Me. This moment. Remembering being 16, thinking about the varieties of 16. When I was 16, one of my supervisors recently told me, I was thinking about my pager and what I was going to do for the weekend. Actually, part of that quote may not be accurate. I definitely remember the pager bit. And then me telling her something vague about my sixteenth year, something that implied that it wasn’t the best. What she said seemed so strange in the context of our work, where there can be no assumptions about the sweetness, the callowness, the innocence or spoiledness, of 16. Or of any age. But she is young, almost young enough to be my child (if we are thinking of me at 16), and it was the day after the election, when all of us were still trying to process how the present will be projected into the future. In my world, we were all a little freaked out.

I’m surprised at how well I’m holding it together, given, well, all of it – the past, my work, the present. It’s almost as though I was together to begin with, my history and those disparate versions of me integrated into the now-me, whole, complete, informed.

I miss writing, too. For one of my seminars, we’ve been reading A Shining Affliction: A Story of Harm and Healing in Psychotherapy by Annie Rogers, which is an unsettling, triggering, and lyrically written book. I picked up another of hers, more clinical in focus, The Unsayable: The Hidden Language of Trauma, which provides more of a structure to the work while still having a poetic quality. Both give me the hubristic hope that I might be able to do some version of the same, to combine the professional and the personal, to be who I was and who I am simultaneously, letting history and theory inform my practice — and then writing about it.



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Title of post from an Adam Ant song, “Let Me Scream At You,” which seems so appropriate on so many levels, though I remember nothing else from the song but those first lines.

Image is one of transformation. And tip of the keyboard to Grace . . .

                  

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