One of the hardest parts of transitioning from armchair therapist to real therapist is not being able to freely share my own stories in the therapy room. Self-disclosure has traditionally been a no-no in the world of therapy. While that has changed in recent decades with the advent of more relational models, disclosure about oneself is still not something one leads with when therapizing others. “Did I tell you about the time I…?” No, the therapy hour is reserved for your client and his or her concerns. The client is not there to listen to your stories or otherwise cater to you, the therapist.
I have always loved to share my stories. It is how I relate. If a friend tells me something, my way of saying, “I know what you mean” or “I have been there” or “Yes! I get it,” more often than not, is to relay a story of my own. I never really stopped to ponder whether they got the connection between their story and mine – rather, just assumed they did – until my ‘tween daughter said to me one day, “This is not about you!” It turns out she interprets my (frequent) interjections of my own stories as turning the spotlight away from her and onto myself. As offensive as she was in the way she conveyed the message, I had to stop and consider her perspective. Which then caused me to wonder, do others think that, too?
I thought about my reaction when others share their stories in the midst of my story. I do think I look for that common thread, the connection in the person’s mind to my own. While there is no doubt that stories can take on a life of their own and my story on occasion has been hijacked by someone else’s, I just chalk that up to the nature of how we women speak. We emote through our talking and storytelling. A story about Dave’s mom’s Alzheimer’s might lead to a conversation about how Chris’ dad is doing in the aftermath of his surgery, which might lead to a discussion of my elbow pain and wondering if I have tendonitis. We pivot often, sometimes seamlessly, other times less so, to get in all of things we have to say, however trivial or important. Our circuitous conversations involving tangential snippets and threads are not evidence of flighty, confused or illogical minds. Rather, they demonstrate that we are pillars of the village, the glue that binds, the marshmallows to the Rice Krispies – whatever metaphor one wants to use. We multitask. We run families, PTAs, companies, neighborhood associations and all manner of groups. We socialize, commune, network, and connect. It is no wonder that our conversations are like trees, with a multitude of branches.
And therein lies the common denominator in all of these wonderful lengthy, twisted, sometimes messy gabfests: we, us, the women in the conversation. In conversing, we provide care to ourselves and our friends. Often the substance of the conversations revolves around others, but we are really saying something about ourselves. I see you. You see me. I understand you. You understand me. In our friends’ eyes, we can be seen, heard and felt. Armchair therapy at its best, with a freely flowing exchange of empathy, laughter and, occasionally, tears.
So, while self-disclosure may have a limited place in the therapy room with clients, with friends it is really its own form of therapy. Self-care, I call it. I will take it whenever and wherever, in big and small doses – a girls’ weekend in Vegas, a commemorative birthday trip, a quick walk around the neighborhood, over coffee, lunch or brunch, in the condiments aisle of Giant supermarket, via Facetime. For us, sharing in whatever form is caring.