Trauma and Lawyers’ Mental Health

Saturday, March 7, 2020

Mental Health Diversity is Okay: Let's Embrace It

The way we talk about mental health and mental illness is important. We need to aim to avoid stigmatizing language. We need to try to ensure that the way we portray mental illness is helpful to those who may be suffering. There are practical concerns as well. Because physical illnesses are often perceived as being treated more compassionately, there's often a feeling that we need to show the ways in which mental health is "no different than" physical health.

But that doesn't mean we all need to see it the same way all the time. We have to be careful not to stifle open dialogue and diversity for the sake of the one right answer that we feel serves us and whatever practical imperative we are trying to advance.

Is mental illness exactly like physical illness or are there important differences? Is the concept of illness even helpful for all of us? Are physical illnesses even so well-understood that we can readily use the comparison? Is the medical approach de-stigmatizing and healing, or unhelpfully reductionistic?

For those of us whose mental health conditions were caused by trauma, is it better to see what we suffer from as an injury rather than an illness? Or is the idea of being "damaged" in some way (via injury or illness) unhelpful when we were merely responding normally and naturally (maybe even heroically) to the things that have happened to us?

And there are implications for treatment options. Does medical science have all the answers? Might some of us favor medication options while others reject them and opt for therapy or other methods of healing (spiritual, lifestyle-based, improving social conditions, fighting oppression/violence, etc.), some of which may be frowned upon by the medical establishment, resulting in us being lumped in with and mocked as much as Gwyneth Paltrow for daring to think differently and questioning medical orthodoxy? (Note: I'm not a Paltrow fan--I know almost nothing about Goop and I totally get there are definite problems with celebrity-promoted-wellness-options that need to be pointed out and corrected, but when the response to it descends into mocking those who don't automatically submit to the correctness of doctors saying "Do as I say. I have the answers. I'm a doctor," I grow deeply uncomfortable. I value medical science. It's incredibly important to learn what it has to teach us. But it absolutely doesn't have all the answers and I find a lack of humility and suitable caveats in medicine even more concerning than a lack of caveats and humility from some Hollywood mega-star who obviously doesn't have an MD or the position of authourity it entails).

The questions are endless. For my part, I have definite strongly-held views about many of these questions, some of which would put me out of favour with those leading the charge of certain "mental health awareness" campaigns.

The idea of illness is not generally helpful for me, and in some ways has been profoundly damaging. I do meet the criteria for mental illness, and I accept this, but the concept of it doesn't sit easily with me in many ways and I would welcome the opportunity to explore alternate ways of conceiving of my suffering and possible paths to healing. It isn't the stigma of it (although, sadly, there continues to be stigma)--it's just not a fit and doesn't do justice to the nature of what I have suffered and the ways in which I've survived it. In my view, people who have been affected by trauma to the point of developing a trauma-related "mental illness" are not necessarily sick or weak (though there shouldn't be any shame in either of those labels--I just don't feel they fit me). My most helpful way of viewing myself is to see that (1) I'm incredibly strong but (2) the ways in which I've had to be strong have depleted me in many ways and are often not well-matched to the society and conditions in which I have to live, which has resulted in (3) me feeling perfectly normal suffering in response to both the original experiences and the poor way in which it's recognized/handled by the people and social structures around me. So maybe it's the world around me that's sick when it comes to trauma-related suffering, not me. Yet it's a world in which I have to live, so the label of "mental illness" will have to do for now since it's the only way my suffering can currently be meaningfully acknowledged. I've made my peace with it and see no shame in it (I'm proud to stand with those who are mentally ill, whether it's from trauma or some other cause, and will defend others in characterizing their experience in whatever way most does justice to it);
I don't think mental illness and physical illness are "the same," at least not always, although I'm confident there is plenty of connection between them, some of which we understand and some of which we don't, but that doesn't mean I don't think they should be cared about the same way. I think we can explore similarities and differences without reducing one to the other. I think we can use metaphors and analogies without getting overly attached to them. I think we can learn more about the mind by comparing it to the body and vice versa, as well as exploring the ways in which they may be inextricably linked.

But those are just my views based on my experience. Maybe these things exist on a continuum. I've made the point before in other contexts: the mind is a very complex diverse thing (or non-thing, or whatever). Mental health conditions are incredibly diverse, and can affect us in very different ways. And the ways in which we are affected may vary even further depending on our history, our degree of privilege, our connection or lack thereof to others, our physical health, the conditions in which we have to live/work, etc.

Maybe you have an illness and I have an injury or something else altogether. Maybe something can be partly understood as an illness but also have so many other dimensions that need to be addressed that don't readily fit that framework. Maybe for some of us, a focus on one dimension is enough, while others need to be treated more holistically or focus on some other aspect(s) of the way in which their condition affects them. Maybe your condition is readily treated by medication, while that's not the right option for others (including me) for a variety of reasons. Maybe some people are really helped by therapy while others would rather take medication. Maybe the usual medical treatment options won't do anything for those who continue to be ostracized, oppressed, and harmed by the conditions in which they are forced to live/work. Maybe some mental health conditions are very much like physical illness or injury and some are less well-suited to that comparison....

Maybe we can never know for sure, so we all just need to do the best we can to inform ourselves about the known pros and cons of various options and approaches, reflect on what's important for us, and proceed in a way that feels safe and right to us. Maybe even how we conceive of physical health isn't always perfectly straightforward so the attempt to reduce mental health to physical health blunts our understanding of both in a way that fails to adequately capture their mystery, diversity and complexity. Or maybe there is indeed a beautifully simple"correct" answer out there just waiting to be found, but we'll never get there if we don't allow for real dialogue and diversity: because the "truth" can't be something that erases and ignores the ways in which these things may be experienced differently for many of us.

My view: we need to learn to live with some uncertainty and curiosity as we explore these important issues. We need to talk to and listen to each other, especially those who are differently situated and often silenced. Medical science doesn't automatically have the answer to the mind/body problem, or what it means to have a fulfilling life, although it can certainly contribute to both of those questions. Nor is it free of biases that have long excluded the perspectives and realities of those who have suffered the most.

Until we have all the answers my view is that we need to focus instead on the deeper questions like "Why should we care?" "Why should we help?" "Why should we allocate resources to reduce the suffering of others, whether from mental or physical causes?" Do we really care about mental health only if it's comparable to physical health? Or does the care come first (for those of us who "get it") and then we try to shape our discourse to artificially fit the framework that we think will most motivate others to care?

Why not have a discourse that's transformative rather than reductive? We care not because someone is "sick" as opposed to "weak," or "ill" as opposed to "injured," but because we don't think people should have to suffer needlessly if we can help it. Why don't we focus on that and talk about what it means for us to care in this way, and go from there? That way we won't have to leave anyone out just because they don't "fit" the way we've framed their experience. There will still be difficulty and we won't get around having to characterize these things in some way, but we can at least welcome all voices to the discussion and acknowledge the absence of easy answers rather than silence those whose perspectives differ from the one we've adopted.

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:

Wednesday, March 4, 2020

I'm not ok; you're not ok (and that's ok)

Sometimes someone points out that I'm being very openly vulnerable here in a way that may make some people uncomfortable because these things aren't usually discussed in such a raw and open way, let alone by someone in my profession.

The motivation is generally kind--to protect me from damage to my relationships and professional standing. Undoubtedly, some people are uncomfortable about these topics and would prefer not to have to acknowledge them. By being so open about it, I'm disrupting the usual order of things. Some people will judge me for that. Some people will avoid me. Some might dislike me.

I know all of this all too well, and always have. Sometimes the pain of it deeply affects me. Other times, I'm defiant and try not to care, but always I'm aware of it. There are no illusions here.

But here's the thing. I'm not okay with the usual order of things. I need and choose to talk about the ways in which I'm not okay.

Not because I think being open about it in my particularly raw and defiant way will help me. Not because I enjoy the attention (if anything, it brings me the wrong kind of attention and judgments). But because I know I'm not the only one who is not okay and I'm no longer okay with agreeing to remain in hiding and isolation.

So, yeah, I'm not okay. If I'm being honest, I've probably never been "okay" and possibly never will be. I come from a background in which many things are profoundly not okay in a way that never fully leaves you after you've lived through them and been exposed to them. That's been a part of my reality for as long as I can remember. Despite having "overcome" it in so many ultra-"resilient" ways, I carry it with me. I function in spite of it, but it's never far behind me. It's a permanent fixture in my life and history and I refuse to be ashamed of that. In addition to a substantial amount of suffering, it gives me compassion, empathy, wisdom and strength that I'm no longer willing to be silent about.

The other thing I know: I'm not the only one who isn't okay. I don't know how many others there are, but I know they're out there. Some I've met through my advocacy on this issue and I've found that it is an indescribable comfort to be able to communicate with others who "get it." Not only do we gain comfort from knowing each other, because we don't have to feel so alone, but we also get to see that the "not okay" are often the kindest, strongest, most amazing people on the planet and we realize there's no reason to hide who we are anymore even if some others may not get it.

Whether it's a small or large number, the "not okay" are my main audience. Those are the ones who may need to hear not only that "it's okay not to be okay," but also "Even when you're not okay, you're not alone. You're not broken. You can still contribute and be strong, amazing and full of light and power, all the while not being okay. You don't have to hide the parts of you that are suffering for the comfort of others. You can show the world your darkness so that they can understand your light."

So that's me: I'm here. I'm not okay. I'm trying to send a message to others who may similarly not be okay. We don't have to hide from each other. We don't have to hide from the world. If we want space to share what we're experiencing and advocate for a better understanding of the ways in which we and so many others have suffered and are suffering, we should be free to do so.

I'm not okay, but I'm here, and I'm refusing to surrender the space and visibility to which I'm entitled.

If you're not okay, I'm here for you. You aren't alone. You don't have to put yourself out there in the way that I do, but if you want to, I will stand with you in claiming the space and visibility to which you're entitled.

If we can't always be okay, maybe the next best thing is to be not okay together 💓.

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:

Sunday, March 1, 2020

The Curse of the Complicated, Part One (It's Okay to Be Cautious About How and When You Will Entrust Your Trauma to Someone Else)

I can't speak for everyone's experience of trauma, but for me the essence of trauma is how complicated it can be, how personalized, how individualized.

Speaking as someone with repeated instances of trauma, I can say that it didn't just injure me in some static readily comprehensible way. It infected and fused with me in ways that grew more complex over time. My defensive responses are highly complicated and impossible to comprehend without an understanding of the events to which they're reacting.

I didn't want to be defined by my trauma (because society doesn't always seem to allow much room for those who are, even though there's so much to be learned from us, as I explained here), yet so much of who I am was built on that foundation, in response to it: the things I'm ashamed of, the things I'm proud of (note: sometimes the two are identical and I'm simultaneously ashamed and proud of the same thing, more often than you might guess). It's impossible to know me without knowing that history, my way of understanding it, and my way of responding to it, and yet I've had to keep it almost entirely to myself.

Specifically with respect to my survival, in my inner world, I'm like a mad genius in an internal hellscape with buttons and levers of different shapes, sizes and colours everywhere in absolute chaos. Although I couldn't exactly explain it to someone else, if I don't press and pull them in the right (yet ever-changing) sequence at the right time, the entire world will be at risk of collapse. It's more of an art than a science. Something I do so well because I've learned it over time. Sometimes I'm a bit slow or press the wrong one, and my whole inner world shakes and shifts and I have to scramble to initiate emergency sequences to re-stabilize things. There's always a cost when that happens, and it happens frequently, but intuitively so far I somehow have known what to pull and press and when because I've lived it; because it's mine; because it's me. I'm an expert in keeping the system running. I've proven I can do it.

It's a terrible way to live. It's exhausting and lonely. I've longed for rest. I've longed for support and assistance. At an even more basic level, I've longed, if nothing else, for the reality of what I'm facing to simply be acknowledged and seen. For empathy.

Someone might point out how unsustainable and painfully limiting the above scenario is. "You can't live with that kind of burden." "Let someone help you. Reach out."

Oh, what a fantastic option that would be. I've dreamed of it so many times. To be able to let someone in. To be able to trust someone else to carry some of that burden or help guide me in doing so. To take over some of the tasks to allow me to rest. Or even just to keep me company in a meaningful way while I continue to carry the burden myself.

But here's the problem. It's not that easy. And I have to be careful. I can't let someone in (either in a personal capacity or in a professional "helper" capacity) if their first impulse will be to boldly and heroically start pressing buttons and levers (or dismantling the whole system I have in place) on the basis that they know best without even taking the time to know why I've had to put that system in place and the nuances of what dangers it's responding to.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying my system is perfect. I have no doubt it isn't. Undoubtedly, some of those buttons and levers are no longer necessary--harmful even. But if I'm wrong about which ones they are, the results could be catastrophic. And since I can't stop pressing buttons and levers in a fast-paced sequence that never permits any rest, I can't take the time to explore the ways in which I might be able to simplify things and reduce the pressure.

But it's not all wrong. It's worked for me. It's kept me alive and functional for a very long time. Experiences that could easily have destroyed me didn't. I'm here. I'm "resilient." I realize my defence mechanisms need fine-tuning, and maybe even major re-assessment and repair, but they're what's kept me alive. I will not give up on them or discard them unless I'm very sure that is what needs to happen and I have some reason to trust in whatever is being offered to replace them.

Maybe if I were already in a state of systems collapse, getting help would be easier. I could just say--"It's a total wreck--here you try." But it isn't. I'm functioning in important ways. It's not stupid or silly for me to want to protect the coping mechanisms and inner wisdom that have saved my life over and over again on a daily basis.

So in the above circumstances, what do I need? I don't need someone storming in like a caped crusader, poking and prodding in a trial-and-error-sort-of-way, saying "Hey, let's see what this button does?" I don't need someone bringing in their own magic "tool" that I've never seen before, that requires me to collapse my own system in the blind faith that theirs might work better (even when statistically their method fails to work for a lot of people, and mine has worked for me, albeit imperfectly, my whole life). At least without taking the time to know me and learn my system of survival, and engage in dialogue with me why their tool might help me better than my current system does (or how it might augment but not replace it).

I need people who understand that it's impossible to know what I need to heal without knowing the elaborate ways in which my own mind and body have both protected and damaged me over a long period of time. I need someone who knows that this takes substantial time, patience, care, and collaboration: an exploration of the many ways in which my complicated history of trauma and my body and brain's way of responding to it have forged their own pathways in my inner landscape and have left unique elaborate imprints on my body, brain and spirit.

Or if the capacity for time, patience, and care are limited, among acquaintances and professionals (as they so often understandably are), then I need them to understand the import of this limitation and the danger it poses to me, and proceed with great deference and humility. When they don't have the time to learn how to help navigate and repair the system I already have in place, they can simply and humbly assist by asking, "What do you need?" Perhaps they can be a momentary extra set of eyes or hands to help ease the strain on me as I continue to keep my inner world operational. Maybe they can help me get a bit of rest by offering to perform some of the tasks I would otherwise have to do to keep myself functioning. Such assistance would be no strain on their own limitations at all, if only they're willing to help in a way that reflects humility and faith in my understanding of my own inner world.

That doesn't mean I don't understand and appreciate that "specialists" exist. People who've, broadly speaking, seen people with similarly complicated inner worlds and have a great deal of knowledge that could really help me. I would love the assistance of people like that (and fortunately I now do have such assistance). They can be incredibly valuable. Their general knowledge of how systems like mine can often work--the type of damage often seen, the kinds of tools that often help--is incredibly valuable. But not if they ignore the particularity and complexity of how it actually works and has evolved for me. I know that this is delicate and complicated work because I've been living it every day for years and decades. A push or pull in the wrong direction can have severe consequences for me. I don't care how much general knowledge someone has. The ways in which I've been affected undoubtedly follow some general patterns, but also have highly specific effects on me in ways that are very consequential to me. If an "expert" doesn't have the humility to listen carefully to me and learn from me, then they are just as dangerous (if not more so), then someone who purports to have no such "expert" knowledge. Moreover, in my view, the fact that they take such an approach shows they don't actually understand the true nature of their supposed area of expertise. There are many general truths about trauma but the one I know for sure, for me at least, as I've outlined above, is how highly personal it is: how it has taken who I am, in all my particularity, and fused itself with me. You can't know my trauma without knowing me. Without knowing my story in all its rich detail.

The only "experts," "friends," and "helpers" I can trust are the ones who know that they don't know what I need yet. They may have ideas, hypotheses, and hopes. But most of all, I want them to see me, believe me, and listen to me. I need to know they aren't just going to burst into my inner world and start heedlessly and arrogantly stomping on and rearranging things.

So the lesson from the above: in my view, if your experience of trauma is like mine in this general way, then you don't need to be sorry for doing what you feel you must to protect yourself and your inner survival system of buttons and pulleys. You needn't feel sorry for honouring the ways in which your coping tools have kept you alive. You needn't feel that you are doing something wrong or failing if you need to proceed slowly, and take your time to be sure of your next steps before entrusting your trauma to another person, worldview, or treatment approach.

If your trauma is like mine, it is not a broken leg that someone else can treat without your input in accordance with readily accepted protocols. It is complicated, it is personal, it is you. You have a right to have a say in how you move forward. You have a right to be the director of your own healing.

In saying the above, I'm not saying "don't reach out," or "you can do it on your own." I'm saying that it is okay to be cautious in deciding what supports will work for you. It is okay to take the time and space to figure out what you might feel comfortable with (however, as I alluded to above, sometimes if the collapse and strain are too much, we may need or want to temporarily surrender our directing role, and that's okay too).

Bottom line: It's not wrong to put our trust in others. It's not wrong to let go of our burdens and hand them over to trusted people if that feels right for us. But it's also not wrong to honour the complexity of our inner world and system of survival by proceeding at a pace and in a way that feels safe for us. Whatever works to help you feel safe is one more step towards self-protection. Feel free to honour that rather than feel ashamed of it. If you're not ready for something, that's okay in my books . You can use your own inner wisdom to decide what other steps might work for you in the meantime while you move forward at your own pace in figuring it out (as I wrote about here).

I've had the benefit of professional assistance for a year now. It's been absolutely life-saving and I can't imagine how I would have survived this past year without it. In that sense, I'm a huge proponent of encouraging people not to feel they have to do this on their own. But the reason that professional support has been so helpful (rather than damaging) to me is that I was very cautious about whom I trusted. I was very limited. I had boundaries and I honoured them. So I'm also in favour of encouraging people to do their research and reflect on what feels safe for them, and to trust their own intelligence and self-knowledge in doing so.

We often can't heal ourselves entirely on our own. Our inner systems of survival are reflections of our brilliance, resilience, and wisdom, but they can also become painfully unwieldy, isolating and unsustainable. They can harm us at the same time as they keep us alive. It's okay to need the support and care of others to re-calibrate and re-align them. We can only do so much on our own. But we have a right to be directors and partners in that process.

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:

Sunday, February 23, 2020

We Shouldn't Have to Choose Between Support and Respect

Hello again, it's me:

A competent adult professional who happens to have a mental illness (see my story as I summarized it in a recent article here).

I've done some pretty okay things in my life. I graduated from high school at the top of my class (not relevant to anything whatsoever--I just never find any reason to share it). I earned a 4 year BA(Hon.) in 3.5 years, then got my MA in Philosophy.

I then got full funding to attend a PhD program at Northwestern University (and got admitted with funding into every other program to which I applied, except for one where I was wait-listed). That program was derailed for me because of the severity of my trauma-related suffering, but rather than give up, I wrote the February LSAT, got an excellent score, applied to the law school of my choice, was awarded an entrance scholarship, and attended there in September. I would have been permitted to return to my PhD program had I wished to, but I chose law school instead.

Despite my continued suffering, I also then earned a law degree (which included taking an extra semester of co-op education), got called to the bar, became a lawyer, and have practiced for 15 years (at both the trial and appellate level). No big deal, right?

So why all the icky bragging? I usually try not to do that, I swear Why do I feel this need to preemptively assert my competence like some kind of insecure teenager?

It doesn't come naturally to me to have to put my "competence" on display like this. When I first started as a lawyer, especially when I was a young female criminal defence lawyer, I loved to be underestimated and found ways for it to work well for me. I knew that if I did my work, I would be able to show how competent I was rather than having to strut around demanding it to be acknowledged. Being understated worked for me.

Yet now it feels unsafe not to find ways to hold up my "competence" like a shield.

Because now I'm someone with a mental illness.

Now there are stigmatizing assumptions and outright discrimination to deal with. And it's not just hidden discrimination--it's discrimination that's still openly preached and perpetuated by powerful, perfectly mainstream, people and organizations. It's discrimination that could result in a loss of my career, my opportunities for professional advancement, and even the loss of my liberty and right to make personal treatment decisions for myself.

Sometimes it feels like my only defence is my competence. So I find myself waving it around in an awkward unaccustomed way like the only self-protective tool at my disposal. "Respect my competence, please...."

Yet it's weird because I know that I'm the same me I've always been. The same me that has--successfully--been a member of this profession for a decade and a half. I shouldn't have to prove myself again just because of my diagnosis.

But the stakes are high, and the threats are real.

Even as I know I have to protect myself in this manner, I also realize that asserting my competence makes me uncomfortable for another reason. It feels like having to straddle a question rooted in an unfair dichotomy: Which is it? Are you competent and worthy of respect? Or are you vulnerable and in need of accommodation/protection?

Any move I make in either direction threatens to tear me apart, and also undermine the interests of others like me who may be differently situated at the moment. I fear that by making a display of my competence ("Oh hey, look at me, continuing to practice with serious health issues--so there's no problem that needs to be accommodated here!"), I may be undermining the very legitimate interests of others who, understandably, just couldn't remain competent under those same pressures: whose vulnerability asserted itself; who need support and accommodation to take time off and then return, or need to be supported in deciding whether this profession is even healthy for them. I never want to suggest in asserting my competence that there is anything wrong with vulnerability or those who succumb to it, temporarily or permanently.

And even for me: I succeeded in maintaining my professional competence. But the cost was extremely high for my well-being. It shouldn't have needed to be that high. There were times when I wondered if it was too high and if I should step away. If this profession had greater sensitivity to vulnerability, it could have substantially reduced the toll on me of maintaining my competence all those years. I will never get back what I lost. It's not okay. My continued competence doesn't mean there was never a problem.

So here's my bottom line message: Drop the dichotomy and stop making us choose between your respect for our competence and your support for the ways in which we are vulnerable.

If we want diversity, inclusion, wisdom, insight, and strength in our profession, we need to stop reinforcing the distinction between competence and vulnerability. It is absolute nonsense. We are all human and therefore can become vulnerable at any moment. We need to stop acting like vulnerability is some kind of aberrant ticking time bomb that we can weed out, rather than a basic feature of our shared human condition that we all need strategies to face, manage, and eventually gracefully yield to. We don't do the profession or public any favors by reinforcing the myth that only some of us are vulnerable. It's dangerous and inaccurate, and leads us to avoid the real issue of how we *all* need to face the prospect of our collective and individual vulnerabilities throughout the lifespan of our careers, relationships, and lives.

As I emphasized in one of my uncharacteristically (😄) optimistic posts, "We Can Be Heroes," it is absurd for us to weed out those we identify as vulnerable on the unfounded assumption that their vulnerability makes them a liability. The vulnerable are the ones who have made it to this level despite facing hurdles many others could never even imagine let alone endure: they are the battle-tested, bad-assed warriors that this profession should welcome, embrace, and learn from. The idea that vulnerability should be equated with diminished competence is therefore laughable (or at least would be if the potential consequences of having our competence questioned in that manner weren't so severe).

Moreover, since the already-vulnerable are also the ones who have had to face the reality of the human condition in the most profound ways, they have the insight, wisdom, empathy and understanding this profession needs in facing the very difficult issues being adjudicated before us. We should be doing everything in our power to recruit, elevate and support them.

So, yes, I am declaring my competence and insisting that no one reduce me to just my vulnerabilities. Nothing about the ways in which I'm vulnerable permit the assumption that I'm less competent than those around me. Only my actual performance can tell you anything about my competence. But I'm also not allowing my vulnerability to be ignored any longer just to maintain my shield of competence. I deserve support for the ways in which I'm vulnerable (as do we all), and I deserve credit for the ways in which I've persisted despite those challenges, which is why going forward, I insist that any assessment of me (and others) look at me in my wholeness. Listen to me and learn from me, and I promise to do the same for you.

And if we can all start seeing and listening to each other that way, we'll be so much the better for it--and, with that enhanced understanding of what it means to be humans who can simultaneously be vulnerable and strong, worthy of both respect and support, at the very same time, we will be better-equipped to serve the very human ideals, individuals and organizations to which we have dedicated our careers.

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:

Saturday, February 22, 2020

Unicorns, Rainbows, and Serial Killer Blood: Finding Meaning in Morbid Metaphors

"Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love." Milan Kundera--The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I don't know if it's a trauma thing, a deep personality flaw, or the secret to my resilience (or somehow all and yet also none of the above), but I am addicted to metaphors. Metaphors help me find light in the darkness and meaning in the most inarticulably painful circumstances. Metaphors are probably the reason I'm alive and functioning. And maybe sometimes they contribute to my suffering too...

When you have so many things you're not allowed to talk about (because the consequences are too great, because you don't have supportive people around, because you just can't do it), a huge part of yourself remains in darkness: no colours, no features, no reality, no voice--just darkness. When you have to move forward and exist in the everyday world in spite of a whole lot of darkness pursuing you, a huge part of yourself gets left behind and becomes fused with that darkness (see all the metaphor-ing I'm doing already just to try to explain...).

Metaphors have allowed me to exist and explain that existence in a rudimentary way. Without them, all there would be are terrible feelings and fears I couldn't possibly describe in ways those who hadn't been through it could understand. For example, instead of saying I feel terribly alone (which is woefully inadequate to describe the experience no matter how many "terribly"s "extremely"s and "very"s I add), I explain my situation: "I'm buried alive and part of me can project to the surface and interact in a very surface-level-way with those around me, but I'm not allowed to tell them anything about my true self and history, or ask for their help, and if I break that rule, I won't be allowed even those surface-level interactions and superficial enjoyment of normal above-ground life anymore. But sometimes I can't stand it and I want to break the rules because I know I'm not the only one trapped underground like that and I want to demand to be heard, so even if no one will help me, they might eventually acknowledge and help the others...." And when I can finally tell someone that, and when they sort of get it, then I can start to feel understood. Like I have some kind of existence in the "real" world.

Metaphors were the only thing that made it possible for me to even consider moving forward in therapy and understanding how it could benefit me, even in what felt like hopeless circumstances. I had so many other metaphors I used (because let's get real: they're never perfect so I just keep trying new ones on and modifying old ones) but let's stick with the "buried alive" one. Finding a professional I could trust (something I never thought possible before) was experienced as "still being buried alive with no hope in sight. I don't see a way out. But now there's a compassionate voice with whom I can use my voice to explain the situation, who can offer comfort and support to make an intolerable situation more bearable." Not being alone isn't automatically the same as being "fixed" but it's an extremely big deal after so many years/decades of [that buried part of myself] not being able to truly communicate with anyone. And once I started doing that, there was another unexpected benefit: being able to communicate with a trusted person gave me some strength to occasionally--metaphorically--open my eyes (which I hadn't even noticed had been tightly squeezed shut) and look at my surroundings so I could see the (still very dark) contours of where I'm buried. I still don't see a way out, but if there is one, that's a crucial first step in being able to find it...If not for that metaphor, all I would have been able to see would have been my pessimism about being incurable. The metaphor made it possible for me to be able to benefit despite how hopeless I felt.

And so we come to the title of this post. When I started speaking out about trauma through my writing, it was entirely motivated by metaphor. And like all my metaphors, it was grim and dark, because that's the reality of my experience of trying to navigate trauma while also trying to exist in a "normal" way in the "real" "everyday" world.

For me, I started to speak out not because I felt it would be cathartic for me (I knew it wouldn't). Nor was it because I felt it would be a way to get help, understanding and care from those around me. I knew that for me in speaking out in the only ways I know how I'd be violating the "rules" that allowed me to have surface-level existence (per the metaphor above) and there would be consequences. Socially, some people would become awkward around me and not know what to say, so they'd stop acknowledging my existence altogether. Professionally, I feared it would limit any future advancement. But I spoke anyway. Why? Because metaphor.

Before I describe it further, an explanation of why I hesitated at first to share this: A friend of mine who also truly "gets it" and I were messaging about how in the "wellness" movement, people tend to want only the uplifting stories about the people in dire circumstances who find the strength to "reach out" and then magically, heroically "presto-change-o" are transformed back into normalcy, tranquility and "wellness." After all, it's the only way the "buried-alive" are ever permitted to be seen: when they've magically already been fixed and are beautiful and butterfly-like, and truly "one-of-us." It's like a cautionary tale for those who still suffer underground: "If you haven't been transformed yet, it's because you're doing it wrong, so don't you dare complain. Just try some of that abracadabra stuff that worked for these shining examples of the power of self-transformation. Get a shovel and start digging. Easy-freakin'-peasy and we don't want to hear more from you until you do it.."

My friend wisely said, "[those in the wellness movement] just want to hear about 'unicorns and rainbows' so they may not want to hear about grim dark metaphors." It sorta sounded like a dare so I promised to write a blog entry about my most motivating, undeniably dark metaphor: the serial killer blood one. I laughed as I vowed to do it. "They won't like it. All the more reason to write it. I'm not following the rules anymore."

So here's the metaphor that motivates me in speaking out. It's quite terrible and I don't recommend it for anyone who has access to a better one but it works for me:

It's like one of those movies. I've been fatally wounded by a serial killer. It's clear that no help is coming and even if help arrives it will be too late. And yet death does not come quickly. It's slow and agonizing (maybe years or decades). There's nothing left to hope for that will take the pain away. So what do I do? It would be tempting to just remain in place on the ground waiting for the end to come: silently, barely moving, feeling the pain as little as possible. Or I could choose instead to do what I can to maybe spare others, even if it makes my death more agonizing. I can painfully drag my injured body to a location where I can use my last bit of strength to write my killer's initials in my blood on the wall, so maybe just maybe, someone will see it someday and prevent the killer from harming others. It won't be enough to save me. And the process of doing it will cause more pain and damage, not less. But it's something to cling to. It's something to keep me moving. It could be a terrible miscalculation. Maybe I was wrong about how fatally wounded I am. Maybe I should have conserved my strength. But it's something to give meaning to these agonizing final moments. When we don't have a way to escape the pain, it can help sometimes to ask, "Is that really the end of it? If I can't rid myself of the pain, does something remain that I can still do that can mean something to me? If I can't have happiness, can I still have purpose?"

Important note: I have two therapists and I think it's fair to say that they do not love this metaphor! (though they validate the fact that this is how it feels for me, while gently encouraging me to explore the possibility of seeing it some other way). I'm not suggesting anyone see themselves this way if they can help it. It's super hopeless and depressing. Yet for me it gives some reality and language to what I actually feel. And once I've given it some reality, it makes it possible for me to wonder: okay, if it's really hopeless like this, what might nevertheless remain? Something human, something meaningful, something real. And it also gives a starting point for a discussion with those who might want to suggest more hopeful ways of seeing the situation in a language that feels legitimate to me (reflecting the emotional reality of where I'm starting from). And most of all, it keeps me alive and functioning while all that can be explored.

Note also: metaphors will never fully be apt. The "serial killer" I reference isn't a person in this case. It's a combination of the complex trauma I've experienced and the society that is often so unkind and invalidating to trauma survivors. I'm pointing to a complex phenomenon, not just naming a person (which I've personally never had the strength to do, even when warranted, and doubt I ever will). But the metaphor helps make it simple: it won't undo my wounds, but maybe it will help save others. And yes I know it's my own blood I'm referring to but "serial killer blood" felt more catchy for a title.

So here is what my metaphors have taught me: even when there is no hope, there can be a way of seeing the situation in which there can be meaning; there can be connection; there can be comfort.

And yet as the quotation at the beginning of this post warned: metaphors can be dangerous if we fall too much in love with them and tie our fates to them or expect them to bring healing to us all on their own, but I stubbornly maintain that--if we use them flexibly--maybe they can help us give birth to a type of love that wouldn't otherwise have been possible for us. Maybe someday my ever-shifting metaphors will help me fall a little bit in love with myself or with my life, or at least help me find a way to tolerate both a bit better....

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:

Sunday, February 16, 2020

Earning Trust by Respecting Our Fear of Engaging with Mental Health Care

After a very damaging healthcare experience (that I don't see myself recovering from for quite some time), I wrote a couple recent blog posts as a bold declaration of the kind of healthcare I require going forward, along with a (partial) explanation of why anything less will not only fail to assist me, but will be damaging and re-traumatizing.

The funny thing is the boldness of my declarations can be contrasted with the actual helplessness of my circumstances and options, since the system doesn't seem to be set up to allow for my needs.

It shouldn't really be a lot to ask. What I need is so basic. I'm not asking for access to expensive treatments. I'm just asking to be treated as an autonomous individual, worthy of consideration, dignity and respect, who gets to decide basic things, such as (1) whether to agree to a suggested treatment, (2) whether and to what extent to engage in an assessment process, and (3) the pace at which to do so. I'd also like some say in how the information about my background and needs is gathered from me (for instance, I'd like whoever provides future treatment to me to work collaboratively with the very qualified professionals who have been providing mental health assistance to me over many months, who have earned my trust and know me well.)

I'm not asking to be given more and faster: I'm asking to have less pushed on me, and for whatever I'm offered to slow down to a pace with which I can feel safe and comfortable. As a precondition of any assessment or care, I need flexibility and I need my boundaries honoured and respected. I'm not asking for this because I'm being demanding and just want things done my way or else. It's because I know with certainty that anything that doesn't honour those limitations of mine will not only be unhelpful, but will be deeply damaging to me (as I've recently experienced).

Yet so much mental healthcare and mental health messaging and regulation seems to be built on pressure, dictatorial "prescriptive" attitudes, dehumanization and outright coercion.

First, with respect to diagnosis: If I go in for an evaluation or treatment of my trauma, I'm not consenting to a wide-ranging invasive deep-dive examination of every aspect of my personality and psychological make-up. I'm not there because something is horribly wrong with me as a person and clueless professionals need to take apart every aspect of my personality querying--with a great sense of mystery and wonder--what it might be. I'm there for what should be very plain and obvious reasons to any compassionate and understanding professional: because of the things that have happened to me. It should be no mystery what needs to be addressed. I wouldn't go to a hospital for a broken leg and get a full-body evaluation, including of incredibly intimate parts of myself, just to see if perhaps I'm mistaken about the source of the damage. It's disrespectful, invasive and insulting. It also causes more injury (for reasons partially explained in previous posts). Me declining to participate in such a process isn't me resisting treatment. It's me protecting myself from further harm. If an examination of my broken leg included a process that involved breaking several other bones in my body first as part of the diagnostic process, you can bet I'd say no to that treatment too....

Second, with respect to establishing trust before proceeding with anything: I have respect for mental health professionals but I'm entitled to some basic dignity and privacy. I don't need to be a doctor to be confident that the power to take someone apart and tell them everything that happens to be "wrong" with them through invasive assessment measures, some of which may have arguable validity, isn't something that should be exercised over an already fragile person, suffering from obvious causes that need to be attended to, as a precondition of them getting treatment for the issue that brought them there. An already fragile person shouldn't have to surrender any more of her dignity and privacy than she's already had to through the things that have happened to her, unless truly necessary. A traumatized person shouldn't be asked a bunch of questions "Have you ever felt x, y, z," designed to find inherent problems with her "mood" or "personality" with no regard for the traumatic experiences that caused her to experience "x,y,z" on past occasions. Moreover, no one, especially a traumatized person, should be asked to surrender such private aspects of themselves before the time has been taken to build trust, comfort and safety. Diagnostic questionnaires should not be handed out in a waiting room with impossible-to-answer questions that don't allow for explanation ("yes, I felt x before, but only as a direct result of trauma") before a traumatized person has ever even met with the professional in question, let alone established a sense of trust and safety with them. No steps should be taken until the person is ready for them and consenting to them. Because doing so to someone who has already had their boundaries violated is itself a source of further harm. If a professional doesn't understand this, then the whole process is questionable from the start, and no one should wonder why some of us will resist that.

Third, with respect to understanding power dynamics: our mental health system allows for an incredible amount of power to be exercised over those who are suffering. Mental health professionals should know and expect that many of us will therefore be terrified and perhaps justifiably unwilling to engage with them, especially if we've already been damaged and had "worst case scenarios" of betrayal and abuse of power happen via trauma. We can be hospitalized against our will and any number of invasive potentially permanently damaging and profoundly traumatizing "treatment" procedures forced on us if we encounter the wrong professional who mistakenly feels the threshold for doing so has been reached. I've been assured this is very unlikely to happen to me, as I'm nowhere near that threshold, but that doesn't stop me from being terrified of it. All it takes is one risk-averse professional who misinterprets something I say. Instead of dismissing these fears, the basis for them should be reduced by truly protecting people against the prospect of them ever being used and slowly building trust with people before engaging with them if that's what they need to feel safe. Each time I encounter a professional who is careless and dismissive in how they engage with me, that fear grows because all it takes is to encounter that kind of person at the wrong moment in a vulnerable state and the results could be catastrophic. Even if professionals "know" that no such danger exists with them, they need to understand and validate our fear that it could and let us slowly build our trust with them before doing anything (not as a precondition to treatment that fearful patients hope for, but as part of the treatment process itself).

Moreover, such power can also be wielded in relation to mental health by non-medical professionals, so those who engage with mental health professionals may also fear those implications (even if they're comfortable and safe with the particular professional offering services). Professional regulators and employers may not be as understanding about mental health as they should be. Consequences can result. Family and friends may not be understanding and supportive.Social exclusion may result.

So it's a big deal to submit oneself to "assessment" and "care" by a professional and the system in general. Instead of urging, persuading and pressuring us to "reach out" anyway, professionals need to focus on their side of the equation by ensuring that as little "reaching" as possible need be involved in "reaching out" first. Slow down. Let us go at our pace. Build trust before doing anything if that's what we need, so that reaching out won't have to feel like extending our limbs over a steep cliff with no confidence in what might happen next. People are afraid for a reason. Because this is a big deal. Understand and honour that first and every step of the way and then maybe more people will feel comfortable taking that leap....Otherwise, respect our choice to maintain a distance that feels safe to us until we are ready to risk moving forward.

I have a lot more to add but I'll just arbitrarily stop there (because my coffee is done and my dogs feel entitled to a walk today....)

Overall, I'll just say this. Many of us struggling with trauma and mental health are afraid. Please stop condescendingly telling us we shouldn't be. Stop gaslighting us. And start honoring, understanding and slowly counteracting that fear at a pace that feels safe for us. I know many won't be happy with my messaging here since encouraging people's fear is seen as a barrier to them seeking treatment (which is why so much mental health messaging glibly says "Oh, hey there, don't be afraid. Reach out. It's okay. We won't hurt you...."), so maybe I might seem to be fear-mongering by describing the profoundly negative impact that such responses to me "reaching out" have had on me, especially recently. To them I say, many of us suffering are already afraid and have had that fear reinforced by experiences we've actually had. You're not going to be able to talk us out of it. We have reasons for that fear. Telling us to let it go won't make it go away. For some of us, the only safe way forward is to name, honour, and respect that fear--to give ourselves permission to feel it accordingly and refuse to engage with professionals who don't likewise understand and honour it the way we need them to. To me that's not silly or self-destructive or an indication of my unwillingness to be helped. It's health-promoting: it's self-protection and -care, which is exactly what I need. I'm proud of myself for asserting it despite the reality of how little choice I actually have right now.

Providing people with a way forward that allows them to proceed in spite of their fear, not by suggesting they're "crazy" and "wrong" to feel it, but by earning their trust slowly and assuring them that their fear will be respected at each step of the way is what will enable people like me to reach out. So I'm not sorry to be asserting that here. I'm not telling anyone that they should be afraid. I can speak only for myself. But if so many people are afraid, maybe their fear isn't the problem. Maybe it's the reaction to it that needs to change....

What I've articulated above isn't radical, or at least shouldn't be. It's basic trauma-informed care. It takes thought, caution, self-awareness and care on the part of those providing services, but it's completely possible to accommodate. So I won't apologize for insisting on 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:

Saturday, February 15, 2020

Trauma: The Agony and Healing Power of Reconciling Our Vulnerability with Our Autonomy/Defiance

I have a mental health diagnosis. It's helped me a lot to have one, because:

It tells me I'm not alone in what I'm suffering;
It gives me a shorthand way of communicating what I'm suffering, so I don't have to go in circles trying to explain to others who may not get it or with whom I can't share more than a very basic explanation (e.g., because they're not willing to hear more or I'm not comfortable sharing more with them);
It gives some validation to me and my suffering--I'm not "weak" (whatever that means--not that weakness should necessarily be considered a moral failing, unless it is in some morally relevant way)--I have a mental health condition;
It enables me to get the help I need and if I ever require some kind of accommodations, or health services, it gives me a basis upon which to seek them (since unfortunately that seems to be required for insurers, providers, and regulators, to see us as having any "rights" or entitlements--we have to be able to point to a group to which we belong, and in this case for me it is based on a particular identifiable health condition); and
It enables me to find a sense of community with those who may share that same diagnosis and learn from others what may have worked for them (which may possibly help me too)

However, I want to be clear about one thing: I am not just a diagnosis. It may be a huge part of how I see myself--or not. I do not agree to surrender my autonomy in exchange for it. I am whole and complex.

It's the paradox of being human: In some ways, I have been and remain so vulnerable. I didn't get to choose a lot of what happened to me. It helps me to recognize this. There's no shame in being vulnerable, human and fragile. It isn't my fault that I experienced many adverse effects from the things I've experienced. It isn't my fault that those effects have in many ways been difficult to overcome. I don't blame myself or others for being profoundly impacted by such effects (or at least I know I shouldn't blame myself and struggle to find ways not to). We are humans, not gods. Things that happen to us affect us. Things that happen within us (due to our biology) affect us. Our conscious mind and sheer force of will can only do so much to control that. Some of us have to experience this more than others since some of us have the privilege of controlling what happens to us more than others, but it is ultimately true for everyone.

Yet, in other ways, no matter how much I suffer, I retain some measure of freedom and power to define myself that no one can take from me, and I'm not prepared to surrender it to them, regardless of how much people purport to be "helping" me in requiring that I do so. But ahhhh do I ever need help....

Trauma for me is the painful collision of those two realities: on the one hand, I have been and am so vulnerable. On the other hand, I refuse to surrender my sense of agency in making sense of what has happened to me: my right to articulate for myself what that vulnerability does and should mean for me. But my agency can also be a source of pain, since, taken in abstraction, it can demand that I take responsibility for all things, and often seems to demand that I see myself as having more control than I do.

The anguish for me is in those two realities: I don't always get to decide what happens to me. Even more troubling for me, I don't even always get to decide how I respond to it, since what happens to me can deeply shape my internal experience and sense of who I am. It would be naive to overstate how self-determining I am. Yet, despite that vulnerability, some room for self-determination remains. It's shaky ground to be on, as my level of actual control is constantly fluctuating, while my need for agency screams to be recognized and respected, even if self-punishment is the cost.

And the path to healing for me is in finding a way to reconcile those two seemingly irreconcilable realities that I've not only become deeply conscious of through my experiences, but that my body and brain have also repeatedly had no choice but to be jolted and injured by. Even when my smug genius of a conscious mind thinks she has the answer (especially when she reads lots of Hegel and Dostoevsky), my brain and body both can't help screaming at me in paradoxical anguish: I AM RESPONSIBLE, YET I AM VULNERABLE!!!! My mind declares: "I can choose how I respond to things" at the same time as my body and brain whimper: "except when I can't because I'm a fragile human in a world and body/brain I don't fully control." Being a human suuuuucks.....(cue "add to dictionary" here because I'm gonna say that a lot).

There's some comfort in knowing our inherent human limits, but also considerable fear, agony, and self-blame. If I am self-determining, then I'm responsible. If I suffer, it means I've failed. If I don't survive the way I feel I should have, it means I'm nothing but vulnerable. I failed. I failed. I failed.

As if it isn't enough to have to think it, I have to listen to my body and brain scream it at me every time a new situation presents itself that in any way reminds me of those past "failings." Being a human suuuuucks.....

I'm vulnerable so I need help and support. I've been harmed by the things I've experienced, and I need help healing those wounds. I can't do it alone, at least not completely. I am a fragile being, an infant, a baby bat (from now on I'm working baby bats into everything I write, because for me they are the epitome of vulnerability yet perfection). Reaching out for support from others is a critical part of healing.

But I'm self-determining, and my surviving sense of agency, meaning, and defiance in the face of what I've experienced is everything to me. Not only is it what has enabled me to survive to this point, it's also (paradoxically) the part of me that has been most wounded and is most deeply in need of nurturing and support. It's the proud general I sent into battle to fight against everything that stood against me, but also the part that sometimes had to retreat and lie down in defeat horribly injured when it couldn't help but be overcome by forces that stood against it. So when people offer me support (bless those few who try), then it needs to be in a way that affirms my autonomy--at the same time as acknowledging my vulnerability (in a way that helps treat the wounded general's injuries and helps it get back up into action)--or it will only further damage me: the treatment will actually be a further source of injury. It can't be something that reduces me to a series of questions on a diagnostic questionnaire or gives me only one path to healing with which I must comply. It can't be someone who tells me what I "must" do, or what my purpose in moving forward "must" be (e.g., "be happy"), and assumes they know what I need without acknowledging the need to carefully listen to me and learn from me. I need my vulnerability supported at the same time as my autonomy is also supported. I need to be cared for in a way that acknowledges the paradox of being human that is the core of what was injured and problematized for me in my experiences. Until mental health practitioners understand this, and constantly check their behaviour and attitudes in view of it, they will be a threat to me, and I won't engage with them.That is my first critical step in caring for myself. It isn't a resistance to being treated, but the ultimate act in self-protection.

In the same way as "helpers" who only emphasize or overemphasize vulnerability are a threat to me, "helpers" who focus exclusively on my "responsibility" are no use to me, because they fail to give due regard to the ways in which I've been vulnerable, thereby reinforcing the shame and self-blame I'm already so prone to feeling and have so deeply internalized. Such "helpers" and "sources of inspiration" suggest that I can be worthy of assistance only to the extent that I deny and denounce my inherent human fragility and the particular ways in which I've been damaged. They want me to sustain myself on fiction, on an incomplete vision of my humanity. I will reject that sort of assistance too.

So healing from trauma for me is all about acknowledging and honoring vulnerability at the same time as supporting my inherent autonomy/defiance in the face of what makes me vulnerable and human. The only people who can help me will be those who embrace and nurture both. If you think that sounds really difficult to do, you're right. That's why it's so painful and that's why I've suffered so much because of it. That's why I can trust only those who are ready and willing to face that painful paradox rather than offer easy answers.It doesn't mean I blame those who don't or can't yet see it that way (as I said before, bless everyone who tries to help, even if I feel their help misses the point of how I've been injured and is therefore dangerous for me). It just means I respectfully choose not to entrust my healing to them.

In the meantime, not to fear, Dear Reader, there are a growing number of trauma-informed "helpers" who understand the above, who are willing to step into the breach with us, and help us learn to live with the paradoxes that afflict us all as human beings, and are particularly damaging to so many of us who've experienced trauma (I'd say all, but I don't want to purport to speak for everyone--so you decide). I'm lucky to have found that kind of assistance (while also very unfortunate to have been damaged and re-traumatized by some of the wrong kinds of "helpers" for me along the way).

I'm also lucky to have my Hegel and Dostoevsky to draw on, along with every other source of inspiration that speaks to me and helps me understand the paradox that afflicts me. We can't control everything with our intellect and conscious minds, but we can nurture and defend our right to nevertheless struggle and remain defiant, at the same time as we find ways to support and care for our vulnerability. It isn't easy but if there's healing to be found, in my personal view, speaking only for myself, then that it starts (but perhaps doesn't end) 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: