifully, his support staff didn't tell him to "get up" (which is what usually happens, and, when they do that, he usually stands up and comes with me, but I'm well aware the entire time that he would not have been there had they not told him to be, which, I think we'd agree, is an awful feeling- for both of us). 

I offered to sit with him for a bit, because sometimes he actually needs some more transition time (or to just think about whether he really wants to skip music therapy that day- and it's very rare that he does), but he still didn't get up. 

Just as I was about to turn and leave, he got up and walked past me to the table (where there was more space for me to sit with him and also plastic blocks he likes to hold). He couldn't find any blocks (they were all zipped into a bag, and I guess he didn't want to mess with it just then), and he went to sit down in another chair. This time there was space next to him, so I sat down and pulled off my hat. 

I invited him to let me know if he wanted me to leave by looking toward me and if he wanted me to sit with him to indicate this by tapping my arm. He glanced my way, fleetingly, twice and made no move to grab my hand (which is what he generally does). 

"Okay then. I'll check in with you next week. I'm glad you let me know you didn't want to come today, and I'm glad you let me know you'd rather I don't sit with you right now."  

I wished the guys a decent weekend and headed out into the hall, kind of hoping he'd change his mind and come after me. He did not. 

I headed back to the Music Room, pondering the whole thing, reminding myself that he was likely wanting me to feel as rejected as he'd probably felt in our session. 

But then the inevitable worry began: Did I say something in the wrong way in his last session? Did I accidentally offend him? Did I hurt him by saying something he wasn't ready to hear yet? Is it irreparable? Will he give up and stop coming to music therapy? 

As I was pondering these questions, yet again, this morning, I realized, not only is this the usual litany I go through when a client chooses to not come to music therapy on a given day, but my confusion- my wondering what happened, did I do something wrong, will this person leave- probably very much mirrors the feelings my clients have had with regard to their families placing them in an institution.

Perhaps (along with "no") I was "hearing" his (and many of my clients') experience of ambiguous loss,  which is a loss that doesn't have clear closure and around which there are questions and a great deal of uncertainty. It's often thought of in terms of families' feelings regarding a child who is disabled or mentally ill or a parent or spouse who has Alzheimer's (for example), but there is little, if anything, written about the experience of the person whose family sees them as "gone" or "lost" to them because of their disability. 

When I arrived back in the Music Room, I found myself singing the following song, and once again, I felt amazed at the way our minds speak to each other through music.

My life and times as a disappointing music therapist

The session that wasn't:

Walking to the session. Pausing to pull me toward somebody's car and tapping on the trunk:

"Um, no. We can not go in somebody's car. Please don't tap at it, or you'll set off an alarm and that would probably not be a good thing." 

Slowing down and sitting on a bench:

"Yes, I see that you don't want to go to do your session today, and you'd rather we sit outside on a bench."

Still on the bench:

"Yes, I realize I'm frustrating you, but music therapy is what I can offer. I can not take you for a ride, or for an escape, in someone else's car or in my car. I can, however, be your music therapist, and you can come to your session, and we can talk about it in the music."

In front of the Music Room door, but not going in:

"So, okay. You're not going to go into the Music Room."

Pushing past me and heading for the exit:

"I guess you're telling me we're not going to be doing music therapy today, and you'd rather go back to the cottage. Okay then. I'll try again on Wednesday." 

Heavy sigh. 

Music Therapy Show with Janice Lindstrom

I feel as if I've finally arrived in the land of music therapy. I've had an interview with the lovely and thoughtful Janice Lindstrom, the woman and music therapist behind the Music Therapy Show!


We talked about relationally-based music therapy, using a process (versus product-oriented) approach, countertransference, using music to listen to and reflect on what our clients present to us in sessions, and all kinds of nifty stuff.


If you'd like to give it a listen (and share your thoughts on these subjects) (that are near and dear to my heart), here it is!

Listen to internet radio with Janice Lindstrom on Blog Talk Radio

Last chance lost...

I noticed this song- "Last Chance Lost"-  running through my mind over and over again as we struggled to come to some kind of....okay-ness, an okay space today in our session. My client has some very strong feelings toward me, and although he knows "we don't have that kind of relationship" it's hard for him to hear it. Over and over.  

Yes, and it's hard for me to keep having to say it, because I feel cruel. I mean, I realize I'm not being cruel. I'm being truthful (and a therapist), and I know it would be more cruel to lie to him and pretend I don't see how much he wishes this weren't "just music therapy" and it was a better version of his life. 

And I'd be lying to you if I didn't say the rescue fantasies on my end can be intense. If I weren't so used to this happening it would be freaking me out. But this is something I go through, and it's more so with some people than with others. 

But here he was, this man who doesn't use speech, working so hard to be heard- using his voice even (which is rare)- and there I was...rejecting him again. 

When I step away from the session for a while and think about it, I have an idea of how to proceed and what we need to look at: Where are the feelings for me coming from? What might they be helping him to avoid feeling? What relationship(s) might he be trying to create or re-create in our sessions? And so forth. 

But...right there in the session...I feel like such a jerk. 

It's not that I'm afraid he'll be angry with me- although it would mean the beginning of the long period of anger. 

There always seem to be stages in the music therapy process- at least with the folks I work with individually. Initially there's a long period of "I don't trust you." That's usually followed by "okay, maybe you're not so creepy," which eventually works its way into "must we leave now?" Then we get into the "I like you/I can't let you know how much I like you" period which gradually becomes "I love you and you should never leave me!"  

I think my client and I are in that latter period right now. And I'm in the complicated "be firm but kind and figure out a way to reject without being rejecting/remember you're trying to help him realize how he's relating to people that's not really working for him/come on, Roia, you can do this" part of the work. 

And I know. The big anger is coming. Okay, so maybe I'm a little afraid. It's hard to give up being loved. Not that the anger indicates an absence of love. It's just easier, I'm sure you'll agree, when your client is in the "you totally rock" phase versus the "you rejected me and you are horrible and cruel" phase. 

Anyway. We struggled. He was sad. I was sad on his behalf. 

It was hard for him to return his instrument at the end of the session, and he insisted on carrying it back with him to his cottage- where he finally gave it back to me after a brief, gentle tug to make sure I understood he wasn't happy about relinquishing me or the instrument. 

The only part of the song I remembered as we worked through this session was "last chance lost". When I read the lyrics I was fascinated (for the hundredth time) by how our minds create musical connections with people, with moments and experiences. 

Last Chance Lost

by Joni Mitchell

Last chance lost

In the tyranny of a long good-bye
Last chance lost
We talk of us with deadly earnest eyes
Last chance lost
We talk of love in terms of sacrifice and compromise
Last chance
Last chance lost

Last chance lost
The hero cannot make the change
Last chance lost
The shrew will not be tamed
Last chance lost
They bicker on the rifle range
Blame takes aim
Last chance
Last chance lost


© 1994; Crazy Crow Music 

Music therapy at the boundaries

It happens I'm a part of a group on LinkdIn for psychologists, counselors and coaches. Not that I'm a psychologist, counselor or a coach, mind you... 


But anyway.


We've been enjoying (okay, I've certainly been enjoying) a robust discussion with regard to the question of "how much of our personal selves do we share with our clients?"


To the best of my recollection (which is a bit, er, well, let's just say it's not what it used to be), Rachelle Norman has tackled this question (a couple of times, actually) in her blog, Soundscape Music Therapy. A while ago she wondered how much should she share regarding the birth of her baby (who is awfully darned cute, if you must know), and, in a more recent post, she talked about The Top 10 Rules to Break. A big hooray to you, Rachelle, for addressing this complex and apparently rather heated issue!

So, back to the conversation going on at LinkdIn...


I've been sort of surprised at how many counselors and therapists seem to believe, rather ardently, that the "rule" regarding the "therapist as blank slate" is too stringent. A large majority advocate sharing more of themselves as a way of "being authentic" with their patients. If I'm understanding them correctly, they seem to feel, "that's what our clients are really looking for- for someone to be authentic with them."

Interesting.

Among the questions that came up for me in reading comments along these lines was: are we really being inauthentic with our clients if we don't share on a personal level with them? And does being authentic with someone always mean being transparent? 

When I looked up the word, I learned that being "authentic" is associated with being genuine, or being truthful. Which is not the same as being self-revealing. Hm.

For me, I think the question of what and how much to share of ourselves boils down (as most things in the therapy situation seem to do) to another central question: whose need am I meeting in this situation?

As many music therapists are aware, simply because of the nature of our profession, we actually share quite a bit of ourselves through the music-making we do with our clients during sessions. Just as we learn about our clients through their musical expression, they learn an awful lot about us when we interact with each other musically.

Obviously, we do our best to keep to professional boundaries- for many legitimate reasons. One very large reason is the power inequity. It is (usually) a paid relationship. Therapy isn't meant to be a friendship, and, whether or not we choose a fairly egalitarian approach to our work as music therapists, we can't control (or ignore) our clients' perceptions that we have a certain amount of power, authority and influence in their lives. 

As an example, in my particular line of work (with people who have intellectual and developmental disabilities), I often remind myself of the fact that I have keys to my clients' homes, and they don't.

I wonder if, in the end, it's about coming to terms with the duality (maybe it's a plurality?) we are asked to hold as music therapists (or any kind of psychotherapist, I imagine). Yes, our clients often do come to us in pain and in a tremendous state of need- for, among other things,  friendship and for people to be 'real' with them. Simultaneous to that, we are bound to uphold our code of ethics, to maintain an awareness of our own unmet needs (and our rather human tendency to want to take care of those needs in all of our relationships- including those with our clients), and an awareness of the power dynamic that exists in the therapy space.

It certainly isn't easy to keep track of these various elements. Of course, as my supervisor often reminds me, "that's why they call it work."


What are your thoughts on boundaries and being authentic with clients? Does it depend on the situation? Or on the particular group of people receiving services? Are you likely to have more "flexible" boundaries with certain groups of clients and not as much with others? And what does that fact say in terms of the ideas and beliefs we hold about the particular groups of people we serve?