GIRL GETS READY
In the Spring of 2016 I took a Psychopathology class. We were challenged to keep and share a weekly art response journal to process our feelings, insights, reactions, and counter transference experienced from in class discussions and readings. Below is a selection from that 16 week semester.
Post #2 Note taking: Lukas (1993) reminds us, “Because your job is to find out who that person really is, and the information in a file is only as useful and accurate as the competence and and insight of the people reporting it” (p. 21). For me, this is a delicate and intimidating facet of our responsibilities to our clients.
After class I reflected on how I could be an authentic, active, and present listener with my clients. My memory is not as strong as I would like it to be and the thought of not taking notes during a session makes me nervous. First I daydreamed a “seuss-like” net that could retain all of what the client shares. Then I began likening the process to catching butterflies in a net to observe them. I decided to pay more respect to the responsibility and scrapped my more farcical rendering for this tactile collage.
The net represents a mutually successful note taking system and the butterflies are akin to the client’s flutters of information. I also included two butterflies to symbolize to processing of any counter transference that arises during or after the session. Overall, I equate the delicacy, curiosity, and care needed to catch and release butterflies to that needed to ensure our client’s burgeoning trust is maintained and an accurate picture of who they are is upheld.
Post #5: Panic: Panic is terribly difficult to put into words. The body and mind spiral into viscous cycle. Instead of citing our reading I thought I would just let the writing and art speak for itself. That is the beauty and power of Art Therapy, yes? Communication when we can't find the words. . .No where is safe, not safe enough. This skin is no longer mine, crawl out, crawl out. It cannot protect me. I burns, it floods, it shackles me. Disoriented. Displaced, a hair away from detached. This one is real, it is relentless. I will never reorient again. Count breathes. Count breathes. Until this death passes me by, again. Until I panic again.