What's next?

I've been doing a lot of writing. When I'm feeling blocked, I'll "free-write." That is to say I will just start typing. Sometimes, I start with "I don't know what to type, but I'm at my keyboard . . . " and continue from there.

I've had a couple of great free-writing sessions about conflict and behaviors (coping skills) that can both sustain and harm a trauma survivor. But I don't have anything cohesive enough to lay out as a blog post at this time.

Additionally, there seems to be so much violence in the news that I've been reacting to and needed self care about, that my writing has turned very personal in nature.

Please be patient. I will continue to post here.

Until then, read and digest the blog entries posted in whatever way is safest for you personally. And remember that all comments are welcome. The only thing I ask is that folks remember to be kind to one another. I am always available for feedback, but there are strangers I've never met that the subject matter resonates with. Please hold these people with care as you contribute.

Thanks and best regards,

Mike :-) 



Lessons From "The Tank"

Not My Photo

When I was a kid, growing up in Westbrook, Maine, we had an outdoor pool. The official name of the place was the Cornelia Warren Outdoor Pool. But in our neighborhood, it was affectionately referred to as The Tank. 

That's what my Mom called it when she used to drive me to lessons. "C'mon Mike. Time to go to The Tank. You're lesson is at 9:00." 

Some of my earliest and most positive memories from childhood centered around this place. Swimming was a constant in my life during the summers of the late sixties and early seventies. I was at home in the pool, and I always felt safe there. As soon as I was big enough (probably eight or nine years old in what was a much smaller town then), I could walk the mile distance with a group of kids from my neighborhood. 

We would take the railroad tracks (long since gone) where William Clark Drive is now, and stop at a local store on Maine Street to purchase candy and soda. The soda was in a water-cooled cooler and always felt ice cold in those old glass bottles. I can't remember the name of the place, but it was right next to Matty's Taxi.

Just across the street from the store was what we called the rail road yard. On occasion, we would sneak over and try to climb in one of the boxcars. But usually, the workers would scare us away. 

After our penny candy feast, we would head for the pool. The Tank lived up to its name. It was a behemoth rectangle made of asphalt and concrete and painted aqua blue. There was no filtration system back then, and a lone "bubbler" circulated the water from the center of the pool. We used to swim out to the bubbler, because the water was extra cold. There was a shallow/wading end that got progressively deeper until it reached a rope divider. Then the pool got really deep. There were three diving boards at the far end where the water was deepest. Two low boards on either side with one high board in the middle of the deep end. 

One lifeguard would entertain us at the gate while we waited in line. Meanwhile, the other guards would walk around the edge of the pool with flower watering pots. The large containers were filled with chlorine, and the guards would walk and dump the chemical at the pools edge. I think two guards did the duty, walking away from one another at the shallow end, and meeting up at the deep end of the pool. 

Fifteen minutes later, the gates would open, and we would pile in the pool house to drop off our towels, sneakers, socks and shirts. There was a quick walk down a hallway that had a small wading pool to rinse off our feet. Then a guard would make sure we went under the shower. We would run for the pool from there.

I seem to recall that on occasion, the guards would have us all line up around the edge of the pool, then send us in all at once. And sometimes, they would direct us to lay in the water and kick our feet. The adult in me now wonders if we were the agitation/mixing mechanism for the chlorine. I know we didn't do this often, and the memory is kind of fuzzy. I'd love to hear from other Westbrook kids at the time to see if I'm recalling this correctly. 

I can't remember the criteria or test to swim in the deep end. Maybe that's because I used to wear my Red Cross Swim Patches on my bathing suit, along with my season pass. The patches and season pass were made of cloth, and could be easily sewn onto our suits. I loved those badges, and I would move them from suit to suit as I outgrew my clothes; begging my mom to sew them onto my latest bathing suit. 

I remember the deep end test I had to take to pass during lessons though. We had to swim across the pool at the deepest part. The first time I tried, I only made it to the first low board before I got scared. Mr Harriman pulled me out of the pool with one hand. I remember thinking he was the strongest man I knew, and I instantly had a new hero. 

After a few tries, I passed beginners, and advanced beginners too. It must have passed advanced beginners at the end of the summer. The next year, I was at the pool with both patches on my suit. I made sure I was the first in line for opening day. I marched down to the deep end and got up on the low diving board, walked to the end, and jumped in. Only I hadn't swam for about nine months, and I momentarily forgot how. I struggled to the side, and went back to the shallow end to practice for a while. 

First lesson in humility? 

Many times in my life, I have needed to return to the shallow end of the metaphorical pool to gain my bearings, reassess my skills sets, and set off for deeper waters again.  

While elementary school was difficult for a host of reasons, it seemed that I got a break from being bullied during my time at the outdoor pool. I remember a couple of instances of being teased/abused on the way home, but nothing like the daily grind of having to fear walking home from Canal School. 

Trips to and from the pool were spent with friends. First walking, then riding our bikes. And the friendships I made around the water still hold a special place in my heart. There has been a ton of emotional work to do as a result of being bullied daily during 4th, 5th, and 6th grade. But now that the work has been done, I am left with the wonderful memories from neighborhood kids. It's amazing how kindness can resonate in our lives. I sometimes forget that friendship and affection have their legacies too. Yet another lesson from swimming at The Tank.

As I got older, and the new junior high school was built, I had access to an indoor pool and competitive coaching. We would still swim at The Tank for fun, and there were relay races and other activities on the last day of the season. A bunch of us Jr High swimmers got together and laid waste to the entire pool during the first relay. So much so, that the guards separated us, and made us swim with the other kids. But I remember the kudos we got from other kids about how fast we were. It was some of the first acknowledgment that I was actually athletic, and I so desperately needed that at the time. 

Over the years, I learned a lot from swimming. I've learned the obvious. Dedication and hard work can help to achieve goals. I became a school record holder and state champion in the 100 yard backstroke. I taught swimming and life-guarded at the YMCA in Portland during High School. I went on to coach, and aquatics was the ultimate mirror I had to face to recognize that my drug and alcohol abuse was a problem. Who I wanted to be in the field of aquatics and what I had become at the hands of addiction were so far apart that I had to seek help. 

But even now, swimming continues to teach me more than anything I give to the sport. I have been recovering from impingement syndrome in my right shoulder, and had made some great gains. In February of this year, I could barely swim 25 meters without having pain in my shoulder. In fact, my shoulder was beginning to hurt, even at rest. I sought treatment for my shoulder, and have started working out again at the gym, and in the pool. In July, I was averaging a mile swim, twice a week. 

But the pain in my shoulder has returned, so I went back to seek additional treatment. The first thing the physical therapist did was remove any overhead exercises at the gym and reduce my swimming by more than half. 

So here I am, in the shallow end . . . Again. I will follow directions, reassess, and take heed of my the importance of rest. I will head out into deep water eventually. 

Sometimes, I need to emotionally hang out in the shallow end as well. Life can get heavy and cause an overabundance of pain. And there's nothing wrong with a strategic retreat back to the shallow end to reassess, follow directions, and allow for emotional and spiritual rest. 

I can always head back out into deep water eventually. 

M :-) 

Gratitude Tuesday

It's Gratitude Tuesday. What are you grateful for?

Post in the comments section (below)

The Good Doctor

This post has all the good feels:

When I was a boy, our family doctor had an office in his home on Woodford Street in Portland Maine. The house was a robin-egg blue with a white and dark blue trim. His name was Walter E Penta MD

Regardless of the reason, I always loved going to see Dr. Penta. And I'm saying this about a man that directed me to have my tonsils out at six years old. There would be other painful moments where we would connect, and his support was instrumental. More on that as we continue.

During the last few years of my drinking, my mother was worried that I wasn't getting good medical care. She mentioned to me that if I ever needed to see Dr. Penta for any reason, "Just make an appointment, and tell him to put it on my bill Michael." In retrospect, I did not hear the concern in her voice. I've since had numerous conversations with my "Mum" about how my drinking and drug usage effected her well being, and the well being of others in our family.

All I heard was that I had a free ticket to see Dr. Penta whenever I wanted.

This is not to say that I went often, but I do believe that the permission my mother gave me, allowed for consistent care. That consistency, while far from making me get sober, assisted in my overall well-being, in ways that I didn't imagine until well after I entered the helping profession.

I could tell Dr. Penta anything. And I mean an-y-thing. He was kind, gentle, honest and supportive, regardless of my condition or circumstances. He was the first professional that I . . . Came out to, freely admitted my problems with drug addiction and alcoholism, discussed my trauma history with, told of my struggles based in that trauma (promiscuous sex, destructive relationships, etc), the first  person I confided any ache, pain, rash, or symptom I was convinced were HIV related. He sent me to specialists that he trusted when there was a problem, and the free clinic at Portland City Hall for HIV testing when they were the lone organization  that, in his experience, would test without judgment or condemnation.

He met all of this with a gentle assurance and a knowledge base that was grounded in medicine and devoid of homophobia.

After I got sober, he was my confidant in chief about all things recovery. I would discuss many of the above issues through the lens of sobriety with him.

I remember showing up at his door because of an incident with the flu and Pepto Bismal. For those of us who partook in freebasing, this may be a trigger. I had the flu, so I took something to settle my stomach. The next morning, I woke up with the shakes, fevers, and a terrible (but familiar) taste in my mouth. I went to the mirror and stuck out my tongue. Sure enough, I had the infamous brown patch that appeared the day after a freebase binge. My mouth had that sickly-sweet but burnt taste that I had experienced after a cocaine smoking bender.

Terrified, I called Dr. Penta and demanded to see him right away. I showed up to his empty waiting room (he was semi-retired by this point) and waited for him to open the door to his exam room. When he did, smoke would billow out, and he would insist that he'd be right with me. I'm sure he did his best to air out the exam room of cigarette smoke, but I could always tell from the initial offering when he'd first open the door. The accompanying cloud always gave his habit away; not that he tried hard to hide it.

I showed him my tongue, and told him about the flu and Pepto Bismal I took.

"Yes Michael. The bismuth would create a reaction with your stomach contacts, and a slight re-flux stained your tongue . . . " Then he paused, leaned over, and smiled at me.

"This has kicked up all your cravings. Hasn't it Mike." He was still grinning.

I agreed that it had, and he suggested garnering support from my sober friends, using the telephone to stay connected to people, and getting plenty of rest and fluids. He also reminded me that I hadn't relapsed, and that I was safe; as long as I worked a program of recovery.

Dr. Penta also advised me about many of the more intimate emotional and physical aspects of my recovery, including additional supports ("I think Serenity House is a wonderful idea Michael.") and any additional steps to recovery from issues I had poured alcohol and drugs over to deal with. He told me those things would come back now that I was sober, and doing the necessary emotional work was as important as any medicine he could prescribe.

His office visits were only $10. But sometimes, I would still ask him to put the visit on my mother's tab. There were numerous visits over a fifteen-plus year period.

I stopped seeing Dr Penta around 1997. He had stopped accepting patients long before this, and I was advised by another group of professionals to find a primary care physician that could orchestrate my total care . . . If they only knew. Begrudgingly, I listened to these new providers in my life.

It's sad that we sometimes forget (worse yet) neglect to remember the folks who were instrumental in saving our lives. Dr Penta had been the lynch-pin of my medical care from the time I was born, until I turned 35, but I never so much as sent him a thank you card. I was younger than I am now, and busy with my life.

In 2001, my mother called to tell me that Dr. Penta had died. He had been her doctor when she was an adolescent, so we had a long and storied history with him. Our whole family admired the good doctor. And my mother and I reminisced on the phone about some of our favorite stories about him. He even made house calls. Yup! I'm that old! 😁

Then I remembered my mom's direction to seek care from him, and send her the bill. I mentioned this to my mom and suggested I should pay her back.

"Michael." she said. "Dr Penta never sent us a bill for your visits."

All those visits. All those encouraging talks. All those treatments and referrals . . . And he never charged me a dime.

Being a trauma survivor, I can forget that anyone ever looked out for me. Yet sometimes, the sky will part and sprinkle memories from times where people were there for me; expecting nothing in return. This past weekend, I was reminding my family about Dr. Penta's philanthropy with me. Today, I was curious about the specifics of his death, because I wanted to blog about his good deeds.

Here's what I found in the Boston Globe:

WALTER E. PENTA M.D. 

Obituary Condolences

In Portland, ME, Walter E. Penta, M.D., 81, of Windham, ME. Beloved husband of the late Irene Estelle Platt. Father to Donald Platt Penta. Memorial Service 11 AM on Thursday, August 2, 2001 at Hay & Peabody Funeral Home, 749 Congress Street, PORTLAND, Mane 

Dr Penta's memorial service happened on August 2nd, sixteen years ago to the day I decided to look him up.

A dear friend of mine says that "A coincidence is when God chooses to remain anonymous."

I'm pretty sure Dr. Penta knows how I feel about him.

Perhaps I could reach out to his family and reiterate my sentiments to them as well.

M 💓

Just Keep Swimming?

The Author, In The Pool

I've been struggling with my own lap swimming as of late. 

I know some of this has to do with asthma and adding upper-body exercises to my weight routine. On Wednesday, I swam a mile, and I did not feel great when I finished. My whole body seemed to stiffen up during the swim, and I had to remind myself of the added intensity in the gym.

The good thing is that any issues with shoulder impingement are not present. 

So I made Thursday an off day, and set out to swim after work today. After swimming a mere 150 yards, I had to stop. I was out of breath, and just had no energy. 

I was also incredibly sad. 

This has been a pattern with swimming lately. In the nine years since I quit smoking, swimming has been my go-to, Zen moment. I always felt better after a swim, minus occasional aches and pains. 

But over the past few weeks, I have noticed that swimming laps is an occasional doorway to sadness, and a host of other difficult feelings and thought processes. I must admit that I am very frustrated with this. 

And while I have an inkling to the origin of these feelings, I'm at a loss at to how best to address it. I still love teaching, coaching and lifeguarding in my spare time. And doing so enhances my overall wellbeing both at work, and at home. 

But I'm a bit fearful. What if this sadness expands beyond lap swimming? What if I start having these feelings of dread and sadness when I'm working in Aquatics? 

I will access my support system, do some private writing, hold close to my higher power, and keep you posted. 

But in the meantime . . . "Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming." 🐳😊

An Old Song and Empathy

I am a lineman for the county

And I drive the main road

Searchin' in the sun for another overload

I hear you singin' in the wire,

I can hear you through the whine

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

Wichita Lineman: Written by Jimmy Webb 

Preformed by Glen Campbell

A friend recently posted a YouTube link to Glenn Campbell preforming Wichita Lineman. I hadn't heard his rendition of this beautiful tune in ages, so I clicked on the attachment from her social media page.

As a child, I just knew I loved the song. Though I had never given the lyrics much thought, I could feel the sadness in the melody. As with many songs during that time, I sang with Glen whenever he came on the radio. Hearing Wichita Lineman again brought me back to the old neighborhood, and the people there when the song was popular. 

Just down the street from my childhood home were a pair of larger, duplex-style houses that had been converted to apartments. The houses had broad, open front porches that were made for sitting and watching the world of small town, neighborhood living. Some friends of mine lived in one of the apartments, closer to Beaver Pond at the corner of East Valentine and Brackett. I remember enjoying time alone, playing under their porch when my friends weren't home. As a child, I loved finding little crawlspaces where I could feel safe.

The next house up from theirs had a group of men who lived in one of the apartments for a brief time. I can barely remember them, except that they were old greasers from the 50's. They smoked on the front porch and drank quarts of Budweiser and Miller beer. One man in particular had the signature slicked, though thinning, hair with the DA in the back. He was a frail man that seemed to be in ill health. All of the men wore old, grayish-white t-shirts with their cigarette packs rolled up in one of the sleeves, setting the package of smokes on their shoulder. I assume these men were in their early to mid forties. But somehow, they seemed older, even to the child that I was at the time. I want to say that the other two men were mechanics. I seem to remember their hands were always greasy, and I think there were coveralls worn from time to time. 

The men were quiet and friendly to the neighborhood kids. They also had good boundaries. They were happy to talk with us, but would not let us come up on the porch because they smoked. At least, that's how I remember it. They listened to a transistor radio and spent their summer days off drinking quarts of beer and chain smoking. I remember the occasional muted tones when the men spoke of things they did not want us to hear, but I do not recall them ever cussing in front of us. If we lingered, they would politely send us on our way. 

We were curious kids who had the run of the neighborhood. This was a time when Brackett Street was a dead-end road that opened up on two sand pits and a path into the woods. We could also pick up this path from behind my house, and we'd hike on summer days; playing cowboys and Indians, or pretending to win World War II single handedly. For context, this was in the late sixties-early seventies, and we were all between seven and ten years old. 

What jumped out at me when listening to Wichita Lineman yesterday was a time when the smaller, frail man with the greased back hair and signature DA was sitting on the porch. Glen Campbell was our only other companion, and the song was wafting over the railings to the sidewalk where I played below. 

I distinctly remember the frail man sitting quietly and listening to the song as he smoked and nursed a quart. I can see his eyes welled with tears, and his chest slowly heaving from deep, slow sighs. As the tears began to flow, I felt his sadness in a way that was previously unbeknownst to me in my still young life (which says a lot, given my history). I wanted to hug him. I really felt for this man and his sadness.

The memory was so detailed, I was sure my life lived since was coloring this singular experience, referenced from my childhood. While faces and names elude my recollection, the strength of the feeling nestled on the notes of the song is what came roaring back to me. In my minds eye, I can see that older gentleman quietly sobbing in a chair on that porch.

I was venturing up the steps to see the man when one of his companions came out and abruptly shooed me away. I have no other memory of these folks, and I'm not sure why or how this came up as a result of hearing the song again. 

What I do know is that the already abused child that I was could still feel empathy for another human being. Discovering I had this quality is one of those little, but important victories for a trauma survivor. Thanks to a wonderful friend in recovery for mining this nugget with me earlier today as we processed together. To loo back and see only pain and anguish feeds the fears of trauma survivors. Here was additional proof that I had the ability to sympathize with another human being. How glorious! 

One thing I'm sure of is that there was a connection for me with this man's immense sadness. The adult writing this post realizes that the song must have resonated with the man in a way that tapped into a deep loss and longing so beautifully illustrated in the lyrics and melody of the lineman's predicament.

The lonely job of maintaining a connection, long since gone. And hoping against all hope that the past commonalities will create a future opportunity to plug back in. 

Reviewing my own life, I know there are times that connections have happened as a result of shared trauma experiences. Sometimes, these connections manifest themselves in unrequited love. Other moments consist of shared experience or witnessing another's display of behaviors. These actions expose possible past trauma that can create a silent kinship between two people. 

There are the obvious, professional brushes with the knowledge of someone's trauma history. These moments are systemically loaded with professional and personal skills sets that allow for letting go. Over my work history, I have been blessed with an overwhelming amount of positive supervision experiences when these circumstances have surfaced.

But on occasion, I will come in contact with an individual's (adult or child) behavior that mirrors my own trauma history. Like an identical thumbprint, these moments encapsulate the awareness trajectory of my own history and the associated struggles. Sometimes, the singular instance I've witnessed has led to my setting specific boundaries. Other times, I'm so knocked off my feet, that I will fumble my response; however well intentioned.

Like the lineman in the song, I search the sun for additional overloads. A marked improvement over the nooks and crannys of darkness where I acted out my personal trauma script, years ago. But to lay in wait for an opportunity to assist with another's wellness plays out the dynamic of the rescuer in a way that can lead to harm for both self and others. Stepped over boundaries, regardless of how loving my motives are, can lead to anger and resentment for those afflicted as I have been. 

It can be anywhere from difficult, to impossible, to incredibly risky to approach an individual who I've seen with previous behaviors that tip their hand about the potential of their history. In these delicate cases, to risk connection is to expose one's own history. The vulnerability involved requires an optimal measure of courage and self-care. The decision to come forward has to be well thought out, and involves safety measures both for the self, and offered to the person in question. 

And still, the answer may be, "No thanks." 

As a result of living my own recovery, I know there are people who have waited years (even decades) with an open heart for a time when I was ready to disclose aspects of my own history that were extremely sensitive and difficult to process. These beautiful souls balanced letting go with keeping a loving space available for me to enter, when ready. 

One of these individuals is a co-facilitator of the men's group I attend. He is an amazing man, but I kept our association adversarial for over two decades. I believe the energy I spent trying to maintain conflict with him was a defense to what I know all too well now.

This man could see my trauma. Aspects of my behavior were identical thumbprints with his story. Faces, names, dynamics and institutions may have differed, but he knew me when he looked at me, and I was frightened by that. I also see him individually from time to time for therapy. Aside from doing his own work, he is a masterful professional.

There have been moments in my life where I have been the one blessed with waiting with an open heart for another person to approach me with their pain. The gifts of wisdom and love are contained within the waiting, and letting go. Though I often do not see these skill development intervals as gifts during the process. 

I know I need a small vacation

But it don't look like rain

And if it snows that stretch down south won't ever stand the strain

And I need you more than want you,

And I want you for all time

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

But on occasion, I struggle with the letting go part. I can be frustrated, and cling to the notion that I alone am the one best suited to offer help. I start to believe that my healing is contingent on connecting with another's pain. Or I believe that (like the song says) I am obligated to stay around, should a sudden snowfall threaten to break the lines of another. What if I stop being available? What happens if the behavior is emblematic of future self-harm for the individual in question? Or danger for them? Do I stand by and do/say nothing? What if something happens to them? 

In these rare but difficult cases, I lose focus and start to tell myself that processing another's pain is the key to my well being. It's not really a conscious decision. In fact, it can happen as a result of keeping the focus on myself.

Many times in my recovery, these thumbprints have been cornerstones of awareness and opportunities to work on myself and my own story. I believe it is impossible to look within as the result of a brush with another's history, without finding empathy and compassion for that individual. There are people who have been all too briefly in my life that I feel an immense amount of love and gratitude for, as a result of the introspection their thumbprint moments welcomed in my world.

But doing the introspective? Why bother? When I can groove on all the potential pitfalls that await an individual who in effect, has triggered me? Subconsciously, these thought processes are an effort to cover over my own pain. They are overtly dressed in anger and resentment for revealing my truth via messengers and mirrors.

Taking the opportunity for soul-searching is an important gift a trauma survivor can give to themselves. And sometimes, that initial gift is given to us by bearing witness to another's thumbprint behavior. What I've learned to recognize and acknowledge is this: Just because someone exhibits a given behavior, does not guarantee that they will follow the exact path I have. Their pain belongs to them. So does their recovery. It is never my place to attempt to write their story for them.

Instead of plugging in to the fringes of their world, letting go can be the most productive thing that I can do for another's struggles. This does not mean I cannot ever offer help. Nor does it require me to ignore social and community experiences I enjoy, but I must listen when parameters or boundaries are set. If my insights and experience are rebuffed, then I owe it to myself and the other person or thumbprint, if you will, to let it go.

There is another power that I can plug into. Countless deities and philosophies have suggested trusting in something larger than my ego. As Max Ehrmann says in Desiderata , the Universe really is unfolding as it should. I can make peace with a power greater than myself and my tired and weary soul. And these parts of myself that have been awakened by another's behavior can be healed, or they would not have been revealed to me in the first place. My universe too is unfolding as it is supposed to.

Letting go, and healing is the only path to an open heart. A heart that can be available, should the time come where a thumbprint from the past avails themselves, I can be ready with love, compassion, and understanding. For I have truly freed myself from the need for their healing.

And as the Universe unfolds, room for others to bring their thumbprints are opened. My original need and want has been to heal that frightened and abused child that grew up as best as he could. He continued leaving thumbprints everywhere he went, and he did his absolute best to become a better person than what was delivered to him. Sometimes the leaving of those thumbprints meant further exploitation, which held me in a paralysis of fear as an adult, accessing recovery. The release happened on a grander schedule based in small, but meaningful, personal footwork. I should be as loving and patient with others as the Universe has been with me.

And I need you more than want you,

And I want you for all time

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

Little Mikey is who I wanted and needed all along. And if you're one of the thumbprints in my life, you've helped lead me back to him. And I shall be forever grateful. 

It is my hope that the power lines I and others hang onto today are connected to the greater Universe, and all the power that sustains us. May we shed the old lines that have drained our spirit for so long. May the bitter snowfall cease to threaten the strength of connections we have in our lives. And may we all be able to stand together one day. 

Until that day comes, I release you, with love. 

M 

Self Care At Work (Or Away From Work)

Not My Image 

I'm back from vacation this week, so I thought I'd write a little bit about balancing self-care and work.
I work in the mental health field, so federal confidentiality prevents me from speaking in specifics about my job. As a mental health consumer in recovery, I am grateful for the federal statutes that protect confidentiality. So I will endeavor to discuss dynamics and not people going forward. The only exception to this will be my story, as it relates to working in the recovery field and maintaining personal wellness.
I've been in the field in one professional capacity or another for over 25 years now. My resume includes experience working in group homes, drug and alcohol treatment facilities, acute psychiatric, inpatient hospital care, shelter services, detoxification units, and group homes.
I've also been a consumer of just about all of the above services. I started out in a detox on October 30th, 1989. I went to outpatient treatment (Now there's a place I've yet to work). I then went, begrudgingly, to a men's group home that focused on treating drug and alcohol addiction. My first couple of years of sobriety saw stays at some supportive living environments that were for addicts/alcoholics in recovery. At seven years sober, I had a 14 day stay in an inpatient psychiatric hospital.
I've also been to Caron Foundation in Wernersville, Pennsylvania. And made gains via individual and group therapy. I'm currently in a facilitated men's group with a therapist whom I see on occasion.
During my psychiatric inpatient stay, I was working in the mental health field as a per-diem worker for a local organization that provides supportive housing.
My first day on the regular unit, I recognized a patient I had provided support to as a staff person at that housing organization. I avoided all eye contact, and returned any chance mutual glance with angry glares. Inside, I was so ashamed to be on the unit (in general) and with this other patient; whom I thought must hate me.
This guy ( I will call him "Russ") waited until I was seated and comfortable before approaching me.

Hey Mike.
Hey Russ.
How long you been here?
Two days.
Are you takin' any meds?
Paxil
That's good Mike. It's good to see you takin' care of yourself.

I ran to my room and cried.
I need to talk about shame. We can get to ego later, but the fist thing I am aware of as I type this is the shame that I felt at having been diagnosed with a mental illness. I thought my recovery program from drugs and alcohol was strong enough to keep me from having a mental illness. I also believed the skills I had gained during my own recovery from trauma would shield me from any additional mental health diagnoses. And I further believed that working in the mental health field was somehow an immunity from being one of "Those people."
A friend in recovery came to see me, and I instantly started critiquing my recovery program. If only I had wrote in my journal more, prayed harder, tried to stop cruising, made a bigger effort to let go, did something, anything but what I was finding fault with about myself under the present circumstances.
My friend stopped me in my tracks. He said,

Mike . . . You're sober, you're breathing, you're in a treatment facility . . . That's going to any lengths.

There was no margin for error in his statement. Another friend from recovery had blown into the hospital a day after me. He had finished off a manic episode with a cocaine, free-base, three day binge. He had asked how I managed to get to the psych hospital sober, and asking for help.
I think I just disclosed the ego piece, let's return to shame.
Depression is a physical illness. Shame is a different animal altogether. In my quest for recovery, I had dispersed (so I though) some of my deeper fears about mental illness by holding up the things I had done well as justification for the deeper feelings of guilt and shame around my trauma history; much of which had yet to be revealed to me. Thank god for that!
And there's nothing wrong with gratitude! But what I had done was place my level of wellness above the misfortune of those I was working with professionally. This ego-driven form of self justification in search of my better self (in comparison to others) had set me up for shame at the humanity of my circumstances with my own mental illness. I had, in effect, built my own pedestal of perceived wellness to stand upon and judge those I was charged with supporting. In doing so, I contributed to the very pitfall I had ended up in when depression had its way with me.
In retrospect, depression had always been with me. I could check out of life for days at a time with little or no contact with others. The exception being the ever-present obsessive pursuit of anonymous sex. I could sleep for 12-14 hours and claim to myself that I was tired or overworked. Then take a long drive, and end up showered and back in bed for another day or so.
The medication I received as a result of the hospitalization was truly life saving, but the trip out from the hospital and into the community was a long and bumpy road. Thank goodness for the funding streams of the time with the state bureau of mental health for support with medications, short-term rent subsidies, and other supports. I would not have made it otherwise. It can take upwards of six weeks for an SSRI (Selective Serotonin Re-Uptake Inhibitor) to have a consistent therapeutic effect. I spent two of those weeks in a hospital, and a few weeks just trying to stay around people and fight off the continued thoughts of suicide. There were friends who looked after me, and community supports that kept me going. I would wake in the morning, take meds, have breakfast, pray, and retreat to the couch to cry until my appointment with local supports. That's about all I could do for the first two to three weeks out of the hospital. And people wonder why patients cycle in and out of treatment.
When I was ready to work again, I got hired to look after folks who were in need of support in their own homes. It was a great job, and afforded me both an income and a flexible schedule with which to attend to my own recovery
As time went on, I found that my professional work helped center me and keep me keenly aware of my own need for emotional wellness. But I started viewing the population I served in a different light. I had been where they were at on a more intimate level, and I was embraced by many of the folks I had served professionally. And like getting clean and sober, they were quick to both love and offer supports unique to staying well and keeping my emotional ship sailing; even in rough seas.
From time to time, I would encounter one of these folks who stayed in the hospital with me in my professional life. Nothing of my hospital stay was ever disclosed, and the former patients who were now consumers in whatever capacity I worked in were open to the process the given organization offered.
Like maintaining personal sobriety, I needed to pursue personal mental health recovery independent of my work environment. I had made some wonderful connections over seven years of staying clean and sober, and these connections served me well in discovering avenues for mental health wellness too.
Occasionally (more often than not, it seems at times) I will access professional services to work on that emotional wellness. I currently attend a facilitated men's group. When needed, I will meet individually with one of the facilitators for some more intimate conversation. This latest set up happened as a result of good supervision at work. I confided in a supervisor that a treatment related intervention had triggered some memories for me, and they directed me to the employee assistance program. EAP, in turn directed me outside of the footprint of my agency, so I could have the freedom to talk with a provider about my own experiences without trying to please that part of my ego that says I need to put on a good face for work.
There are other providers in my men's group, and while we don't "tell tales out of school," there is the mutual understanding of maintaining our own wellness while facilitating recovery for others. Some folks call this wearing two hats, or being a "two-hatter."
I recently had a dear friend receive services from a division under the umbrella of the agency I work for. Given that they had experience working in the field, we were able to establish what our personal and professional boundaries would be with ease. Some additional supervision helped to shore up those boundaries as well.
But I forgot about the intensity of the feelings I may experience, given their personal situation. I have been focusing on supporting the significant other of my friend with their sobriety and left the mental health piece to the competent and capable professionals in their life.
And I took the intensity of the feelings to a private mentor, so as not to break any confidentiality. A fellow provider for a different agency, they know how to help me process feelings without going into specifics about the individuals in question.
It's said that Maine is one big, small town, and these situations come up from time to time. For me, it is important to remember that there are folks who can deliver services while I engage in self-care. And that there are others (both professional and personal) that can help me chunk down what is mine, and what belongs "on the clock" so to speak.
The biggest lesson though, is to never, ever, consider myself to be better than anyone I provide services to. Twenty years ago, that ego-feeding process kept me away from accessing services long enough to be almost fatal. And the love and support from folks I judged so harshly, helped create the cornerstone to the platform I have for wellness today.
Peace,
M :-)