The Difference Between a Therapist and a Friend

"Apart from payment, what is the difference between a therapist and a friend?"

This question came up in a conversation recently. In some respects, a therapist feels rather like a paid friend who has some training. Friends listen to your problems, they offer advice, etc. And if you include making lunch or buying a few beers as a sort of payment, then even the money difference seems not to be particularly germane.

Of course there are a few good answers to the question, depending on context. One answer is that there are legal implications to being a therapist that don't really apply to friends. If you tell a friend your troubles and decide to bone afterward, there's no risk of your friend losing his license. Or at least, there shouldn't be.

The answer we settled on, for our purposes, is that you don't need your friends to be right, but you do need your therapist to be right, or at least to be moving generally in the correct direction. They have a responsibility to do so, in fact.

Friends really only need to be there for you. They are supportive and encouraging, hopefully, but sometimes the advice they give is lousy. That's fine, whatever. I've had close friends give me what was actually pretty bad advice, and I am still close friends with those people. They have lots of other good traits to recommend them. Hiding bodies or such.

Unlike a friend, a therapist's job is to help you work through your problems, if not to fix them then at least to manage them. When a therapist accepts your money, they are accepting responsibility for helping you, i.e. providing actual help. They don't need to come up with all the answers or fix every problem, but they need to be able to move toward real solutions.

This distinction does a few things. For some people, it reminds them to take friendly advice with a grain or two of salt. For example, when I sometimes grumble about friction with my family back in the old town, the guy who hasn't spoken with his mother for 10 years sometimes chimes in about how to deal with the situation. And I listen, but I don't exactly give his advice a lot of weight.

The distinction also reminds us that we, as friends, are not therapists. We can try to help our friends figure out their troubles, just like we can try to help them find the answer to legal questions, or identify the noise coming from the engine of their car. But there is, for most of us, a serious gap between our abilities, and the abilities of a trained psychologist, lawyer, or car mechanic. We ignore that gap at our peril, and at the peril of our friends.(1)

Finally, the distinction reminds us that therapists have a very real responsibility. And this may sound harsh, but if you're seeing someone who's not doing their job, see someone else. William Styron, in his book Darkness Visible, talks about seeing someone who had been trained at Yale and who came very highly recommended. Based on those recommendations, and the name "Yale," Styron continued to see him in spite of serious misgivings. The results were less than positive, and Styron is pretty candid about the fact that he'd have been better off firing the guy.

Granted, it can sometimes be hard to tell the difference between moving slowly toward a solution because it's difficult, versus someone who is just not really competent. That's fine. But I know more than one person, including teenaged me, who had a session with a trained professional who was at the very least a bad fit. Don't be afraid to say "This here is a really bad fit. I can find someone else."

My own story may be helpful. As a teen, I was the unpopular kid at school, with all the attendant unhappiness. My parents wanted to help however they could, and decided that maybe having someone professional for me to see would be a good idea.

The first lady I talked with asked me a pile of questions. One of the questions she asked was whether I heard voices. Even then, I had a pretty robust internal dialogue, so I said yes. That's just how I understood the question, at the age of 14 or whatever.

She promptly recommended to my parents that I go on a course of anti-psychotic medications. That would have been very bad. Thankfully my parents knew it, and they demurred, both with respect to the medication and to her continued services.

The second lady I talked with also asked a pile of questions, but I don't recall anything about voices. Afterward, she told my parents basically that there was nothing really wrong with their son. That I was reacting the way healthy kids react to really unhappy environments, which is to be really unhappy. She said she could be an outlet for some of that unhappiness, to give me some tools to help deal better with the situation, and to let my parents know if anything seemed to get really bad all of a sudden. And that approach was a pretty good way to go.

Notes:

(1) I'm leaving aside the question of whether you would want a good friend who is also a trained psychologist, attorney, or car mechanic to do their respective work for you. In order I would say no, no, and it depends how expensive the car is.

Pictures Are My Script

Here I'm talking about using a lot of slides in a presentation as a replacement for a written script. There was a call for resources that could be useful to Odd Salon speakers, and at the same time a bit of frowning because the stuff that's online about giving presentations tends to be either not applicable, or just plain bad. So in the spirit of rolling one's sleeves up and doing it yerself, here's what I've got.

Using a script has the big benefit that it's there, and it's all written up. It doesn't matter how nervous or terrified you are, if you can still read then you can make it to the end of your talk. Using a script also has disadvantages, and there's a bit more about those below, but if you want something other than a script I invite you to try the crutch than I lean on when I present. I call it

Too Many Goddamn Slides

For a 10 minute presentation, I average about 65 slides, or a slide every 9 or 10 seconds, which is a lot. It turns out this is a really good crutch. For my first ever Odd Salon presentation I was still brand new, knew almost nobody, and wanted to make sure I said hello and introduced myself. Here are the first two slides from that presentation:

 

Needed to remember to say this. I was pretty nervous.

Needed to remember to say this, too.

I generally have a new slide for everything that I want to talk about. For example, at the TREASURE talk I said that the Empress Sisi had three real loves: horseback riding, travel, and beautiful attire. I talked about each one just a little bit, and each of them had their own slide, plus a slide with the horse saying "Aww HELL yeah" for comedy. The pictures were my script.

Sisi's three loves, plus one joke, is four things to talk about briefly, so four slides.

As another example from the same talk, prior to his big heist Gerald Blanchard (1) took pictures of the motion detectors in the room with the Sisi Star, (2) took pictures of the sign that said "No Pictures Please," (3) used his keys to loosen the screws on the display case, and (4) cracked open the window leading to the outside. There is a slide for each of these, and there is basically no way that I can forget to mention them, because they are right there. Again, the pictures are the script.

I think I like the 'keys & window' slides better than the 'detector & no pictures please' slides.

I do use text on slides pretty regularly, for a couple of things. The first is names. Even names that I know, like George Washington and King George III, go on the slide so that I don't forget. Sometimes when I'm nervous I just forget names, and this way that's never a problem. Safety third and all that.

If I did not label them, there is a real chance I would forget these names mid-presentation.

The other thing I tend to use text for is lists, particularly when I'm not going to talk about each item and so it's not worth having a new slide for each one. Here is Aristotle (with name) and a list of topics that he wrote about. If I was actually going to talk about each one, then each would get its own slide. It is also possible to tuck these kinds of lists into the Presenter's Notes bit of the presentation, which are visible to the presenter but not the audience. I admit I do not use those, though maybe I should.

Also Harvey, there in the upper right.

Using lots of pictures as a script has a number of advantages. When Keynote is in presenter mode, you can see not only your current slide but also the slide that's going to come next. You know at a glance not only where you are, but also where you are going. Pictures are very good memory triggers, and the bit about a picture being worth 1,000 words isn't all wrong, here.

Pictures-as-script can also mitigate some of the things that cause nerves, like having to relocate one's place in a written text. Having an actual script is nice when you're nervous, but losing your place and then trying to find it again while you're nervous can be its own special kind of torture.

When I get sidetracked, which always happens, I just look at the computer screen to remember where I was. And when I get sidetracked, the audience gets sidetracked with me. In fact, they're often the ones responsible. When the pictures are the script, it's easier for us all to get back to the same spot. We're all using the same point of reference.

Even if you've never seen this presentation before, you can probably guess what text is about to go under the picture to the right.

The total number of slides will vary, and some people who use pictures as their script do really well with fewer than 6 or 7 slides per minute, but this works for me. Also note this is for a dry run, sans audience. With audience obviously the talk gets longer, but that happens whether you're using a whole lot of slides or not. And you rehearse this the same way you'd rehearse if you had a written script, except instead of reading from the script you hit the forward arrow, basically.

Anyway, I hope you'll excuse me doing a bit of a sell job, and this isn't all to say that anybody can't or shouldn't present from a script. Reading from a script is familiar, and sometimes that familiarity is just the thing. But if you're looking to make the jump, or just wanted a kind of peek under the hood, then I hope this helps.

Cheers,

Arthur.

On Beginnings of a Sort

Everybody would like to play a musical instrument, but not everybody likes to practice. Or, more precisely, not everybody likes to practice enough to do it. It's like physical health, in a way; everybody would like to be healthier but not everybody likes to exercise.

I have a few advantages in this regard. One of them is that I do not have children, which I want to acknowledge up front is a big advantage in terms of available free time and energy.

Another advantage, one that is especially useful for my instrument, is that I played for a number of years as a child, though I put it down for many years afterward. In my school district, fifth grade was when "Orchestra" became an option. Early that school year the orchestra teacher, a very sweet and patient lady, came into our class and talked about the orchestra and gave us a quick primer on the violin, viola, and cello.

I do not remember that, exactly, nor do I remember this next part although my mother assures me that it is true. Apparently little Arthur got home that day and loudly announced "Mom, I'm going to play the viola." Mom was surprised, but not displeased, and in short order I had a beginner viola from the local music shop, with the standard hard plastic case. I do remember which were the first songs I ever learned, being Mary Had a Little Lamb and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, basically the classic first songs for beginner stringed instrument players.

Not that original case, but functionally identical.

The reason why it is especially useful to have played as a child, with bowed stringed instruments, is that when you are starting out you sound truly horrible. All the jokes about screeching cats are true, as anyone who has been forced to sit in a room with a beginner will tell you.

The main reason for this is that the bow hand, the right hand that holds the bow, has to do three things before you can make a decent sound:

1. Provide steady but gentle pressure down. Too little and you get the sad cat noise, too much and you get the infamous nails on the chalkboard screech that is the bane of parents and siblings everywhere.

 

This is too little pressure, and the noise it made just now was not pleasant.

2. Move at a more or less steady pace back and forth. Again, too slow or too fast produces sounds akin to distressed animals and ill-used classroom equipment. If you move too slowly and push down too hard, you make really terrible noises.

3. Prevent the bow from sliding up the string. What happens is that your thumb acts as a pivot when you're holding the bow. 

Only the thumb is on the near side of the bow, which makes it a pivot. Especially when drawing down, the pinky and ring fingers tend to pull in.

If you pull in too much with your pinky and ring finger down there at the bottom of the bow, the top of the bow goes flying up the string towards the top of the instrument. Pretty much everybody does this at least a few times while they are drunk learning, and it doesn't make a godawful noise really, it's just embarrassing.

This is basically correct and/or sober.

This is how it slides if you pull with your pinky and ring finger too much.

That's a lot of motor control to deal with before you can consistently play non-painful notes. Consider, by contrast, the piano. You hit a key, it makes a note. It doesn't matter if you hit it softer or harder or whatever. Unless you're doing something truly insane, you will never get a piano to make the cat-on-a-blackboard noise that I can still very easily produce on the viola. This, I think, is one reason why little children all love the piano so much. The notes may be in cacophony with one another, but they are still good, clear notes, and little kids love that.

In any case, when you learn an instrument with a steep initial learning curve as a child, you usually can't tell just how bad you sound, or at the very least you don't really care. And even though I put the viola down for many years, when I picked it back up again I still had enough in me to avoid the cats and chalkboards and make something that sounded vaguely like music. This meant that, as an adult, the act of practicing was already at least moderately pleasant right from the start.

Coda

The only people I know of who, as beginners, may have it worse than the bowed string instrument folks are oboe players, which instrument has always seemed to me like blowing into the narrow end of an angry tentacle. It requires some combination of mouth formation, jaw tension, air pressure, and using your own lips to shield the reed from your teeth so you don't literally destroy the thing while playing it, in order to get a decent note. If you mess up, it sounds like a duck being tortured. Comparatively, I think my parents lucked out with their little viola player

With Someone In Mind

Thursday is the rainiest day we've had all year. Some areas flooded, even, and I know of at least one place where an underground water line ruptured, making the flooding problem all that much worse. But my neighborhood is toward the top of a hill, and one advantage of that is we don't flood much.

This particular Thursday is also a very wistful day for me, for reasons not worth going into. Someone very special to me has suggested there might be a kind of delivery to my home today, and I seriously consider sticking around for it. Ultimately, though, I want to be out in the rain, especially in the cemetery, though I have other stops to make. So I prop the front gate inconspicuously ajar and head out.

Piedmont's mood is cheerful and warm, in spite of the cold and wet. One tiny dog is going for a walk wearing a wee little rain poncho, and another tiny dog anxiously checks out every puddle as if it has never seen a puddle before. Umbrellas are everywhere. The smoked meat place on the corner still has their smoker out (determination), with its own patio umbrella strapped on to keep it dry (adorable). 

I spot the umbrellas of two ladies who are walking down the street standing very close to one another. They lean in slightly together, and for a moment it looks like they are cuddling rather than walking. They both have umbrellas, the taller lady holding hers up higher, umbrellas right above each other, green-and-white over black, to make it easier for the ladies to stay close to one another.

I feel happy to see them, and at the same time a little sad to be alone, but also ok with being a little sad. Most days, given a choice, we will choose to be happy. But some days are different, and today is one of those different days for me.

In the exercise studio, three robust looking women jog on the treadmills at the front window, and behind them is what appears to be a lady on an elliptical machine still wearing her rain coat. Like, she never bothered to take it off, and is now exercising with her rain coat still on, is what it looks like. I have to know.

I cross the street and, sure enough, there is an older lady, maybe mid-60's, wearing a powder blue rain jacket over her sweats, hood still up, ellipting away. It seems strange and admirable. One of the ladies on a treadmill up front gives me a knowing smile. Apparently I am not the only person oddly pleased by the rain jacket wearing old lady on the elliptical machine. I smile back, make a mental note that I should exercise more, and walk on.

There is lots to like, here. The yarn store has a small Christmas tree in the window, with little custom knit stocking ornaments on it. The bead store seems more than normally busy, which makes sense. The holidays are a good time for crafty gifts and all. And as I go by Sweet Cheeks Skincare, I cannot help but think boyish thoughts of someone I met recently, because sometimes I am just a boy.

But now, walking up toward the cemetery, there is a funeral procession coming up the street behind me, slow moving and maybe seven or eight cars long. I cannot decide if rainy weather is good for a funeral or not. I wonder where in the cemetery the burial will happen, or if it is a burial at all, and I resolve to keep my eyes open for them. First, though, I must make a detour.

And so I visit the now closed storefront, tucked down an alley and up a flight of old wooden stairs, that used to be Chez Simone. Here was one of the most beautiful meals of my life. Simone was lovely, and aged, and spoke with a thick French accent as she moved about the kitchen and the small handful of tables inside. As we were finishing up the meal, I snuck out to the florist at the mouth of the alley and bought flowers to leave behind for our dear hostess. A couple of moments after we walked out, Simone came bustling out of the cafe with the flowers, thinking we had forgotten them, and we called back with all joy "No, madam. For you! They are for you!" and she cried "AH!" with delight.

The sentiment lingers fondly, if also sadly, as I come up to the cemetery at last. Here are some construction workers clearing out mud, and over here is a lone jogger in a bright green rain jacket, grim and determined looking. The rain is still coming down steadily and the air is almost but not quite a fog. You can see your breath, not so much because it is cold but because it is so incredibly humid that the extra moisture has nowhere to go, like pouring water into an already full glass.

Being in the cemetery in the rain is probably as good an indicator as any of what it is like to have a funeral in the rain. My best guess is this: If that's your mood, as it is mine, and if you can get inside of that feeling, then you'll be alright. I am reminded of one author, who described the trip of Abraham and Isaac up the mountain as "a rather long and gloomy walk." Either you are ready for a gloomy walk, or you are not. Today I am, though I catch myself wondering if the delivery guy has shown up at my place.

Inside the large mausoleum I find a mother kissing a child. Outside, the sphinxes look more stern than usual somehow. An angel who was wearing a Santa cap last week still has her cap, but looks sadder today. Up the hill, I see distant motion and a light, which is probably whatever is left of the funeral, and I adjust the planned path of my walk to make sure I get up there.

If the cemetery as a whole is rendered more subdued and, frankly, more morbid by the grey and the rain, the ducks do not give a crap. The ponds have risen at least three feet since the last time I was here, and as far as the ducks are concerned it is party time. I spot three separate duck couples paddling around together on the freshly risen water. It's like they are checking out the new digs, and liking what they see. I do, too. We have needed this rain very badly.

Walking on, and the first sign that I'm at the funeral site is a flatbed full of gravel, with a heavy steel towline going straight down the hillside. Cresting the rise and looking down, there's a dozer, two of the cemetery's utility carts, and three guys moving some plywood and dirt around. The family is gone. It's all over except the slogging, basically.

I think of C. Doughty and her description of the funeral business. That's what this is, right here, and it is as unpoetic as three guys filling a hole in the ground can be. The funeral itself must have been pretty brief. There's some flower wreaths on the ground beside the hole, and at the side of the road not even down by the grave but here by the garbage can, some candles are still burning. The incense has long since gone out. It doesn't seem "mournful" exactly, as much as just "sad."

I wind my way out of the cemetery, making only one unusual stop at the marker for Kenneth V. De Haven. There are decorations on the markers next to him, but not on his. He is my last stop in the cemetery today. I do not visit him often, and almost never with friends. Do not ask me to take you to see him.

On my way home, I stop at the flower shop that is just down the street. It is very close to where I live, and I make a brief inquiry, but the nice gentleman inside informs me that no, they have no orders of the kind I describe. I thank him and head back out toward home. I have been outside long enough that I am damp all over, and I am ready to be dry and warm again.

Still, a little boyishness remains, even now. As I get close to home I see that across the gutter is a stream of water maybe three inches deep and two feet wide, running to a grate far down the street. I smile quietly and do not step around or over it, but hike up my trousers a little bit as if that will help, jumping in with both feet and making a tremendous and very satisfying BLOOSH. As I walk the remaining two blocks, my feet make the familiar squishing sound of completely and totally soaked shoes and socks.

I do finally get home, and there by the door I see that the delivery has arrived after all. They are red and yellow and green and full and beautiful, and I remember that it is possible to be happy and sad at the same time, because I am both right now. Flowers. So many flowers. I take them inside, get dry, make some tea, and think about things for a long, long time.