2019 Reflections and 2020 Goals

This was a big year for me. To be honest, I'm really glad it's over. Here's a review of some of what happened for me in 2019 and what my goals are for 2020.

2019 started with me in terrible shape. The effects of my trauma history were in full force. To describe just a few of its manifestations, I was having nightmares, severe sleep difficulties, and tremendous anxiety. Sometimes, my hands would shake so much as I ate lunch in my office that I'd have difficulty getting the forkful of food to my mouth. Other times, my teeth would chatter uncontrollably.

My difficulties were (and continue to be) aggravated by the fact that I'm very isolated in my new life (having moved to a new city at the beginning of 2018). My previous type of work was far more social than my current one, and I know almost no one in my new location. Also, regardless of location, I hadn't confided my personal history fully to anyone ever before. Although I had confided many things to a few people two decades earlier, none of those people were really still in my life. None of my current friends (from the past couple decades) knew my history (apart from small hints I'd given here and there).

In February, I was overcome with the growing need for someone who knew me to know my history. I didn't have any goal beyond that--I just needed someone to know. So, with shaking hands, I typed it out (as fast as my shaky hands would permit, never looking back at it for typos, because it was too difficult to read what I'd just written) and sent it to a friend in Ontario who has known me for nearly my entire career (having asked permission first). Although the trauma in my story was plain and obvious, I feared that my friend's response would be that I was overreacting. Or that the friend would agree that it was a big deal but would think less of me for having such a history.

When my friend responded in a way that validated my experience (that's a lot to be dealing with and no, I don't think less of you), I felt empowered to take a couple further steps.

I wasn't ready for any major steps. So I made an appointment with my family doctor with the plan of simply telling him in a very general way (1) that I had a significant trauma history, and (2) it was heavily affecting me. I didn't want any help at that time. I just wanted to lay the foundation for it, so the hard part of disclosing was done and if I ever needed urgent help in the future, I could simply say, "Remember that stuff I told you about before?"

In the meantime, I also reached out to a mental health professional I felt I'd be comfortable speaking with and whose opinion I knew I'd trust (which is saying a lot, because it's very difficult for me to trust anyone that way) and shared the same typed history that I'd sent my friend. In that conversation, I received important validation. I always feared my experiences somehow didn't count, so hearing someone with expertise tell me it was a lot to be dealing with was a critical step.

It made it possible to then speak to my doctor without being too overwhelmed with the feeling that I was making too much of it. Nevertheless, the doctor's appointment was incredibly difficult. I remember studying the room before he came in as if my life depended on knowing all its features before I could speak. I had difficulty getting the words out, but somehow I did. I couldn't give specifics or correct him when he misunderstood some aspects of it, but I mostly got the point across in a general way.

Without getting into details, a lot of things have happened for my mental health this year. I received a diagnosis for the first time (PTSD, w/ associated depression and anxiety). I started seeing my doctor regularly to monitor my condition and I had regular supportive conversations with the mental health professional I trusted. Although I had hoped to avoid it, having worked without any medical leave my entire career, it became clear that time away from work was necessary, so in May I went on a short-term medical leave.

In early June, without describing my own experiences, I wrote an article (here) about how I believe our profession needs to do a better job of acknowledging that trauma isn't just something that happens to those we serve: many of us have histories too. I explained why it's so important for us to acknowledge and address this, especially when we are having conversations about vicarious trauma and  lawyers' mental health.

I then started this blog. At first I opted not to directly identify myself as someone with a history (although it was heavily implied). Then I eventually spoke out about my own story to some extent (which was incredibly difficult to do at first). Nevertheless I kept almost all the details of my underlying history private.

Speaking out has been good for me in some ways, not so good in others. In some ways, it enabled me to be my true self and connect to a few like-minded people (long-distance) who truly "get it," something I never had before and treasure immensely. However, it also had the effect of revealing many of the friendships I'd previously believed in as not being what I thought they were. Not only did many of my friends not respond in a supportive and validating way, they (with a few exceptions) simply stopped acknowledging that I existed altogether. It wasn't so much an outright rejection. I just became invisible. I was no longer worth acknowledging.

So 2019 dramatically increased my feelings of isolation. While on medical leave, very few people reached out to check in about how I was doing. I wasn't angry, but this was at odds with what the mental health pep talks in our profession suggest will happen. I had always been skeptical but here I was experiencing the unacknowledged invisibility that can sometimes result from speaking out on an uncomfortable subject. I know it's not that way for everyone: many are supported, especially if they happen to be surrounded by genuinely supportive people already. But I was isolated to begin with, and identifying myself as someone suffering from this issue further isolated me.

One thing I'd like to note: an important part of the struggle for me this year was maintaining my sense of autonomy when treatments I didn't feel ready for (or didn't want at all) were sometimes pushed on me by well-meaning people. I'm glad I maintained my boundaries in that regard. Asserting my autonomy is an important part of healing for me. I've opted for therapy rather than medication for my own non-capricious fully-informed reasons, and am glad I remained firm in that boundary even when I felt a lot of pressure to opt for medication. The few times I caved in and tried medication against my better judgment, the experience was terrible for me, even more so because it felt like an intrusion on my control over my own body and mind. That's not to say that medication might not be preferred by others for good reason, or may even be essential for some mental health conditions. I'm not writing this to suggest medication shouldn't be considered by those for whom it is an option. I can't speak for everyone. It was just important for me personally as a trauma survivor to get a say in the kind of treatment I'd try rather than succumbing to pressure by others trying to make my decisions for me, thereby replicating the sense of helplessness I felt as part of my traumatic experiences. Maintaining my ability to say no to things I didn't want was important treatment in itself for me, and I was lucky to have a trauma-informed mental health professional who supported my right and ability to do so. If that support wasn't available, I would have (1) had my autonomy undermined in a way that further traumatized me (which would have been difficult to recover from); and/or (2) would have withdrawn from treatment altogether and concealed my symptoms, so as to be able to retain my sense of control over the care of my own body and mind, and possibly never trusted another professional again. Because my autonomy was truly supported, I was able to receive help that wouldn't otherwise have been possible for me. There are no words sufficient to describe my gratitude for having received this kind of assistance.

In October, I returned to work, initially on a part-time basis, which increased to full-time a month later.

Now it's the end of the year and I look back at the year with some pride and also a sense of great sadness and loss.

It needed to happen. I couldn't have carried on the way I was. But it confirmed in a painful way what I already knew: we have a long way to go as a society and a profession before stigma and discrimination regarding trauma and mental health are truly understood and addressed. The stigma is real. The discrimination is real. It was (and remains) upsetting to have to experience it, but I'm glad I finally named and embraced what was affecting me for so long, even if it was in many ways a demoralizing, isolating, discriminatory, and stigmatizing experience. It's a difficult fight but I want to be part of it. I lost my sense of fitting in (to the extent that I ever had it), but I found my true sense of identity and community (in a general sense at least). I know now who I want to speak for. I know who I want to be there for. Even when it's painful and difficult.

So with all that in mind, here are some of my 2020 goals:

• I want to continue speaking up about trauma and lawyers' mental health. In doing so, I know I'm going to be a bit of an "outsider" voice. As a result, I probably won't often be invited to be part of the mainstream conversation. I want everyone to be mentally healthy in the profession but I don't see myself primarily as a voice for the wellness movement in the profession. I definitely support that aim. I want everyone to be okay and I know that everyone is at risk (even those who start out fine), but my goal is to be a voice for those who might be left out of (and even harmed by) that more general "wellness movement" if we fail to acknowledge the different ways in which we might be affected, given our differing histories and circumstances. I want to be a voice for those already affected by trauma-related and/or mental health vulnerabilities. 
• In doing so, I want to maintain and improve my own humility. I want to be an outsider voice in the ways I can based on my own experiences (as someone with substantial trauma/disadvantage preceding my admission to the profession, and as someone with a chronic mental health issue that can't easily or quickly be "fixed"), but my goal to be a voice for outsiders mandates that I know that my voice should never stand alone. It is just one among many. There are many ways in which I'm less privileged than my colleagues but there are also numerous ways in which I benefit from substantial privilege despite my suffering. So in addition to speaking from my own experience, I need to make the effort to listen to and amplify the voices of others who speak about this issue from other perspectives, especially those who have also been marginalized, silenced and excluded in different and intersecting ways.
• I want to try to find ways to help those who may not be directly affected to understand that they should be listening and paying attention to this issue too. Those of us who are affected can't do it on our own. We need allies who make the effort to understand. 
• More generally, I want to try to brainstorm and help implement ways that we can improve our professional culture by decreasing isolation in the profession. I envision a movement to promote wellness, social and professional connection, and meaningful dialogue in the profession in a way that consciously strives to be inclusive. As an outsider voice, I'm not quite sure how to do it, but I'd like to try. I know how painful isolation and exclusion can be and I know I can't be the only one affected...
• I want to continue to speak up as someone very vulnerable in many ways, but also strong and capable of speaking for herself. I don't want to have to sacrifice one aspect of my identity in exchange for the other. I can be strong and vulnerable at the same time, and until the profession truly embraces this (beyond mere lip-service) nothing will improve. I want to ensure that the profession realizes that including those who have disabling mental health conditions is about both (1) respecting the rights of those affected,and (2) acknowledging how important their contributions to the profession are (and how these contributions could be supported so those of us affected could contribute even more, if we were actually meaningfully included, listened to, and accommodated). 
• Personally, I intend to continue with therapy. In addition to specifically addressing my trauma, I plan to work to (1) find ways to increase my sense of meaning by contributing as much as I can to society and to my profession, (2) mourn my considerable losses, and (3) reduce my sense of isolation by creating new connections. Despite the stress of the profession, I know I also need to find ways to care for my physical health, because I've learned how critical that is for my mental health.

I'm not going to be dishonest and say that I'm entering 2020 with great hope and optimism. The steps I took in 2019 were important and necessary for me, but there was also a lot of pain and loss. In some ways, I'm stronger than I was before. In other ways, 2019 has left me vulnerable. I have no idea what 2020 will bring. But I'm willing to approach it with an open mind.

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

Aiming to be "Strong Enough" to Handle the Things that Are "Too Much"

As I've said many times, when it comes to issues of trauma and mental health in our profession, everything is complicated, which is why we need to talk about it.

One issue that I have particularly mixed feelings about is this: on the one hand, we need to practice self-care, which includes acknowledging and addressing the impact that exposure to traumatic stories may have on us. Yet, on the other hand, this should never be used as an excuse to silence or exclude those whose lived experiences include trauma/injustice that might render our self-care more difficult if we had to face it too.

I firmly believe we have to do all we can to care for ourselves and create a supportive environment that nurtures individual and collective self-care, rather than simply demanding "toughness" from each other. But I also believe that we don't get to ask those whose experiences may trouble us to conceal themselves and their current and past circumstances from view. In other words, we shouldn't practice discrimination in the name of our own self-care (especially if we hold important positions in society). Asking people to conceal the parts of their experiences that trouble us leads to those burdens being disproportionately borne by those who have no choice but to carry them. It also means that the injustices that created those burdens in the first place (or were created or aggravated by them) will go unaddressed. It means some people won't be free to speak of their own realities the way others can, to seek justice in a meaningful way, to be genuinely understood and cared for, etc., with the result that stigma and discrimination will continue to be perpetuated and amplified.

So that's the source of my ambivalence. I see the value of trigger warnings for self-care (especially for those who are vulnerable due to their own history and/or mental health conditions), but as someone with a personal history that includes things that would trouble others, it deeply bothers me to not be permitted to share anecdotes and experiences the way others can. I shouldn't have to offer a trigger warning before sharing my own life story. There's a huge privilege in being able to casually share one's own experiences without having to pause first and ask if people are okay with being exposed to them: to not have to worry that who you are will be "too much" for those around you, and people will suddenly impose all kinds of automatic boundaries because you are inherently just too troubling to even exist in a tolerable way in their social space. Speaking for myself at least, it doesn't feel good to feel I have to hide who I am for the sake of protecting everyone else's need for self-care: their need to not have to be disturbed by the things I've personally experienced and have no choice but to be affected by.

I fear the self-care movement becoming a mechanism used by the more privileged in the name of their psychological well-being to exclude, marginalize and silence those who have experienced severe harm and are therefore just too troubling and disruptive to the tranquility of the majority, thereby leaving those who have been most harmed to cope with the harshest realities life has to offer all on their own because it's just "too much" for the well-being of the dominant group. I see this happen in my own personal life, when people just can't handle knowing what's going on with me because it is simply "too much" and "too personal" for them to allow into their space. They could handle someone else's struggles, but it has to be calibrated to their level of tolerance. Consequently, people like me have dramatically limited opportunities for connection, which greatly affects our psychological well-being. I also see it in the self-care movement in the profession sometimes. I'm not saying it's intentional but it's something we have to be on guard for, as I wrote about here.

So my view is this: we need to attend to our self-care, but the goal in doing so must not be to shield ourselves from the troubling things in the world, but to strengthen ourselves (through self-nurturing, self-care, and supportive spaces) so we can meaningfully face the harsh realities that others have lived through and continue to live through. And so we can do so with compassion and empathy.

The answer isn't to be "tough" in the first place. Someone who can dispassionately hear about the deep traumas and injustices that profoundly affect others, without being at risk of being personally affected by those stories, is not someone who (in my view) is truly engaging with those stories or likely to be well-positioned to redress the injustices they contain and reveal. Empathy and compassion are key, yet those qualities involve vulnerability on the part of the listener, which in my view is a skill that we need to learn and embrace. To really get how horrifying and unjust the experiences of some are requires being able to feel that horror and injustice, which isn't--and shouldn't be--easy. So without self-care, there can be no lasting meaningful engagement.

Moreover, if we simply require "toughness" and non-feeling, then we risk leaving out those that have the most to contribute: those who have been personally affected, and therefore truly understand and are in a position to help guide us in navigating these realities.

So let's practice good self-care not because we want to hide from the harsh realities of the world but because we want to hold space for others to be able to be truly visible to us. So we can sincerely empathize with their suffering yet not be rendered helpless by it.

I do acknowledge that some of us may already have carried too much suffering (especially those from affected groups), and there's no shame in needing to step back and nurture oneself (perhaps by creating safe spaces and carefully calibrating exposure to stories that trigger personal wounds) for those who have greater vulnerability. I think our discussions of this issue need to be nuanced enough to allow for those unavoidable needs/boundaries to ensure that we are inclusive. But my view is that our collective goal should be to enhance our resilience and self-care so we can include everyone in our social space.  That means the profession must provide support and proactively nurture the courage and resilience of its members and of the culture in which those members practice. It means that demanding "toughness" and non-feeling is not only not the answer, but is an abject failure. The more we support and care for each other, the greater our collective strength and resilience will be. And we need that resilience because this stuff can't and shouldn't be easy. We need every ounce of strength and support to face it.

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

What I Won't Let My Trauma Take from Me

I've lost a lot due to the trauma I've suffered. I haven't really even begun the process of assessing and mourning those losses but when I do, I know it will be incredibly difficult. When the combination of my stressful career and coping with the impact of my trauma became too much for me, I simply pressed pause on my social and personal development for more than a decade so I could continue to be able to function in my career. I withdrew from having an active social life, which means I stopped dating (and am unsure if I ever will resume--how does that even work these days?). Without making a deliberate decision not to do so, I never had children (and now have to face that it is almost certainly too late). Many of my friendships were disrupted, worn down, and ultimately ended as I tried my best to simply manage and cope mostly in silence, never able to explain what was going on with me, with the result that I'm now in my early 40's with minimal social supports, living a very isolated existence.

That's all very painful, but there's something I'm still proud of and can still strive for.

I won't judge others for how they cope with their pain, but I made a pledge to myself long ago about the one thing I won't let my trauma take from me. I won't let it take my compassion and empathy for others. My ability and willingness to see the pain and injustices in the world and feel for those who experience them. And my ability to do so while still being able to (when appropriate) maintain a principled stance, within the limits of whatever my role may be, that enables me not to get swept away by the pain of my own experiences. It's the one thing I've kept at the forefront of my mind the entire time I've suffered: how to be someone who has these difficult experiences, and yet still navigate the difficult moral and ethical landscape of the world with openness and empathy. How to not let those experiences stop me from striving to do better and be better--even if I have to say goodbye to the hopes and dreams I had for myself.

I understand why some might feel a need to withdraw sometimes from doing painful work that triggers them, and I am in no way diminishing the need for self-care. I definitely need to learn to do a better job of taking breaks, recharging, and not committing to more than I can reasonably bear, but I choose not to allow my trauma to lead me to withdraw permanently. I don't want to retreat to some comfortable view of the world while people continue to suffer. I want to use my own trauma to make me a better ally to others who have suffered (whether in the same or different ways as I have). I want to use my own strength that I've had no choice but to develop to enable me to stand alongside others and not turn away when their suffering might just be "too much" for others to witness. I know what it's like to feel like "too much." I want to be one of the people who always strives to build and maintain a capacity to witness the terrible things that happen in the world so I can do what I can to help (as frustratingly limited as my ability to truly change the world may be).

And just as importantly, I choose to continue to be someone who doesn't let my fears, grief, and trauma responses hold me hostage while I do so. If I'm going to remain in the landscape where people suffer, and are harmed, marginalized and oppressed, then I need to have eyes fully open. I need to be capable  of not only reflecting on my own experiences but also stepping back from them to imagine the point of view of others with very different experiences, even when it might otherwise be triggering for me. I'm proud to say this is something I'm capable of doing--a capacity I have carefully cultivated for as long as I can remember--that has served me well in enabling me to function as a principled member of society and an ethical and professionally responsible lawyer while also coping with my own difficult internal life. It's never perfect, but it's something I can proudly keep striving to do better at.

Maybe this way of coping didn't serve me well personally. Maybe it resulted in me directing all of that pain onto myself in ever-harsher ways so it wouldn't infect my ability to empathize and engage with others in the principled way I've felt called upon to do. I'll have to come to terms with whatever losses I may have suffered as a result. And that will truly suck.

But at least there's this one thing I didn't let it take from me. Something I can build on. Something truly meaningful that I can strive to improve on. Something important. Something. 

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

If You Don't Love Yourself....

There are all kinds of reasons why self-love, self-worth, self-compassion and self-care are important.

Or so I'm told (and I do believe it)....

But I want to be clear on one thing. If you just can't seem to love yourself, have compassion for yourself, and/or care for yourself, it does not mean that you are a less worthy person than others as a result of your inability to do so.

For some of us, the ability to feel these things for ourselves has been taken from us, e.g., as a result of trauma and/or a mental health condition. We just can't seem to love and value ourselves in the way we're told that we should.

Obviously, there are treatments for this, some of which may work for some of us, and some may not. I strongly encourage anyone who can seek treatment to do so. I hear treatment can be quite successful for many people.

But in the meantime, don't let anyone use the harm that has been done to you that has resulted in the inability to love and care for yourself, as a basis to invalidate the love and care that you give to others and the contributions you make to the world.

If you can't seem to love yourself, but you are kind and loving to others, then my firm view is that the love and kindness you give counts every bit as much as someone else's. Sayings like "before you can love others, you have to love yourself" are well-meaning but discriminatory bullshit in my opinion.

And if you care for others, despite being unable to care for yourself, that doesn't mean that you don't deserve to be appreciated for the amazing good that you do. If you can't seem to feel compassion for yourself, but feel incredible compassion for others, then that is still real and valid.

Maybe for pragmatic or altruistic reasons, we are constantly telling people that they have to be "positive" and "self-loving" and "self-compassionate" to properly care for others. That may or may not be true in many cases. Of course, some kinds of selflessness are draining, harmful and counter-productive, but we shouldn't assume this is the case for everyone. Some of us are just making the best of the good things we can experience when genuine self-love/care isn't available to us. Some of us just truly care for others even when we aren't able to feel the same way for ourselves.

You can love someone and not love yourself. It's sad and heartbreaking because it shouldn't have to be that way, but that doesn't mean it can't be valid and true. You can give to others and enjoy the feeling of doing so, even if you are currently disabled from caring for yourself the way you might want to. You need to be cautious to ensure that your lack of self-care doesn't interfere with your ability to properly care for others but that doesn't mean you can't do it.

I want people to try to love themselves because they deserve it, not because it's just one more thing to fault themselves for feeling unable to do. So maybe the first step in self-love, self-compassion and self-care is just to stop feeling like failures without it. For my part, I need to accept myself as I am, and see the good things that I'm still able to contribute to the world even if my relationship with myself is never corrected. I can love someone else even if I never learn to love myself. I can and do feel immense compassion for others even if I just can't seem to extend it to myself deep down. And although some self-care is required to care for others, deficiencies in my overall self-care that don't render me incapable of caring for others won't invalidate any good I do.

For me, I'm willing to try to learn what it means to love, value and care for myself for my own sake, but the first step is that I need to be okay with the possibility that it might not materialize. I can still have good experiences and meaningful connections to others. I can still make a difference in the world. My value is not limited by how much I'm able to know and feel it.

When I reflect on my own experience, I just want to tell anyone similarly situated that it's okay. No one can take from you the good things you feel and contribute. And an inability to value yourself shouldn't mean that others won't value you.

So maybe we can create a sense of community in which we can help each other out...

If you're depressed and can't seem to value yourself, that's okay because I value you anyway. If you've been hurt so much and so deeply that you no longer feel capable of compassion for yourself, that's okay because I will feel it for you. If we all do that for each other, maybe it can help us get by until we learn to feel something more on our own for ourselves. And if some of us just never get there, that's okay because we still have that sense of community and connection to lean on. It isn't everything but it isn't nothing either.

Yes, there's all kinds of soul-searching and philosophizing that humans need to do to figure out how best to live that may call on us to bring certain parts of ourselves more into balance, but I'm not trying to resolve that here. I'm not trying to tell anyone how to live their best life. And I'm not advocating for self-sacrifice on principle. I'm just trying to tell those whose condition currently prevents them from feeling something everyone tells us we should that it's okay with me for them to be as they are.

I want healing for everyone but in the meantime, we need to stop shaming and invalidating people for the ways in which they fall short.

My message to others who might be inclined to beat themselves up over this:

Your love still counts. Your compassion still has value. Your care for others still creates goodness in the world....

Even
If
You
Don't
Love
Yourself.

(But I hope someday you will because you deserve it)

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

To Those Who Don't Know What To Say

I have been very open about having experienced trauma and having a resulting mental health condition (PTSD) (see, for example, here).

Yet very few people (including friends) have said anything to me about it. In many cases, it seems, people have stopped interacting with me altogether to avoid the issue. When they do interact with me, most pretend there's no issue at all. Meanwhile if someone suffers a physical health issue, people often spring into action with cards, gifts and offers of support (which isn't to say that we do a consistently good job of supporting those with physical health issues either, or that the response should necessarily be the same, but at least it seems that more people have some sense of what to do or say and fewer people respond by just ignoring the person and/or their circumstances....).

I get it. This is tough. But we have to do better: not only so we can support people we purport to care about but also so we can learn from them and create a better society in which people aren't stigmatized and discriminated against. Kind of important, IMO....

If you're one of those people who knows someone who may have experienced trauma and/or a mental health issue, and genuinely don't know what to say, here's my non-expert advice as someone who has grown to feel very alienated/isolated/stigmatized by my own experience.

1) Say something. Honestly the worst thing you can do, in my view, is act like someone doesn't exist, or pretend there's no issue even though they've been very open about it. By refusing to say anything at all you're reinforcing the message that there's something shameful about what they're experiencing. Please don't do this. It's not nice and can be profoundly harmful to someone who may already be struggling with a great deal of shame and stigma.

2) Start simple. Use your "not knowing what to say" as an opportunity to engage humbly with the person and learn from them what they might need or want from you. A simple, "How are you doing?" goes a long way. Or maybe, "I know you're going through something difficult and I have to admit I don't have much knowledge about this. Is there any way I can support you?"

3) Remember: they're still the same person you knew before. If you really don't feel comfortable addressing the issue directly, at least treat them like a human being. "Hello." or "Want to get a coffee sometime?" are all icebreakers that work just fine. You can still treat them like a normal person whom you know and care about. You can still reach out about your shared history and interests. They haven't magically transformed into something wholly different.

4) Put some effort into educating yourself about what they're going through. Plenty of resources exist, right at our fingertips. We know how to research. Start perhaps by learning more about trauma (if that's the issue) and what it means to become more trauma-informed. If there's a mental health condition involved, learn what that particular condition may involve and what it doesn't. There are all kinds of reputable resources available. It may seem like a lot of work but so many people experience trauma and mental health related issues that not only will you be improving your ability to speak to the person in question, you will also be enhancing your relational competence and awareness in a way that will help you understand and support others in the future. If the person is really close to you, or you are in a position of power and authority and have an obligation to get it right, then consider consulting with professionals (and getting some emotional support for your own needs).  

--Here's an example (which I haven't vetted) of what you might find if you do a three second google search (search terms: "How to support a friend with PTSD?"): https://www.helpguide.org/articles/ptsd-trauma/helping-someone-with-ptsd.htm. See how easy this is? I suggest reading a few different sources to be a good researcher (luckily, as professionals, we know how to research, right?) and don't forget to keep in mind how a person's experiences may be impacted by the intersecting ways in which they experience marginalization, so please be sure to adapt your research accordingly. Genuine interest/curiosity is an asset.

5) No matter what research you do, never forget that each person is an individual. What you learn via your own research can guide you and give you some context for what they might be experiencing but never allow that to override or prevent you from listening to their own expression of their needs and experiences. If they seem interested in speaking about the issue, listen to what they say and learn from them. If they seem interested in sharing their experiences, invite them to participate in situations where these issues are being discussed, especially if their interests are directly affected. Treat them like the intelligent autonomous individuals that they are (as I touched on here).

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

Messages of Positivity and Hope (It's Complicated)

I have a complicated relationship with hope.

It might seem like I'm incredibly depressed (speaking in the colloquial sense, not the medical one, although probably both apply) and it may even be true at this stage, but it's not the result of a lack of hope.

Rather, my own personal relationship with hope is constant, active and toxic. Perhaps even the most abusive relationship of my life.

Believe it or not, I have an incredibly powerful propensity to be hopeful, even when there is every reason for pessimism. Just give me some glimmer of hope and there's a good chance that I will seize upon it, embrace it, and eagerly follow it heedlessly wherever it may lead.

Growing up in poverty, I never thought for a moment that I wouldn't be something amazing when I grew up. The only question was what held most meaning for me: a veterinarian? a singer? a writer? maybe a lawyer? (whether landing on lawyer was a wise choice is a question for another day, haha...)

I always want to believe. I often do believe. In what's over the next horizon. In what happens when the storm I'm in passes. Hope, always hope. 

I've always survived by believing things will get better. If I can just get past my currently bleak circumstances, then maybe it will not only get better, it will all turn out to have been exactly what I needed. It will lead to something meaningful and amazing. I won't be happy to have suffered, but future bright and shiny me will look back on all that I've been through and say, "It was worth it. It was all leading here."

Sometimes I even thought I arrived at the shimmering beautiful future-world-of destiny that made all past suffering worthwhile. Maybe it was a sense of meaning and purpose in my career, or a close friendship or romance that I thought would never end (spoiler alert: they all change and/or end). Maybe I just finally felt some sense of inner peace that made me think: it's okay, I've arrived, I'm good now.

But here's the thing about hope for me: it's a demon cloaking itself as a friend.

Surviving several bad things didn't exempt me from suffering new ones, just when I was least expecting it, just when my BFF "Hope" and I were cuddled in a comfy embrace. The universe didn't say, "Okay you've had enough. Now enjoy your peace and happiness. You've earned it."

Sometimes the new storm came from outside me, striking like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, reaching out for me in particular, seeming to laugh at me for thinking that blue skies and sunshine could ever be intended for me. Other times, it came from within. All was well outside. Skies were blue. Birds were singing. But my messed up body and brain declared, "Haha, nope. Not yours. Not for you!" and attacked from within.

For some people, finding hope again might be the goal. For me, it is terrifying and foolish. I yearn for it and have a strong desire for a stable relationship with it, but that's not what it has ever offered me. When it's good to me, everything is perfect and skies are blue. But when it turns on me or leads me down a dangerous path, I realize (too late) that it was anything but friendly. I would have been far better off if I never embraced it.

The complexity here is that my current sense of hopelessness isn't just a problem with my mood. It has the quality of being an inexorable conclusion from lived experience. I want hope, but it hurts me, again and again. I've finally reached the point where I'm not so sure I want it anymore, and--even if I do--I'm not so sure I can believe it anymore.

As far as mood goes, the will to hope/optimism remains powerful in me, stupidly, foolishly and dangerously so. If I could choose a pill to strengthen it or kill it, I'd think very long and hard about those options. The latter may very well be the wiser, safer choice.

So when I hear the messages reaching out to those who are suffering, saying "Hey, it will get better! Don't lose hope! Just do x, y, z," I hesitate. I hear echoes of that toxic dangerous faux-friend of mine. It becomes clear that I can't trust the speaker dangling a bright and shiny future in front of me. They just don't understand the realities of the world as people like me have experienced it. My lived experience is something they seem either unwilling or unable to account for. I will not take their hand when they offer it. I'm not making that mistake of being led down a path by a soft hand and a warm smile just to be dropped off a cliff again.

All of the above is just my own experience, but I doubt I'm the only one who has a complicated relationship with shiny optimistic messaging. For some, it may be exactly what's needed. For others, it may just make us feel more alienated, and less understood than ever. If someone's primary message to me is "don't lose hope," then they truly have no idea what an @sshole hope can be, which means they don't really see me and my experience, and don't believe me when I try to tell them about it.

I would propose an alternative to use instead of, or in addition to, messages of hope. I think our message should be clear that we are not a fickle friend like hope. Our support will be there regardless of the ups and downs. Instead of (or in addition to) future-oriented messaging like "It will get better," and "You can improve," let's be sure not to leave out the messages that tell people that they still have value and we will be there for them whether things improve or not. Like, "Hey, I see you! I don't doubt what you're going through and have been through. I hope it gets better, though I understand why you might not. I totally get why you might be ready to tell hope to screw off after all it's put you through. But one thing I want to be clear about: whether it gets better or not, I'm here. I see you. I'll accept and accommodate you."

Like I've said before, presence is more helpful to some of us than hope. For me, hope is a gaslighting jerk who's lifted me up only to drop me down a cliff too many times and I don't want him in my life right now. But I do want a sense of community, acceptance, and support, while I do my best to navigate how things are right now, whether they get better or not.

Let's be there for each other, without presupposing or requiring each other to have any particular orientation or attitude towards something as messy and complicated as hope. Let's honour our differing experiences and just be there.


As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

Shame and Non-Shame

I struggle with intense feelings of shame and self-hatred in many ways, so much so that I feel like they're the core of who I am. Although I have immense compassion for other people, I'm not actually sure that self-compassion is a thing that I'm capable of experiencing let alone practicing. I'm aware that feelings of shame and self-loathing are common in people who have experienced significant trauma (especially repeated trauma). If you also experience these feelings, please know that you're not alone and this is normal. There are treatments available. I'm doing what I can to work on those issues. Only time will tell if they really are the "core" of who I am or can be replaced with a kinder relationship to myself.

Yet I want to write today about the ways in which I'm not ashamed.

I'm not ashamed to be a person who has experienced trauma. I'm also not ashamed to be someone who is experiencing a mental health condition. Moreover, I'm not ashamed of being part of a broad category of people who are often defined by their vulnerability (e.g., those experiencing a chronic health condition, and/or those experiencing chronic discrimination and stigma of any kind).

The reason I'm not ashamed of these characteristics, despite the intense stigma that often accompanies them in our society, is not because I've magically found some source of self-love and pride within myself to draw on. It's because I see other people who experience all the above, and am just so proud to get to speak as one voice among them.

When we're open to seeing the inherent, sometimes extreme, vulnerability in the human condition, we become capable of seeing so much beauty in the people around us who do the best they can (in their own unique ways) in the face of it. That's why, no matter how much shame I feel for myself as an individual, that shame never extends to what I have in common with others who have suffered.

So if you're reading this, and identify as someone who has been vulnerable in the above (or other) ways, please know that no matter how much shame I personally feel, I'm never ashamed of the ways in which I'm like you. Whether you've "overcome" your pain with "resilience" or continue to struggle with it, I'm proud to see myself in solidarity with you and to be able to say so publicly.

When I took time away from practice, I had a choice. I could have gone away quietly, sharing with no one the reasons for my need to take time away. Protections existed to ensure that few people would have to know what I was dealing with.

But ultimately that's not what I wanted. Although I feel fear and worry about the stigma and judgment that I might face due to my self-identification as someone who has been traumatized and who now experiences a mental health condition as a result, I don't feel ashamed of it.

To the extent that I'm able to speak up in my own feeble limited way for those of us who have experienced trauma, mental health conditions, and/or vulnerability of any kind, I'm proud to be able to do so.

It doesn't displace my own feelings of shame and self-loathing. Those are monsters I'll have to fight on my own for the foreseeable future, if not my entire life. But it has helped me a lot to look that shame in the eye and declare what it doesn't cover. I feel deep shame that won't go away, but not for this. I won't let it undermine my sense of solidarity with and loyalty to others who are vulnerable, whether they handle it like I do, or in some other way.

So all that is just to say that even though I don't feel compassion and pride for myself, that doesn't mean I can't experience it for you. I may not care for myself in the ways I should, but that doesn't stop me from being able to care for others who have been through what I have (or something similar). Shame can take a lot away from me, but I won't let it take that.

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

More Random Thoughts on Resilience

I hope I didn't come across as being anti-resilience in my post yesterday. My relationship with the idea of resilience is (like pretty much everything else) ultra-complicated. There have been times in my life when I've been undeniably resilient and proud of it. And then there have been other times when that resilience has been crushed through events beyond my control and I've found myself back where I started, wondering what became of all that improvement and healing. Sometimes my outcome was unfavourable when I was strong and doing everything right, and other times I somehow seemed to find "resilience" out of thin air through no action of my own, when I quite frankly did nothing to earn it.

While I hate an undue focus on the goals of resilience, improvement, and healing, I also don't want to see them erased from the discussion. Of course, healing and recovery are essential goals. I want everyone who has suffered to know what it is like to find peace and healing, and to feel genuinely strong and resilient and safe. The problem isn't with the concepts. It's with how they are sometimes used and overemphasized.

If someone gave me a button to press and said "this will bring you resilience and healing," of course I'd press it without hesitation and would also hurry to share it with everyone else who needs it.

But it's not that simple so we have to be careful. We live in a scary, imperfect world where deeply unjust, sometimes horrific things happen. When I question the overemphasis on improvement, resilience, and healing, I'm not saying those are bad things. I'm saying we have to be careful about what we miss out on when we are so fixated on aiming for "measurable" things like resilience and progress.

Because sometimes those that need the support the most, who have been most stuck, might need a lot of help/kindness/understanding before they can even begin to move towards healing--before they can even begin to think of themselves as resilient. Yet that doesn't mean they aren't strong. They could be every bit as strong as anyone else, yet not improve at all (maybe even get worse) due to the gravity of what they're facing. If we focus too much on interventions that yield the greatest results, we might miss out on helping and supporting those people.

An even bigger issue I have with an undue focus on resilience is that an emphasis on enhancing an outcome so amorphous as resilience may lead us to give inappropriate regard to the kinds of progress that are amenable to being measured. What does it mean to be resilient? Does it mean being a productive member of society? Does it mean avoiding a life of substance use disorders? Does it mean never developing a mental health issue? What does it mean to survive adversity? What if you accomplish all those things but have to harden yourself and feel less compassion for the suffering of others in order to be able to keep going? Does that count as resilience? Which part of you has to survive before you count as being resilient?

What if for some of us surviving adversity means something altogether different? What if for some it means maintaining our acute sense of compassion and urgency despite all we've suffered? What if it means maintaining a sense of allegiance, solidarity and community with others who suffer like we have, even if it means not escaping our own hardship, even if it ultimately results in us suffering the same fate as those whom we refuse to leave behind? How do we measure resilience if what matters most to the person in question is staying gentle and vulnerable in the face of a storm (rather than withstanding its impact)?

This is the essence of my stubbornness on this issue. I'm not saying all the above goals and types of survival are necessarily mutually exclusive, but if we privilege the more easily measurable ones and define those as "resilient," then not only do we prioritize the aims and needs of some over others, we also risk denigrating and stigmatizing some as "lacking" in resilience who have actually shown considerable strength of character in hanging onto what truly matters to them. And we also risk pushing "evidence-based treatments" on everyone that might be evidence-based only with regard to some visions of survival/thriving, but not others. Further, we also risk losing sight of the losses involved in some outcomes that might appear to have been the result of resilience....

My probably very trite point is that what it means to have a good and meaningful life is profoundly personal. What it means to be helped through adversity and its aftermath is similarly personal in many ways. For me, what matters most at the moment is simply feeling valued as I am (with all my non-resilient shortcomings) and like I don't have to endure things alone. For someone else, what might matter most may just be making it through the day without turning to unhealthy coping strategies.

So that's the root of my ambivalence. In many senses, the ways in which I appear resilient cause me the most pain because of what I had to give up in myself to attain them. In other senses, the ways in which I've been unsuccessful are a reflection of what I'm most proud of (maintaining my sense of connection to those who suffer, despite how painful it is to me, rather than shutting it out in order to "survive"). I don't hate the idea of resilience. I just think it needs to be put in its place. There are bigger questions that are messy and complicated that risk being hidden from view if we focus on seemingly neat and tidy concepts like measurable versions of progress, healing, and resilience.

As I've repeated, I'm not a mental health professional or an expert on anything, but the reality of mental health is that it has an inherently subjective component (or at least one that we are all capable of debating). No one can dictate for us what it means to be a good person, to live a meaningful/healthy life, and to come through trauma and adversity in a way that feels okay to us. We can benefit from the wisdom, insight and support of others, but at the end of the day, it won't matter if our own sense of what's important is ignored or overridden.

So what should we aim for first in supporting each other? My view: just figure out how to be there for others as they sort the above out for themselves. This means figuring out how to see and appreciate the humanity/inspiration/grief/joy/hope/despair in the life stories of those who fought/survived/succumbed/overcame/faltered. We can't help "fix" each other if we don't first get a sense of what that means for each other. It might not be easy to measure but that's okay. That's why listening is so critical.

Obviously, there will still be a place for measurables and for evidence-based-this-and-that aiming at particular outcomes to offer as tools to those who wish to pursue them, but let's just start by listening to and being there for each other....

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

Brief Note on Vulnerability, Resilience, and Defiance

I struggle a lot with beating myself up over not being "resilient" enough. I know the idea of resilience is intended to give people hope and strength, but there are many times when I hate hearing so much about it and see it as a judgment. If these other people can be resilient, then why do I continue to struggle so much? Does it mean that I don't have value if I don't heal?

On the other hand, I also tend to be uncomfortable sometimes with being credited for the ways in which I might be seen as resilient: I have no addictions (apart from sugar...), I've never been hospitalized or attempted to end my life,  I have three university degrees and some measure of success as a professional. But I know that a lot of this was just luck. I happened to possess certain skills, abilities and privileges that made these things possible. These accomplishments don't make me better than anyone else who happens not to have been as "resilient" in those ways. My fate could easily have been different.

I like the idea of recasting the way we see strength/vulnerability by acknowledging the strength that it can take to be openly vulnerable and overcome challenging circumstances, but I sometimes hate the dichotomy and value judgments inherent in the concept of strength and "resilience" to begin with.  I'm not saying they should be discarded. I'm just saying it sits uneasily with me.

I think it's okay to encourage people to strive to heal, to aim for resilience for their own sake, because they deserve to be happy and well. But we also have to practice seeing the inherent value and goodness in those who continue to suffer, whom we might be inclined to see as broken, who wouldn't easily fit into the resilience category. I believe in crediting people for their resilience and strength but not if it comes at the expense of failing to see the beauty and worth of those who couldn't overcome their circumstances (perhaps due to the severity of what they were facing combined with bad luck).

My belief is that there are all kinds of stories of human suffering that could inspire and move us, not only among those who proved to be "resilient," but also in those who faced their suffering as best they could, perhaps without overcoming it. I think it takes a special skill-set and an intentional kind of active attunement to truly appreciate those stories and what they can teach us. I also feel those stories are especially important for us as fragile humans with inherent existential vulnerability, because just as we are all capable of resilience and strength, we are all vulnerable in ways we can't control, and will eventually be faced with difficulties that we can't overcome.

I don't reject discussions about resilience and I'm sure there are all kinds of ways of approaching it that don't fall into the concerns I've raised. I just think we have to be cautious not to get carried away pursuing the goal of enhancing resilience in a way that causes us to cease appreciating the value in those whose suffering is not easily ended. In this sense, I often complain about the apparent obsession with evidence-based treatments and measurable progress. What about those whom we don't expect to respond to treatment with measurable progress? If we focus too much on resilience and improvement, what becomes of those whose needs might be different, perhaps more palliative in nature? Who maybe can't be "fixed" in a measurable way, but whose suffering can be alleviated by a kind and compassionate presence? Not everything of value in life can be measured. The concepts of strength, healing and resilience have their limits....

Sometimes, I see that as my special brand of defiance: to stand with the broken and say there is no shame in acknowledging when we feel, and maybe in some ways actually are, hopeless. There's no shame in being less resilient than someone else. Life is really hard and we are inherently fragile creatures. There's still so much beauty we can create and share even from a state of feeling broken. There's solidarity to be found here among others who have faced overwhelming odds and just didn't have it in them to keep fighting. Sometimes I think that sense of defiance and solidarity is a big part of what keeps me suffering but, to be honest, I don't care. I'm not willing to let go of that even for the sake of my own wellness. When I'm being my "best self," I'm not being resilient. I'm being defiant. My "best self" has this to say: I'm staying with the "broken," and I'm not ashamed. I refuse to turn my back on some of the uncomfortable truths I've learned even if it undermines my own wellness and prevents me from fitting in among the "resilient."

If I someday become "resilient" and "well" (a scary thought), then I hope I'll never lose that sense of solidarity and inherent human fragility in the face of difficult truths.  In the meantime, I won't accept a way forward that requires me to lose sight of that goal.

I realize this post has very little to do with the legal profession but I still think it's relevant, because we as lawyers are well-known to often be afflicted with a perfectionist outlook on life. We tend to see ourselves as the "strong" defending the "weak." The dichotomies between strength and weakness are very much alive in us. For those of us also dealing with our own vulnerability, I imagine I'm not the only one who has struggled with this sense of failure over not being "good enough" at healing or resilience. We need to change our approach. We can be vulnerable and defiant at the same time (in fact, open unapologetic vulnerability can be a kind of defiance in a profession that prides itself on denying its existence). There's a special value in this kind of vulnerable defiance, I think, if we can only make the effort to see it and share it.

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

A Quick Note: Forced Disclosure re Trauma and Mental Health

There's been some excellent discussion about the impact of forcing people to disclose past mental health diagnoses and treatment. See: https://abaforlawstudents.com/2019/10/09/law-students-law-schools-mental-health-character-and-fitness/

Needless to say (because I've already said it), I think the practice of discriminating against people on the basis of mental health needs to stop.

Maybe part of the problem is that we don't stop and think about what we're asking people to do when we're requiring them to make such disclosures. So for today I'm going to briefly share a bit of personal perspective.

When it comes to mental health, and trauma in particular, it isn't just the stigma of self-identifying as someone with a mental health history that may make people reluctant to share their diagnoses and past treatment. Speaking for myself at least, it's also the plethora of potential highly sensitive information that could thereby be opened up for discussion.

If I were asked, "Do you have a history of seeking treatment in relation to mental health, (but don't worry we won't ask any follow-up questions)?" I'd answer that far more easily than if someone with the power to compel me to share an unlimited amount of information asked me that same question and I was in the horrifying position of having no idea what might come next.

My trauma history is highly sensitive, as no doubt are many others'. I've explained (at the beginning of this story here, with a follow-up here)  that even though I've shared some small aspects of my own story, I'm still very careful about what I share. The only people currently in my life with whom I've shared the details are one friend  and one mental health professional. Even with the people I've shared them with, there are some things I can speak about out loud at some moments and some moments when I just can't speak about any of it.

When a person in authority with the power to ask pretty much unlimited follow-up questions requires someone to answer a basic question or two about their mental health history (which may include a history of trauma and/or other really personal history), what they're opening up for them isn't just the issue of whether they should answer that one question or two. It's also the possible complete loss of control over highly personal details of their lives that may be unthinkable for them to speak out loud even to the people closest to them, details that are entirely irrelevant to their ability to practice law.

Digging up unnecessary personal details isn't just harmful because of what the particular answers to those questions will reveal. It's because we're putting someone in a very vulnerable position in relation to extremely personal information that's not relevant to their ability to be a lawyer. Not only does it potentially increase stigma, but putting people in a helpless position in relation to such vulnerable information can actually be harmful to their well-being, and in my opinion, it needs to stop.

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

The Adversarial Process and Our Mental Health

Many of us became lawyers because we wanted to help people, and most, if not all, of us do just that as part of our practice. In this sense, being a lawyer can be deeply satisfying and meaningful work.

Yet, the trauma that we deal with on a regular basis can take a toll. We know it's true of other professions that engage with traumatized people and it's also true of us. We can learn a lot from first responders and healthcare professionals who struggle with similar issues.

But one aspect of the way we engage with trauma is unique to our profession, and I feel we need to think and talk about it more, as we begin the process of examining the traumatic effects of our work. When we engage with traumatic fact patterns, we aren't just there to help. We're there to help from the perspective of, and within the confines of, our particular roles in an adversarial process.

As I need not explain, our system is designed to be adversarial. There are reasons for this, as it's believed to be essential to the truth-seeking function of the justice system to have dedicated and passionate advocates on each "side." Nothing I say in this post is intended as a critique of the way the system is built. But, as advocates working within such a system, my view is that we need to, for the sake of our own wellness and effectiveness, start reflecting on, discussing, and addressing the impact it has on us to engage with such highly traumatizing subject matter (and traumatized people) in this way.

We frequently deal with extremely traumatic situations. Often, our role is a compassionate one. Whatever "side" of the process we happen to represent, acting within the constraints of our roles, we have many opportunities to directly and compassionately interact with traumatized people in some manner. Within the criminal justice system, for instance, accused persons are often deeply affected by trauma, as are many complainants and witnesses. Consequently, whatever our roles happen to be, we'll have the chance to make a positive difference in the lives of traumatized people.

Yet, regardless of which "side" we are on, the opposite is also true. Because the process is adversarial and because so many of its participants are highly traumatized (and the process itself is often focused directly on the trauma they've experienced, and can itself be inherently re-traumatizing for those involved), we will unavoidably also sometimes play a role in attempting to oppose the interests of (and thereby potentially re-traumatize) other traumatized persons. So we aren't merely passive observers or neutral "helpers" in the trauma that plays out before us: we're direct participants in its aftermath, helping some and perhaps hurting others (albeit not with any malice, and with the entirely legitimate and necessary aim of doing our duty for the interests we represent).

So all I'm saying, as someone who has been on both "sides" of the process, is that we need to recognize that there's no shame in taking note of the impact that engaging with trauma in this adversarial way has on us. It doesn't mean we aren't dedicated to our roles and to the system itself if we acknowledge that it weighs on us sometimes. And, although I can find no research addressing it (which is not surprising, since the recognition of vicarious trauma in our profession is relatively new), I can't imagine that this aspect of our work doesn't impact us in a unique way. Exposure to trauma can have a profound impact on those who are there to help or those who merely observe. But it's something we as a society are just beginning to examine and understand. When we start raising that consciousness in relation to our own profession, my view is that we need to have regard to the unique ways that plays out for us, given the nature of the system within which we work. In particular, we need to feel free to discuss those unique impacts of our work, and retain mental health professionals to examine them in our particular professional context and provide support tailor-made to address them.

I have many of my own thoughts about how this might impact us (or at least me) that I won't share now. But I'd love it if we'd discuss this more. That's the only purpose of today's post.

Comment added after the fact: Also, if there are imperfections in the system that cause it to be needlessly re-traumatizing to any participants (which I'll refrain from expressing my own views on here), then we should also explore the impact this may have on professionals required to work within the system and participate in that needless re-traumatization  (the idea of "moral injury" has been applied within the medical profession, and may also be considered here). Such imperfections may include any racial, gender, or other forms of inequality that may inadvertently be perpetuated or inadequately addressed by the system, thereby re-traumatizing those affected (as well as harming the well-being of the lawyers who have to participate in it).

Note: In the criminal law context, I'm, of course, highly aware that the prosecution (in Canada, referred to as representing "the Crown") doesn't win and lose, and in many very important senses isn't on a "side." For some discussion of the role of the Crown, see, for instance, here. I won't get into the nuances of that here. But, of course, prosecutors still have a particular role within which they act in the adversarial process, and it's in that sense that I refer to a "side." Nothing I write here should be taken as in any way detracting from the special roles and responsibilities that apply to the prosecution. I'm just oversimplifying things to enable a discussion of the impact of the adversarial process on anyone who happens to participate in it. A more nuanced discussion with the details of each particular role definitely can and should take place as part of the ongoing discussion of the impact of our particular work on our well-being.

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240

Words Matter: Reflections on World Mental Health Day

I was pleased to see that it's Mental Health Awareness Week this week (the first one since I got a mental health diagnosis of PTSD), and today is World Mental Health Day.

What I wasn't prepared for was how triggering and stigmatizing some of the well-meaning messages about mental health can be. I'm not angry about this. I don't judge anyone for it. The whole reason we need awareness is so that we can start having these important conversations. In the interest of building more awareness, I'm going to share the impact some of these messages have had on me and people can judge for themselves whether it should affect their thinking and messaging.

1. "Healthier lawyers are better lawyers." I already addressed this one here (discussing how we need to avoid discrimination and health-shaming) and to some extent here (discussing how we need to respect autonomy). Although I have been diagnosed only recently, I have a mental health condition that has affected me my entire career and is expected to do so for the foreseeable future, perhaps my entire life. But let's be clear: I'm not a bad lawyer for it, and I'm not worse than someone else who happens not to have a mental health condition. My quality of life has certainly been affected but I have been a competent and ethical lawyer throughout my career. Saying you have to be healthy to be a good and/or ethical lawyer is factually untrue discriminatory nonsense. It also presupposes that everyone has the option of going away for a bit and "fixing" themselves, which is not true for those with chronic conditions that can only be managed not cured. That doesn't mean we can't all benefit from improving our health, whatever that means for us, but please consider the words you use when encouraging people to do so. If you suggest the less healthy are less valuable, you may wish to keep in mind those of us with chronic conditions. On the one hand, I don't wish a mental health condition on anyone, and we should absolutely work on preventing them and curing them whenever possible. On the other hand, an awareness campaign for a condition I'm experiencing, with the message of how terrible it would be to end up like me and how we shouldn't want lawyers with such limitations around is pretty demoralizing, so count me out. It's a fine and difficult line. I know we can't do it perfectly. I'm just asking that we consider the perspective of those who do have less optimal health and not devalue the contributions they can nevertheless still make.

2. "Law school and/or being a lawyer are what breaks people." I take no issue with this to a certain extent. Law school and the profession definitely exacerbated my trauma symptoms in many ways (as I addressed here, here, and more generally here). But let's stop talking about mental health as if we all come from the same privileged baseline of "normal," "healthy" and "bright-eyed" with no baggage before law school. We come from different backgrounds. Some of us already had life-altering experiences and perhaps experienced mental health issues prior to law school. Let's please be inclusive when we discuss how we're all affected. (I addressed this in the context of trauma in my article for Canadian Lawyer Magazine here).

3. "Everyone should have a 'balanced' life or they will be a bad lawyer and/or have less valuable lives." I struggle with this one a lot. Yes, we all need to do whatever it takes to have the best quality life we can, but for some of us our challenges may have taken a lot from us. My struggles resulted in me ending up very socially isolated. I don't have a family life to retreat to, to give me the same sense of balance others have. Often what I have is my work. It's not ideal but I refuse to beat myself up for it. Some people might find considerable solace in their work when participation in a full range of other activities have become more problematic or simply never materialized. Some people might genuinely love their work so much that they naturally wish to become a bit obsessive about it. Maybe sometimes this gets out of hand and becomes unhealthy for some people but maybe some people do okay and it works for them. I definitely think the culture of expecting people to work so hard that they don't have room for much if anything else in their lives is harmful and unacceptable. But let's not fight this by shaming people who don't have much else but work in their lives, either by choice or by circumstance. The point is we all need space to find what works best for us given our strengths, vulnerabilities, inclinations, and limitations. I will proudly support another lawyer's right to have a thriving family life in addition to a successful career. But I would like not to be implicitly shamed for not having that in my life. We all do the best we can.

As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here

I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/

For some of my external writing on this topic, see:  

• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166 
• https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health    
• https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240