Thinking about acceptance

I was just reading Asperger Square 8's blog where she posted a video made by the mom of a child who is autistic (you should go watch it- it's thoughtful and has a message worth hearing). The mom referred to herself as a former "warrior mom"- in other words, a mother who did everything she could to "cure" her child's autism.  Her child is now ten, and she has changed her focus from trying to "fix" her kid to loving and accepting him as he is (and inviting the rest of the world to do the same).

I commented that I have stopped trying to fix my clients and decided it would be more helpful to get to know them and to enjoy making music together.  Then I re-read my last blog post.  It wasn't a shining example of me being particularly accepting.  Well, I guess if it was a shining example of anything it was my difficulty knowing when to say "enough is enough."  (I did finally have to discontinue music therapy with that particular client, by the way.  It was, in large part, because I was getting kicked and pinched way too regularly, and it really needed to stop.  But it was also because he really doesn't seem able to make use of music therapy right now.  Maybe someday.)

I did, at any rate, want to give some thought (well, more blah-blah) to whether the folks I work with need "fixing" or acceptance. When I stopped doing music-making "activities" (back in 1994 or so) and started using the music to build relationships with my clients, there was a huge sense of relief. My clients were relieved, because I was finally paying attention to them (and not to my concerns as to which activity we'd be doing next and how on earth I was going to get them to do what I wanted them to do).  I was relieved, because I felt as if I'd finally learned how to be a music therapist (versus doing music therapy to my clients).   I also didn't have to come up with bigger and better activities any more (which was especially nice, since I never could get my clients to do any of them anyway).

More importantly, I got to enjoy the work for the first time (hence, my undying gratitude to my clinical supervisor, Janice Dvorkin), and I got to know my clients and to like them in an entirely different way- as people who were worth knowing and not as blobs to be molded through planning and organizing specific interventions to- okay, I admit it- "fix" them.   

If I'm going to be truthful (and I may as well be), it's only been in the past year or so that I have had the conscious thought:  "My clients don't need me to fix them, and they don't need me to fix their lives for them.  What they "need" is for me to be here, and be an ally, and like them for who they are, and help them like themselves for who they are.  Period."   Recognizing this has provided me with even more relief.

It still bothers me when I can't fix life for the guys (it's an institution, and, I'm sorry, but institutions are inherently the pits), and it's hard when it seems as if some of the people I work with can't seem to move beyond a very difficult way of being.  But, if I'm going to be accepting, then it goes beyond not seeing my clients as needing to be fixed in some way.  It also seems to mean that I have to get to a point of being okay with the fact that people are who and where they are, and if they don't choose to make use of the therapy I offer, then part of that acceptance is moving on and supporting someone who is ready to receive my services.

Is failure an option?

Oh. My. God.  Today was long.  It was annoying.  It was frustrating.  It made me wish I did anything but music therapy.  

As guilty as I'm going to feel, I have to say it.  Sometimes I hate my job.  Okay, so now you know. I felt like a complete failure by the end of the day anyway, so I may as well publicly (yes, publicly) admit that sometimes it sucks raw eggs to be a music therapist, and I entertain evil thoughts about some of the guys I see for music therapy.  

Initially, I was just having a boring day, because a lot of my clients seemed to be out and unavailable.  Then, when they were available, they were exhausted (yes, I am rolling my eyes heavenward, why do you ask?).  

Well, okay, the real problem was one particular client who has been challenging me for...let's see how long have I worked with him? Almost five years maybe? Let's just say there has never been a time in our work together that didn't make me wonder "why the hell am I still doing this? Why is he still getting music therapy?" (or, to quote a wonderful bumper sticker I bought many years ago, "where am I going, and why am I in this hand basket?"). 

Yes, there's something wonderful and likable about him, but, for pity's sake!  I am tired of asking him to stop licking the walls, the table, the dirty clothes bins, etc.  I am ready to claw out my own eyeballs from asking him to stop writing all over his face with the ball point pen.  And, for crying out loud, enough with the kicking, punching and pinching at me!  

I think I'm most upset, because I have sincerely tried and tried, and the reality is I can do no more for this man.  I just don't have the energy to keep arguing with him.  If he doesn't want to change, then he doesn't want to change, and I'm wasting both our time trying.  

The distress part for me (until now anyway) has been that, to my way of thinking, I have to keep trying.  See, now this is why I needed to take a break from working for a little while- so I could finally recognize that my thought process was ridiculous.  It is now glaringly obvious to me that "trying" in this case is more about my need to not fail than about his need for music therapy.

I wonder if other music (and non-music) therapists go through this madness.  Or am I just insanely Don Quixotic about it all ("to fight for the right- without question or pause- to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause...etc.").  Clinical supervision anyone?

*Heavy sigh.*

 

A visit to the cemetery

On my way to rehearsal last night, I decided to stop at the library.  Well, as it happened, the library had just closed, so I was too late.  While I was waiting to turn out of the library parking lot, it started to occur to me that R was buried in the cemetery across the street.  On a whim I pulled in to visit him.  I couldn't remember whether there was a gravestone, but I had some idea of where he was buried, because he's toward the back by the trees.  

I got out of my car and went to look at the gravestones.  No luck.  I noticed a little metal grave marker, and when I looked closely I saw his name on it.  Then I realized that someone who knew and loved him had placed a little metal smiling bee next to it to mark the space as belonging to R.  I started to cry, because I was very touched.  Back in February I wrote about how R used to come up to me and yell "BEE" at me and want me to yell "BEE" right back to him in his ear.  When he was younger, bees would sit gently on this man's finger- this man who, for a large portion of his life, yelled and slapped and kicked at people (often because he was likely in a lot of pain).  

Now he has a little smiling bee watching over him.  I think the other thing that made me cry was knowing that it meant someone else, probably from the institution, has been visiting him and is missing him. I don't know about anyone else, but I think it's comforting to know that, even when we mess up some things in this life, even if we yell and lash out at people because we're in pain of some sort (emotional, physical, spiritual) or we're scared- there's usually someone (or several someones) who still love us and will miss us when we die.