** Warning: this is a longgggg post. **
Yoga makes me cranky.
Yoga makes me cranky.
I am aware of how ironic that is. But it's true: I would rather sweat buckets on any machine at the gym than do yoga. Whenever I do yoga, I end up more agitated afterwards. Strange, no?
Nonetheless, when my friend Heidi recently invited me to take a class with her, I agreed to give yoga another whirl. To be honest, I went because she mentioned we could get ice cream afterwards, and I do love me some Dairy Queen.
And you know what?
I HATED EVERY MINUTE OF IT. In my head, all I could keep thinking was, "This room is too hot . . . the instructor is moving so fast . . . I have no idea how to use these stupid blocks . . . why did I agree to do this? . . . Ice cream. Remember the ice cream."
The only moment this inner commentary (okay, whining) stopped was when the instructor was guiding us through a stretch, during which she provided alternatives to make it as beginner or advanced as necessary. As she noted the options, she commented, "Listen to your body. It is always telling you something."
And that is when I completely froze. My eyes welled up, and I was suddenly grateful for the sweltering temperature, because I could disguise the tears rolling down by face as sweat.
Because that instructor was right. For over a year, my body has been trying so hard to tell me something, and I haven't been listening . . . until now.
A little over a year ago, I finally received an internal promotion that I had fought tooth and nail for - and I do mean fight: one director threatened to fire me for considering applying, and her replacement thwarted the transition for months. But finally, I had the role that I had wanted for years. I was going to be a therapist at a residential treatment center, counseling women with histories and symptoms of eating disorders, mood dysregulation, and/or substance abuse. That girl from a year ago was delighted by the prospect of doing that work and was eager to dive. right. in.
Now I can say that girl from a year ago was naive. She didn't know what she was getting herself into.
Like any other aspect of healthcare, the mental health field has been impacted by the Affordable Care Act. Without making this political, I believe that healthcare is a right, not a privilege. However, in making healthcare more accessible without increasing regulations on insurance companies, they engage in unethical and potentially life threatening practices to ensure their profit margin. Basically, in order to receive approval from an insurance company to seek residential treatment, a patient must be much sicker than before, and their length of stay will be much shorter than before. Imagine a woman who has struggled with for years with her disease, and as a healthcare provider, you have maybe 3 weeks to provide her with treatment. As a therapist, I knew the time frame was unrealistic. I also knew that my resident could die. No pressure, right?
But the health insurance companies and incompetent management were nothing compared to the stories I heard from my residents: the vast majority were victims of tremendous abuse and neglect. To protect my patients' confidentiality, I won't go into excessive details, but I will say that I have lost track of the number of times I was told, "my father raped me, and it's all my fault." Usually, I would hold it together until I could go back to my office, where I would bawl until my eyes were swollen. I have always believed that people are inherently good, and while I still do have that faith, doing this work made me question the state of humanity. I mean, what is wrong with people?
Post traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, was created as a diagnosis to describe the symptoms that war veterans experience upon returning from combat, but as research has demonstrated, similar symptoms are present in individuals that experience any trauma. Therapists that provide treatment to those survivors are at increased risk for vicarious trauma, which is experiencing second hand trauma and PTSD symptoms themselves. And man, my body tried its damned hardest to tell me for months that this was happening to me. I could not fall or stay asleep at night, requiring daily venti Starbucks to function. I lost my appetite. I used an obscene amount of profanity - that's really saying something - and would cry often. I felt hopeless in my clinical abilities and trapped in my professional path. And the intrusive thoughts were nothing short of a nightmare. I remember standing on a 19th floor balcony to watch fireworks, and instead, all I could think of was, if one of my residents jumped from here, where would the ambulance go to rescue the body?
That is not normal.
In February, my chronic migraines became unmanageable in a way they hadn't been in over a decade, forcing me to take medication with dreadful side effects. Compromising my health was the last straw. I had just accomplished the necessary goals for me to move forward: I passed my licensure exam, received my license as a clinical professional counselor, and earned a promised raise. I knew it was necessary to find a new job. In my search, I discovered that a position I had interviewed for 4 years ago had opened again. I took a leap of faith and called the organization to see if they remembered me. Long story short: they did, and with a couple of bumps, I got the job. I was so relieved, thinking my symptoms would subside.
It didn't quite work out that way.
During a mandated training for new coworkers, I had to leave the room multiple times, because I was so triggered and couldn't stop crying. After a couple days of this, I finally spoke with the trainer, who gently told me it was more than okay for me to do whatever necessary to stay calm (I colored) and suggested that I meet with the clinical director for resources. The clinical director skipped a scheduled conference call to talk to me, encouraging me to seek support. My boss echoed her sentiment, noting it was critical for both my personal and professional development. Never have I worked in an environment that has been so encouraging and understanding, for which I am grateful.
I have been working with someone who I met through my first job in the field. He is a social worker that specializes, among other areas, in vicarious trauma. I was afraid this would feel like a burden - yet another thing to cross off on a never ending to-do list - but it has been healing. Our focus has been simple: self care. He gently reminds me to listen to my body, which has been craving physical outlets. I have been working out in the morning, leaving the gym with a soaked-thru shirt. I started boxing, where I allow the trainer to gently wrap my hands before pummeling a speed bag. I take walks throughout the West Loop, always with my iPod in hand. Beyoncé no longer dominates my playlist, because I also want to listen to the soundtrack of my childhood: the Beatles, CCR, the Stones. I usually start my day with Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir." The hopelessness that I experienced before has subsided. I have dance parties again while I bake. I read every night before bed and drift off easily. I like candy again! It's nice.
My body has also been telling me to write - so I want to blog more consistently. And hey, as long as I post more than once a year, that's an improvement, right? Ha.
Much love,
Kavi
That is not normal.
In February, my chronic migraines became unmanageable in a way they hadn't been in over a decade, forcing me to take medication with dreadful side effects. Compromising my health was the last straw. I had just accomplished the necessary goals for me to move forward: I passed my licensure exam, received my license as a clinical professional counselor, and earned a promised raise. I knew it was necessary to find a new job. In my search, I discovered that a position I had interviewed for 4 years ago had opened again. I took a leap of faith and called the organization to see if they remembered me. Long story short: they did, and with a couple of bumps, I got the job. I was so relieved, thinking my symptoms would subside.
It didn't quite work out that way.
During a mandated training for new coworkers, I had to leave the room multiple times, because I was so triggered and couldn't stop crying. After a couple days of this, I finally spoke with the trainer, who gently told me it was more than okay for me to do whatever necessary to stay calm (I colored) and suggested that I meet with the clinical director for resources. The clinical director skipped a scheduled conference call to talk to me, encouraging me to seek support. My boss echoed her sentiment, noting it was critical for both my personal and professional development. Never have I worked in an environment that has been so encouraging and understanding, for which I am grateful.
I have been working with someone who I met through my first job in the field. He is a social worker that specializes, among other areas, in vicarious trauma. I was afraid this would feel like a burden - yet another thing to cross off on a never ending to-do list - but it has been healing. Our focus has been simple: self care. He gently reminds me to listen to my body, which has been craving physical outlets. I have been working out in the morning, leaving the gym with a soaked-thru shirt. I started boxing, where I allow the trainer to gently wrap my hands before pummeling a speed bag. I take walks throughout the West Loop, always with my iPod in hand. Beyoncé no longer dominates my playlist, because I also want to listen to the soundtrack of my childhood: the Beatles, CCR, the Stones. I usually start my day with Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir." The hopelessness that I experienced before has subsided. I have dance parties again while I bake. I read every night before bed and drift off easily. I like candy again! It's nice.
My body has also been telling me to write - so I want to blog more consistently. And hey, as long as I post more than once a year, that's an improvement, right? Ha.
Much love,
Kavi
