Getting Out to Get Back In
Erin Lunde, MT-BC
I have often heard people who become therapists are in need of therapy themselves. I imagine this is true, but only because we could all use therapy in our lives from time to time. In my last few years as a music therapist, I have had several shifts in identity, all of them culminating in a single, simple realization: I need out. This is to say that I have learned a great deal about myself in my work as a therapist and what I have learned is I can no longer do this. At least, not now, and not in the way I have been.
In late March, I was working with an individual whom I ' ve seen for years. This session was situated in the middle of my very busiest client-facing days, which happened to be toward the end of a week in which my husband was away on business and I was the single parent to my two very young children.
I have had, what I now consider, " pre-panic breathing " before. These short and shallow exhalations, countered by sharp and somewhat gaspy inhalations, started very soon after I began my session. My client sat down in front of me and stuck his face within inches of mine to say, " Hi, Erin," and I heard a voice( one of the many) in my head that said, " Space, space, get out of here!" I saw his face in mine, my body tightened up, and I seemed immediately drenched in sweat. At that point, the voices became uncontrollable: " What is happening? Get out of here. I don ' t feel good. Get out of here. I have to stay. I have to stick it out. I ' m supposed to be doing this. I hate this. What am I even doing here? What is the point? Get out. I want everybody to get away from me." The voices were loud. My client happily continued singing, moving to the music and playing a drum. I hoped he had no idea of my inner turmoil.
After a few minutes I could no longer focus on him, nor for that matter, on much at all. My vision became foggy and I stared at a point on the floor. I noticed my hands hurt, especially my pinky and ring fingers. I felt a hot burning in the back of my neck. I wanted so badly to leave that space, but I had become planted.
This client loves to relax. Most days, I play guitar and sing as a wind-down experience. This was an unordinary day, and I switched to our relaxation time early on in the session. I narrated to myself the steps involved in reaching for my speakers, clicking on the music I wanted, and setting it up on the table. I talked myself through the motions of finding, holding, and tilting an ocean drum, so as to use it as a calming tool as well as an anchor for myself. I was no longer able to speak, much less sing. I clutched the ocean drum, and my client lay down. My mind was filled with a cacophony of words and phrases, like " failure," " get out of here," " you ' re failing him " " you don ' t know what you ' re doing " and " what are you doing, really?"
I managed to end the session with as much grace as possible. My client, who did not seem phased, said his goodbye, and slowly ambled up the stairs. I spent a few moments trying to find my breath, but I realized I needed to get myself out of the house as soon as I could. I talked myself through the steps of collecting and packing my instruments. I zipped my guitar into its case and stood up on my numb feet. Somehow, I got myself up the stairs, into my shoes, and out the door, with a perfunctory " goodbye " to my client’ s mother. Luckily, she seemed preoccupied with whatever household chore she was doing and didn ' t seem to notice anything out of sorts. With that, I drove, carefully, a few streets away, parked, and called the on-call clinician in my therapist’ s practice. She helped me breathe through what was to become the first of a string of panic attacks.
I am fortunate to have a wonderful clinical supervisor with whom I did a lot of processing of this day, both verbally and musically. Unfortunately, this experience occurred a few more times with varying levels of severity although, thankfully, never again with the same client. I realized this client wasn ' t the cause of the anxiety. I had the same prepanic breathing episodes leading up to music therapy groups as well. I’ d sweat through my shirt during some sessions. I have been receiving therapy, in addition to clinical supervision, and I’ ve done my very best to keep my anxieties at bay while I ' m facing clients. I also determined there was nothing medically wrong. That is to say, there was nothing physical happening outside my everyday stressors and the all-encompassing identity crisis, gripping, with surprising dexterity, the nerves of my fingers and the rhythm of my breath.
I mentioned earlier that I’ m a mother to two very young children. One will be three years old soon, and the other will reach her first birthday in the same month. My
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