As part of my "to-do" list today, I went looking for information for my supervisee (I supervise, now!) about NPI's and CAHQ numbers, vaguely remembering a past blog about it, and re-stumbling upon my old ramblings. It seems I have been so busy for the past, hmmm, year? that I have had nothing to say. I think it is an indication of my creativity overall taking a back seat to the effort it takes to progress my career and personal life. I am hoping (knock on wood?) things are beginning to normalize and give me the luxury again. Creativity, unless it is your vocation (which for me robs much of the appeal and inspiration), really is a luxury. My paints, drawings, pastels, charcoals, papers and sketchbooks and canvases have been tightly sealed awaiting some extra energy or attended to passion. I guess my blog is also a part of that.
My past year of "busy" has given me many positive changes. In acronyms I have left and IOP/PHP and moved to an OMHC. In translation, I left working for the hospital and now work for an outpatient clinic. It sounds less exciting, but it is actually a greater clinical variety and professional challenge, and something I enjoy much more than all the politicking of working for a hospital. My population served and so professional capacities have grown from past work focused with pregnant substance abusers, to now include adults, children, men and women of all diagnoses. I have seen such a variety of life: from political refugees to war veterans, foster children to children with autism, divorcees to single parents, people grieving for lost pets to others grieving for losses more traumatic in nature, people with medical or developmental problems that make them non-verbal to others who hear voices around them all the time. I run groups, but only with a topic I choose and attendees that want to be there.
I work closer to home now and actually have a house instead of an apartment for the first time in a decade, and can look over my lake from my bedroom. I come home to the same stinky white dog, but now also to a husband. I have stopped seeing a therapist and my own symptoms seem to be in mental health remission. I learn every day more about home repair from my house, more about love and relationships from my husband, more about life and gratitude from my patients.
And so the stage is set for my new introspections: from the outside through her large office windows, we see a tired but happy looking young, but now slightly older therapist, as evidenced by the crinkles starting to form at her eyes when she smiles. Her eyes are, of course, still blue, but wiser and more self-assured. The expression is calm and confident: the kind that says, "Everything you are saying and feeling is important, and don't worry, I've heard worse." She sits attentively facing her patient, a sad looking, older man who is talking slowly while staring at the wall. She says something to him. He lifts his head, nods, and squares his shoulders...
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