Living and Being a Therapist

A COLLECTION OF READINGS

Jeffrey A. Kottler Bassim Hamadeh, CEO and Publisher Leah Sheets, Associate Editor Alia Bales, Associate Production Editor Jess Estrella, Senior Graphic Designer Alexa Lucido, Licensing Coordinator Don Kesner, Interior Designer Natalie Piccotti, Senior Marketing Manager Kassie Graves, Vice President of Editorial Jamie Giganti, Director of Academic Publishing

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A COLLECTION OF READINGS Contents

About the Author...... vi

Foreword...... viii

Introduction: Where Angels Fear to Tread...... x

Personal Disclosures...... 3

1 Hiking the Narrows...... 4

2 Becoming a Therapist...... 8

3 Clients Who Have Changed Me...... 14

4 A Personal Journey Through Conflict...... 22

5 On Being a Hypocrite...... 32

6 Reflections on Aging...... 37

Explorations and Investigations...... 45

7 The Language of Tears ...... 46

8 Divine Madness: Painted in Blood...... 50

9 The Complexity of Change...... 61

10 Transformative Travel and Spiritual Journeys...... 68

11 Traveling Like an Anthropologist...... 75

12 The Pig’s Butler...... 82

13 He’s Got Game: A Tale of Courage and Resilience...... 89

14 I’m a Storyteller...... 100

Faults and Foibles...... 109

15 Really Bad Therapy...... 110

16 My Most Difficult Client...... 119 17 The Man Who Wanted His Nose Cut Off...... 127

18 Lying and Deceptions...... 138

19 When Therapists Supervise Themselves...... 152

20 Honoring Mystery...... 159

Being a Therapist...... 171

21 Living One Hundred Lives...... 172

22 Who We Are Versus What We Do...... 178

23 What Leads to Creative Breakthroughs?...... 184

24 From Therapist to Client...... 190

25 The Joys of Therapeutic Transcendence...... 196

26 On Being a Client: How to Get the Most From Therapy...... 200

27 Developing Your Own Voice...... 206

28 Secrets of Exceptional Therapists...... 211

Making a Difference...... 217

29 Feeling Useful...... 218

30 Confessions of a Spiritual Skeptic...... 228

31 Trauma, Trauma Everywhere...... 235

32 Love Is a Four-Letter Word in Therapy...... 246

33 Saving the World, or Saving Myself?...... 252

34 Leadership at Work and Play...... 262

35 Snapshots from a Therapist Trying to Make a Difference...... 267

36 Some Final Reflections...... 274

Selected Books...... 278

Credits...... 282 vi

About the Author

effrey A. Kottler is one of the most prominent authors in the fields J of counseling, psychotherapy, health, and education, having written over 90 books on a wide range of sub- jects. His most highly regarded works include On Being a Therapist; Creative Breakthroughs in Therapy: Tales of Transformation and Astonishment; The Mummy at the Dining Room Table: Eminent Therapists Reveal Their Most Unusual Cases and What They Teach Us About Human Behavior; Bad Therapy: Master Therapists Share Their Worst Failures; The Client Who Changed Me: Stories of Therapist Personal Transformation; Divine Madness: Ten Stories of Creative Struggle; Stories We’ve Heard, Stories We’ve Told: Life- Changing Narratives in Therapy and Everyday Life; The Therapist in the Real World; Relationships in Counseling and the Counselor’s Life; Therapy Over 50: Aging Issues in Psychotherapy and the Therapist’s Life; and On Being a Master Therapist: Practicing What You Preach. Jeffrey has also written successful trade books on a variety of psychological themes: Private Moments, Secret Selves: Enriching Our Time Alone; Divine About the Author | vii

Madness: Ten Stories of Creative Struggle; Change: What Really Leads to Lasting Personal Transformation; and the best-selling true crime book The Last Victim: A True-Life Journey into the Mind of the Serial Killer, which was produced as a feature film (Dear Mr. Gacy). Jeffrey has been a counselor, therapist, supervisor, and educator for 45 years, having worked at a preschool, a middle school, a mental health center, a crisis center, a hospital, an NGO, a university, and a community college; in private prac- tice; and in disaster relief settings. He was a Fulbright scholar, has been a senior lecturer in Peru and Iceland, and has worked as a visiting professor at academic institutions in New Zealand, Australia, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Nepal. Jeffrey is Professor Emeritus of Counseling at California State University, Fullerton. He currently lives in Houston, where he works on projects related to refugee trauma and is Clinical Professor in the Menninger Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Science at the Baylor College of Medicine. viii

Foreword Michael Hoyt

hile visiting Jeffrey Kottler at his home (then in Southern California—I was there to give a lecture at the university where he was teaching), I had W an amazing experience. Jeffrey had graciously gone off to the kitchen to get us some drinks and snacks, so I wandered around looking at stuff—interesting paintings, some family photos, various objets d’art and knickknacks, stacks of magazines, novels, and nonfiction on a table. In one corner of the living room there was a large bookcase. On the shelves were dozens and dozens of books, many with titles I couldn’t read because they were in various foreign languages— Spanish, French, Italian, and German, of course; and also Japanese, Chinese, and Korean; and other languages that looked like Polish, Turkish, Hindi, Hebrew, Arabic, Swedish, and Icelandic. When I looked closer, I noticed that the books all had the same word on the spine: KOTTLER. Jeffrey had, somehow, written all of these books! His productivity is amazing to me in several ways:

1. Sheer volume—Who has the time and energy to produce 90+ books (plus have a family and friends, keep up with current culture, exercise regularly, serve as a university professor and a practicing psychotherapist, organize humanitarian relief efforts, be a peripatetic world traveler, etc.)? 2. Range of topics—The books ran the gamut of therapy and counseling subjects, including interviewing, storytelling, the power of relationship, theories of change, ethics, lies and deception, leadership, burnout and Foreword Michael Hoyt | ix

self-care, group processes, unusual cases, self-supervision, aging, social advocacy, indigenous healing, and creative breakthroughs; there was also an exploration of the mind of a serial murderer, a funny story of a gay Icelandic man training to be the butler for Danielle Steel’s pet pig, a study of the Abstract Expressionist painter Mark Rothko, and insights into how travel adventures can promote one’s personal growth. 3. Quality and abundant insights—Jeffrey’s tone is immediate, humorous, and sharp: I’m right there, nodding in recognition, as he describes facing a challenging therapy client or a difficult audience; and I’m all choked up as he describes the joys and agonies of being aided, and of aiding others in need.

How does one produce so much that is so good? Jeffrey Kottler is obviously very gifted: highly verbal, sensitive, energetic, and intelligent. He would like to live 100 lives. We are fortunate, whatever the sources of his great drive, that he has an open heart full of love and wants to make the world better. He writes to make sense, for himself and others—and he walks the walk as he talks the talk. In his many writings, Kottler notes that regardless of their particular approach to therapy, master clinicians bring to the therapy enterprise deep caring and com- passion, lots of knowledge, the ability to make connections that others would miss, highly developed relationship skills, keen curiosity and social interest, love for their work, a willingness to make mistakes and learn from feedback, a desire to speak the truth and to find one’s own voice and be authentically oneself rather than a mere technician, and the recognition that we are all works in progress—learning, leaning in, embracing mystery, and continuing to explore and grow. So, dear reader, imagine you’re with me in Kottler’s living room. He has just brought back the refreshments. “Wow! You wrote all this stuff, huh?” He puts the tray down and smiles. “I’ve read a couple of your books,” I say, “but there is so much good stuff here. Where should I begin? What should I read?” Living and Being a Therapist is a collection of Jeffrey’s picks. I hope that you will enjoy this thoughtful, heartfelt, and inspiring book as much as I have. x

Introduction: Where Angels Fear to Tread

lexander Pope, the 18th-century English poet, has been immortalized, in part, for his famous admonition to literary critics: “Fools rush in where A angels fear to tread.” Pope definitely had some issues around suffering fools, having overcome a number of handicaps in order to find his powerful, expressive voice. Standing less than four and a half feet tall, and hunchbacked to boot, he suffered consistent ridicule by his peers and brutal attacks by the critics of his day. Alas, his physical appearance was the least of his worries, since he further had the misfortune to have been born a Roman Catholic at a time and in a place where this was not very desirable. Pope’s famous quote refers to how ignorant or inexperienced people often find themselves in precarious situations that wiser individuals would tend to avoid. The “angels” are presumably risk-avoidant and thus demonstrate the wisdom of cautionary discretion and maturity that fools would most likely ignore altogether. After all, as psychotherapists we witness people do all kinds of insanely misguided things that clearly are not in their own best interests. We see people purposefully destroy their lives, engage in the most self-defeating behavior imaginable, and then deliberately sabotage any attempt to turn things around. For most of my life, and career, I’ve felt like the “fool;” perhaps I’ve even behaved like one at times. I’ve never been comfortable with complacency. I get bored with myself. I thrive on new adventures and exploring the unknown. Almost every one of the almost 100 books or subsequent editions I’ve authored follows a similar process: I inadvertently end up confronting some unresolved or confusing Introduction: Where Angels Fear to Tread | xi

issue in my life—one that is often triggered by my work with clients or students, but just as often by some life experience. After all, we therapists are reflective and analytic creatures, constantly questioning why we—and others—feel, think, or behave in particular ways. I might be minding my own business and then, wham!—I start crying uncon- trollably during a stupid television commercial, for the first time in a long while. It gets me wondering why I had stopped crying for so many years. This leads me to a new research project on “the language of tears.” Similarly, the interpersonal conflicts I’ve encountered, the life challenges I’ve faced, my doubts and insecuri- ties, my fear of failure, my striving for achievement and success, have all led me to write books on the subjects. Long ago I discovered that one thing that helps me to feel better when I discover something confusing, disturbing, or shameful about myself is to interview others and have them reveal their own, similar stories. Thus I’ve completed books focused on asking people to tell me what they do when they’re alone, or to describe a travel experience that irrevocably changed their lives, or to mention some altruistic act that was meaningful for them. Likewise, I’d completed books that asked therapists to tell me about how they deal with failure, or how they’ve been transformed by their clients, or what secrets they turn to for dealing with difficult cases, or how they’ve adapted to aging processes—and in each case I was really delving into areas that terrify and confuse me the most. This is the territory where angels fear to tread. As I said, at heart I’m a reckless fool who can’t resist opening the locked door. From the earliest explosure to my profession, I was puzzled by all the games we play with one another, the things we don’t talk about, the secrets we carry around with us, the uncertainty and doubts that we must live with. I was also quite disturbed by the number of professionals and instructors I’d encountered who were not willing, or able, to practice what they said was so important for others to learn. They might preach compassion and empathy, but they were often perceived as insensitive, even petty or mean-spirited. I found it incredibly confusing that one could present the image of forthright moral courage and yet be so unscrupulous and manipulative. I didn’t understand how it was possible that certain members of our profession could be such hypocrites. I know I should have kept my mouth shut, but I just couldn’t help but speak up and ask questions that were best whispered in private. And that, my friends, is what led me to start writing about the things that I felt so many others avoided and the internal places where so many feared to tread. My initial writing effort, in the mid-1970s, was to write the first ethics book in the profession, focused on addressing some of the unscrupulous behavior that was going on at the time (it was actually not uncommon that therapists or faculty would have sex with). My earliest and most enduring work was about what it is really like to be and live as a therapist, to walk through life infused with the training and spirit of this helping and healing profession. It was a joy and a privilege, as xii | Living and Being a Therapist, A Collection of Readings

well as a burden and a plague—and I wanted to talk about these things in a way that had usually been avoided in my world. If the second most frequent question I’m asked is how I settle on a subject for a new book, given that I write three or four every year and have been doing so for the past 35 years, the single most common question I’m asked is “Why do you write so many frigging books?” Or a variation on that theme: “How do you write so many frigging books?” I never know quite how to answer that question. I mean, I know how to respond to the “why” question, and the answer isn’t pretty. There has been almost a des- perate drive toward achievement throughout my life—for all the darkest reasons. I was a mess as a child and an adolescent, saddled with all kinds of problems related to my vision, attention span, learning difficulties, and family dynamics. I barely graduated high school and I didn’t learn many of the basic things like grammar or math, because I could never see whatever was on the board or in front of the class. I was convinced I was stupid, and most others assumed that as well. So let’s just say that later in life, when I found my stride, I had a lot to prove. Whereas once upon a time I would work on books as badges of achievement, to earn respect and promotion and fame, eventually I began to think of myself, first and foremost, as a writer. Whether I was working on a book or an article, teaching, lecturing, doing therapy or supervision, I was functioning so much of the time as a storyteller. I found that I had a latent talent for writing the way I talk. And that leads to the second question, related to how I can possibly write so many books each and every year. I have trouble with the question because it is so effortless and easy for me to express myself: I have to write every day or I don’t feel right. I love the experience of writing so much (including this very moment!) that I live for it as much as I live as a therapist. I can’t help it. I need to write to make sense of my experiences. It just doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice. So, if I need to write every day, and I can easily churn out 20 pages of prose without much effort—at least if I’m writing about something that is interesting and compelling—it is easy to see how the pages would pile up. After I finish a manuscript and send it off to the publisher for editing, I have so sit around for a few months and wait for the edited proofs. So while I’m waiting, I start a new book project, send that one off, get the first one back to review and revise, and then I have to wait again. So I start another . . . Well, you get the idea. All of this process is predicated on the realization that writing is so fluent and easy for me because it is always focused on my lived experience. It is almost always about what I’m experiencing in the moment, every day. First, I’m not writing about something but rather describing what I’m feeling, thinking, and doing (or not doing). Second, perhaps because I never learned grammar (I still don’t know how to structure a sentence grammatically or how to reliably identify an object or an adverb), writing has always felt natural and has flowed out of me without much Introduction: Where Angels Fear to Tread | xiii

of a push. I don’t believe that this is because I’m lucky, or because I have some innate talent, but rather because I worked my butt off my whole life to get good at this. And I learned a while ago that as long as I’m exploring some issue that fascinates me, writing never feels like work. Instead, it is more of a challenge for me to find the time to complete all the other things I need to do. This is especially the case when I feel like I’m working on a project that delves into areas of the forbidden—that place where even angels fear to tread. In the context of my life’s work, I don’t mean for “angels” to refer simply to the inexperienced or foolish people who blithely venture into places that are best avoided, but rather those among us who dispense or promote wisdom for a living, whether as therapists, teachers, parents, or leaders. We tell people how to extricate themselves from the predicaments they end up in; at the very least, we help them figure out what they might do to live with the situation. Among our most cherished assumptions is the conviction that we would all be better off if we were to examine those parts of our lives we have been avoiding. Even if you don’t subscribe to the concepts of denial and repression, most of us still believe that it is foolhardy, if not downright dangerous, to ignore the darker shadows that lurk within us. These include the doubts, the fears and apprehensions, the lingering, unresolved issues that we face again and again. Therapists urge their clients to uncover these issues, or at least to increase their awareness to the point that the issues may be more safely tucked away, if not dealt with explicitly. If only we were to take our own advice. In spite of a strong belief in his own angelic powers to avoid situations where fools might rush in, Alexander Pope died eating spoiled pickled fish. It just goes to show you that there’s only so much anyone can do to prevent whatever fate has in store. Nevertheless, if we therapists are to practice what we preach, we must venture into the forbidden territory where angels—even fools—fear to tread.

Living with Secrets

When bewildered clients ask how on Earth, after a single session, their therapists could possibly know so much about them, the therapists usually just shrug mod- estly. We are able to focus and concentrate on cues, “tells,” nonverbal indicators, unconscious behaviors, subtle deep meanings, and metaphorical communica- tions—which escape mortal beings, who do not have, our training, sensitivity, and experience. We are able to “pay attention” in ways that have taken years of preparation and practice. By definition, psychotherapy is supposed to be the place where people go to talk about things they’ve never revealed before. It is a sanctuary for that which has xiv | Living and Being a Therapist, A Collection of Readings

not been said—or sometimes has not even been considered. Clients share their deepest secrets, darkest fantasies, and most closely guarded vulnerabilities. They take huge risks and often suffer immeasurably as a result, at least until they reach some accommodation with the “truth.” Therapists are experts at mining forbidden territory. We know just when to push, how much force to exert, and when to back off if things become too tough to handle. We probe deeper and deeper. We dig at those spots that appear to be most productive, all the while sifting through layers of accumulated memories and reflections. You’d think with this practice of delving into the realm of the forbidden, we’d be quite accomplished at talking about our own stuff. Yet in many ways we have been trained to avoid talking about our own issues and discouraged from admitting our fears and foibles. We work mostly in isolation. We are used to being caretakers and rescuers of others. We fear being judged critically, of surrendering our image of invincibility, and of revealing our characterological flaws. There are many things that contribute to our reluctance to speak about the unspeakable. Fear is a huge part of the problem—fear of being revealed as a fraud, fear of having our mistakes uncovered, fear of admitting what we don’t really know and understand, fear of opening up a can of worms that we can never close again. There is also the quite reasonable suspicion that if we were to be honest, really, really honest, about that which is unsaid, we would be drummed out of the profession as traitors.

A Therapist’s Secrets

One of the main reasons therapy most often stalls is because of secrets that have not yet been revealed. These are often, for example, those undercurrents within the family that provide really going on. These can range from outright lies to whole stories that have been completely fabricated. Although postmodern, construc- tivist, and other theories have questioned the validity, or even the usefulness, of distinguishing between “historical” and “narrative” truth, there is little doubt that therapy—or any relationship—can be severely compromised by deception, deceit, and fraud. Whether such untruths are deliberate or unconscious, it is clear that they make it far more difficult for therapists to be helpful. It would be as if a patient reported to his doctor that the pain was in his leg when the problem was really in his chest. Even more frustrating is when this same patient, providing inaccurate information on the nature of the problem, then complains that he isn’t improving. But what of therapist secrets that can be just as inhibiting to the process? Introduction: Where Angels Fear to Tread | xv

It turns out that once upon a time, when therapists were beginners they were far more transparent, honest, and forthcoming about personal doubts and fears. Over time, we learn to be more secretive and withholding. Whereas novices tend to talk out loud about their confusion and their experiences of not knowing, veterans are inclined to keep such doubts to themselves. It is not surprising that new therapists would have heightened self-awareness during sessions, continually asking themselves how they are doing and sec- ond-guessing themselves. Because of increased anxiety and inhibition, experience teaches us to shut down such distracting self-talk. But one side effect of this is that some of our most secret concerns and questions are buried.

What Don’t We Talk About?

In addition to supervision, plus our own personal therapy, we therapists do some- times confide to friends, colleagues, and family about our own “stuff.” Yet there are still areas that remain mostly out of bounds; if we talk about them at all, it is in low whispers or in jest. I remember interviewing one therapist for a project on secrets and it was like a dam opened. She let loose example after example of all the things she had never felt free—or safe—to speak about openly: “The more I think about it,” she admitted, “the more I realize how much of my work and my life I keep to myself. After having seen thousands of clients in my career, I could uncover a hornet’s nest.” So, what is it exactly that therapists don’t talk about much? These are some of the subjects that I’ve been writing about all these years, many of which are con- tained in this volume along with other topics that are somewhat less provocative. After all, I’ve been interested in almost everything related to what it means to live as and be a therapist, so each time some new question strikes me I go off in a different direction. Back to the question on the table: What are the secrets that we live with in various states of denial, or at least distance ourselves from? There are a number of things that therapists would rather not speak about. These include, but are not limited to, the following:

• It’s a funny way to make a living—This suggests an honest exploration of the peculiar nature of therapy, in which people pay us to listen to them. • Having superpowers—We appear to read minds, know and do things beyond mortal powers. We are gurus who are believed to have magical powers. xvi | Living and Being a Therapist, A Collection of Readings

• Feeling special—Not only are we treated special, but we feel that way: that we are different from others, sometimes to the point of narcissism and self-indulgence. • Learning as much from sessions as our clients do—We have the privilege of being in a profession where we learn so much every day, where our clients become our teachers. • Oh, the stories we hear . . . and can’t talk about—We hear amazing stories that are beyond anything that could ever be imagined in fiction. • Not listening to clients—What does it mean that therapists are actually listening to their clients less than half the time? • Not really understanding how therapy works—Therapy, or any change effort, is far too complex to ever understand fully, yet we pretend we have a grasp of what is going on. • Fearing failure—We cover up our mistakes, disown that which we don’t know and understand, and do all we can to blame the client when things go wrong. • Being a fraud and a hypocrite—It’s difficult to admit that we can’t always practice what we preach. This is especially the case with regard to the ways technology is compromising the quality of intimacy in relationships. • Being impaired—Some among us are seriously impaired, addicted, dys- functional, or even dangerous, yet this is often covered up. • Indulging the internal critical voice—In spite of how we appear on the out- side (compassionate, concerned, respectful), inside there is sometimes a very critical dialogue in which we are screaming at our clients to “stop whining” or to “get a life.” • Pathologizing—The same training that taught us to assess and diagnose problems also leads us to see the worst in people. • Unethical behaviors we all do and pretend we don’t—One example is when we exaggerate, distort, and tell little white lies such as “I know I can help you.” • Not trusting what we say we believe—There are several things that we claim are important (It’s all about the relationship), but secretly, deep down inside, we think that what’s important is our techniques. • Not doing enough—This is the experience that our interventions are way too primitive, our techniques less than potent, and our actions somewhat feeble compared to the magnitude of the problems we encounter. Introduction: Where Angels Fear to Tread | 1

• Not really using data and research—It is one of the mantras of the profes- sion that our interventions should be empirically supported, but much of the time we are flying by the seat of our pants. • Taking ourselves way too seriously—This is the posture of therapists who act so self-important and arrogant. • Believing life’s work doesn’t really matter—We all want to make a differ- ence in the world, yet we harbor doubts that what we do is often futile. • Loving clients—We end on an upbeat note, talking about the deep caring we experience in relationships with our clients, who become representa- tions of best friends, protégés, family members, fantasy lovers; these are some of the most intimate relationships we will ever have.

This collection of chapters, articles, essays, and think pieces represents my life’s work and interest in exploring the issues and subjects that have interested me the most—and many in which I have most feared to tread. Several of the original books were coauthored or coedited with friends, especially the late Jon Carlson. In fact, I prefer to write with partners, not so much to share the burden or workload (since I so love to write) but rather—no surprise—because it maintains close connections to people I cherish. Yet the excerpts chosen from any collabo- rative works represent only my own creations. I have tried to dig as deeply as I can to mine the furthest reaches of what practicing counselors and therapists struggle with during their most vulnerable moments. In one sense, this collection is about the most forbidden issues and subjects that prey on our hearts and minds; in quite another sense, the subjects covered are all too disturbingly familiar. 3

Personal Disclosures 4

CHAPTER 1 Hiking the Narrows

Introduction

n this first series of chapters, I’ve included some of my most personal writing from a variety of different books. Some of the chapters are ex- I cerpted from Growing a Therapist (1995), an autobiographical account of what led me to become a therapist and what sustains me. That book was writ- ten many years ago, when I was a journeyman in the profession, still strug- gling to find my place. I can’t help but notice that after more than two decades many of my thoughts and feelings are much the same, and my yearning for relevance and meaning is still very much on my mind. The excerpts in this first section, “Personal Disclosures,” give a flavor of the kinds of disclosures I have been prepared to reveal about my own struggles and how they informed my practice.

◆

A narrows is a geological creation in which erosion and drainage have chiseled a slim passageway in rock walls through which a river runs. The walls may reach so high into the sky, thousands of feet in places, that all light is blocked out. Often, lush ferns and rivulets of water dribble down the sides of the gorge. Waterfalls cascade through openings in the cliffs, feeding the river in its determination to CHAPTER 1 Hiking the Narrows | 5

reach freedom somewhere beyond. Always there is the sound of water, bubbling, flowing, at times crashing through the ravine, squeezing between walls, pushing silt and logs, even rearranging boulders along its route. Among the most beautiful narrows in the world are those in Zion Canyon. Beginning as a trickle on a ranch in Utah high country, the Virgin River collects contributions from the surrounding plateau, descending steeply through a 15-mile chasm in sheer sandstone walls. Shaded in streaks of silver, black, grey, red, and orange, sometimes polished to a blinding gleam, these walls are a masterpiece of the river’s patient work over millions of years. Nobody forced me to hike these narrows; I did so of reasonably sound mind and fit body. Yet this is the natural world at its most fierce and unpredictable. Flash floods can rage through the canyon with little notice, surging above any level where survival is possible. Full-length trees and boulders the size of a garage come crashing through in these floods, destroying anyone or anything so foolish as to tempt fate. Yet this is among the most beautiful spots on Earth, a place so in- accessible there is only a single entrance and a single exit. Once committed to the only path, you have no way out for 12 hours, trudging along the river bed, climbing over boulders that block the way, swimming through deep pools, crawling along muddy banks, balancing to stay upright on the slippery rocks. Hiking the narrows is life at its most exciting, and most grueling. Unless you are willing to venture into the canyon, you cannot gather this particular kind of utter solitude, exhilaration, and exhaustion. Tourists at the lower end of the canyon dabble with the experience. Some take off their shoes and stick their feet in the water; the more adventurous wade upriver a few miles and then turn back, daunted by the never-ending turns in the river, the foreboding walls that close in, the lack of high ground. Boulders are strewn everywhere, slippery with algae, wrenching knees and ankles, working in concert with the rapids to trip the unwary. Even on my first trip into the canyon, I find the feelings of wariness and appre- hension familiar. Every time I find myself in a predicament with no easy escape, a first expedition into the unknown, I ask myself why I am doing this. Now, as I hike the narrows, my back aches, my legs tremble, my knees feel like they are giving way. Water from a torrential thunderstorm drenches my top half while the freezing river numbs the bottom. This is exactly the kind of weather I had been warned about—at any moment I might hear the crashing thunder of impending doom. Nervously, I scan the sides for some handhold, foolishly believing I might hang on to the wall and not be torn away by the flood. I drudge onward, staring at my watch, calculating whether I might escape before dark, for once the light goes I will be frozen to the spot, unable to venture further without light to guide me. At any moment, I can end up on my rear, tripped up by a treacherous current. At times, I struggle in a whirlpool to get across a wide expanse or have to climb up a 6 | Living and Being a Therapist

cliff face, over a ridge covered in slippery mud. There is nothing to hang on to; a single misstep and I will crash on the rocks below. At other times, the way looks insurmountable, yet I know many others have passed before me. There must be a way out of here. I forget to look up, to watch the walls, to enjoy the spectacular scenery. So focused am I on getting out of this place, I forget to stop and listen to the sounds. I am so hungry and cold and wet and tired that I don’t remember why I’m here in the first place. I feel like a lost child. Whimpers well up in my chest. I swallow them and drudge onward. This is where I wanted to be, and now I want to be somewhere else—in a hot shower, eating Mexican food, asleep in bed. Then all of a sudden, at a time I least expected, there are other people walking upstream from the lower end, my first companions of the day. I thought I’d feel joy and relief at the prospect of an end in sight, but I feel nothing but resentment. How dare you people invade my narrows! I earned this experience every step of the way, while you sightseers are here just for a quick glimpse and a photograph so you can prove you were here. I am astonished by the vehemence of my disdain. After all, thousands of people walk this route each year; I am only the first of the day to make it through, and only because I raced at lurching speed, driven by apprehension that I would be overtaken by a flash flood. Indeed, it seems to me that these narrows are a perfect metaphor for the parts of life that haunt me the most. I feel that my life has been similar to this hike, at least during those times when I was moving from one place or state of mind to another. All the ghosts who have haunted me, all the unresolved issues in my life, have existed in a narrows that I have traveled with careful steps. There was no way out except backward or forward, yet the path has always been one I chose rather than one assigned to me. These journeys presented the most exciting experiences of my life, those that I would not trade ever for a hot shower, enchiladas, and a soft bed. Yet I bear the scars of these escapades as surely as my bruised ankles and cut, rubbery legs from Zion Canyon. They are the images that still haunt me when I am waking or asleep. Soon enough, a year, a decade, a half century, each of us will have passed on from this world. What difference does it make what I do in my lifetime or what you or anyone else does? Who cares whether I spent this or any day hiking the narrows or lying in bed staring at the ceiling fan? Each day, I get out of bed and proceed to do all of the things that I usually do—groom myself, say goodbye to my wife before she heads off to work, take my son to school, commute to the university, attend meetings, talk to people, write a little, teach a little, talk on the phone, head home, spend time with my family, all the things that seem so important at the time. And every day brings some sort of crisis. Someone has been mean to me; my feelings are hurt. Two people want different things, so they lock horns until one emerges CHAPTER 1 Hiking the Narrows | 7

the victor. Somebody is upset about something that is believed to be unjust. Just the usual assortment of human conflict and negotiation. I wonder if anything that I do really matters? I delude myself with the notion that my work is important, that I am on a noble quest to help people. I desperately want to believe that the pain and suffering I have lived through have some useful purpose, that my daily actions are of some lasting use. At first, it is easy to entertain this fantasy. Students stop by to thank me for some kindness; I can quite often see the dawn of some understanding on their faces when I explain some previously incomprehensible idea. Ex-clients sometimes call to tell me how well they are doing. Surely this must mean that I am doing something important. But as hard as I work to make a dent in the world, to leave something behind as a remnant of my existence, I am not altogether convinced that this is a worthwhile enterprise. I am haunted by the drive to own things, and then am stuck paying for them. I am so concerned with what I want to do next that I miss what is happening right now. I stop. Look around. This whole inner dialogue took place as I was walking through one of the most beautiful places on Earth. As the walls loom skyward, closing in my view, blocking out the light, I look inward. With each step I take, I feel myself move backward in time. I consider how I got to this point in the journey, just as I wonder about how I grew to be a therapist. I take a step. And another. Feel the rain on my face. Touch the slick walls. Smell the water. Ignore the pain. Remember to breathe. Study the rapids. Plan the next step, maybe even the one after that. This walk through the narrows is a journey taken to forget my doubts and uncertainties. What I know for sure is that I am tired and cold, hungry, frightened, and sore. I have one foot in the present, the step of a sturdy adult, and another in the past, the uncertain lurch of a lost child. 8

CHAPTER 2 Becoming a Therapist

Introduction

his might be the most personal of any disclosure I’ve ever published. It appeared in a volume entitled Journeys to Professional Excellence: Lessons T from Leading Counselor Educators and Practitioners (2005), which con- tained the seminal life stories of leaders in the field. This essay reveals some of the more influential incidents of my early life—ones that shaped the direction of my career that followed.

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Act 1, Scene 1

“Mom, open the door. Come on, let me in!” I put my ear to the door and listened for any sound inside the room. Nothing. I tried the door handle again but it was solidly locked. “Ma, please open the door. It’s me. It’s just me. Come on, let me in.” I banged with my fist to punctuate the urgency I felt. CHAPTER 2 Becoming a Therapist | 9

“Leave me alone,” the muffled voice behind the door said. I could just barely make out the words, but I could tell for certain that my mother was crying. Although 12 years old, I was already an expert on the language of tears. “Mom,” I called out again, a little relieved that she had at least talked back to me. “Just let me in, okay? I’m not going to go away until you OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT NOW!” I heard the lock click and then the sound of footsteps moving away. I opened the door a crack and found my mother in bed, the covers up to her chin. The room was completely dark, the shades drawn and curtains tightly closed, even though it was three in the afternoon. I glanced at the nightstand and saw the tumbler of scotch. There was ice left but the whiskey had been drained. “Mom, you’ve got to get out of bed. Please.” I had just returned from school, a half hour ahead of my younger brothers, to find my mother barricaded inside her room. It was not at all unusual that she would spend long periods of time alone in her room, or that she would be crying. I can almost never remember seeing her without a glass of Chivas Regal on the table beside her. But it was highly unusual that she’d still be in her bedroom so late in the day, especially with the door shut. My mother was crying continuously now, her back turned away from me. “What’s wrong, Ma? Can I do something for you? Do you want something?” “Just leave me alone,” she said, or I think that’s what she said since her face was buried in a pillow. “Please talk to me, Mom. Tell me what’s wrong.” “You know what’s wrong,” she answered with sudden anger. “There’s nothing more to say. I want you to leave the room, close the door, and give me some peace.” Yes, in a way I did have some idea of what was wrong. Since my father had moved out a year earlier, my mother had become even more depressed than usual. She was never easy for me to be around with her mood swings, but now it was so much worse. She had asked me once to accompany her to a visit to her psychiatrist, thinking that I could use some help as well. But what I told the doctor when we were alone was that my only regret was that my father didn’t take me with him when he moved out. He left me alone with my mother, to take care of my younger brothers. And now she was not only drinking more than ever, but also frequently threatening to kill herself. Sometimes she told me that I was helping to keep her alive; other times she said I’d be the death of her. One time much later I asked my brothers if they’d ever had heart-to-heart talks like this with our mother but they had been too young to remember. 10 | Living and Being a Therapist

Act I, Scene II

“Doctor, this is Jeffrey Kottler. I met you once with my mother, Lois.” “Yes, Jeffrey, of course! What can I do for you?” “Well, I found your number in my mother’s phone book.” “Yes?” Then it all rushed out of me. “My mom’s in bed, Doctor, and she won’t get out. She locked the door again.” “Again?” he said, confused by the torrent coming out of me through my own tears. “Yeah. She locked it before but I got her to open it. Then I went in to see if she was okay but she’s not. She’s really bad, Doctor. She’s never been like this.” “What do you mean?” he asked. Initially, he seemed distracted and confused by why this kid was calling him on the phone, but now I had his full attention. I hesitated, feeling disloyal, as if I was betraying my mother by asking an out- sider for help. “I think she took some pills,” I said. “What kind of pills?” “I don’t know,” I said, sobbing and struggling with my own tears. “Her voice doesn’t sound right—it’s kind of slurred.” “You mean from drinking?” The doctor would already know about my mother’s habit. “I think it’s something else,” I tried to explain. I was desperate, afraid he wasn’t going to believe me. “There were some pills open on the nightstand. And her voice was weird. She said some things, some bad things. And I don’t know what to do. Doctor, what should I do?”

Act II, Scene 1

I know it might seem unlikely but it seemed more serendipitous than intentional that I ended up studying psychology. In truth, I was originally enrolled as a business major, because that’s what my father was, and what he wanted me to be. Both my grandfathers were businessmen and it was expected that I would someday come into the family printing business. But first I’d have to get through the first day of university orientation, and so far, it was looking pretty bleak. I looked around the room and noticed that it was filled with earnest young men, all men as a matter of fact. Most of them were wearing collared shirts, some ties. I remember thinking to myself, “These are not my people. I don’t belong here.” CHAPTER 2 Becoming a Therapist | 11

There was just no way that I was going to spend the next four years in the company of these lifeless drones with their dreams of climbing the corporate ladder. Besides, I much preferred the company of a more gender-balanced class. I fled the business orientation only to find myself alone in the hallway. Now what I was I going to do? I had no clue what interested me, other than finding a girlfriend. As it was, I had barely graduated from high school. I’m pretty sure I was not stupid, but I was not exactly well prepared for the rigors of serious study. Algebra was particularly tortuous for me. I remember the teacher asking me to come up to the board and solve the algebraic equation written on it. I would stand there staring at the dumb thing and wonder why on earth anyone would want to move numbers from one side to the other. And what’s with those x’s and y’s? I still have little idea what algebra is for, or why we were forced to study it. The best explanation I can think of for why I was such an undistinguished student is that I couldn’t see anything most of the time. It still amazes me that my parents never took me to get glasses when I used to sit about three feet in front of the television to watch cartoons. They used to take me to Detroit Lions football games and while everyone else was watching the action out on the field, I would look at the crowd around me. My father would yell excitedly, “Did you see that play? Did you see that guy make that run?” I’d just nod dumbly. In truth, I couldn’t see anything on the field at all except a green blur. I didn’t know that I was half blind since I thought everyone saw the world as I did—blurry and indistinct. I was embarrassed about my poor vision so I would memorize the eye chart at school and recite the letters from rote memory. But this disability played havoc with any sense of accomplishment I desired. I could never see what was going on in class so I lapsed into fantasy most of the time. I was exiled into right field on baseball teams, which was just as well since I could never see any ball that was hit my way. One summer I had a job as a caddy, which was pretty hilarious—the golfer would hit the ball and my job was to find it. The only way I ever found a ball was if I accidentally stepped on it. Needless to say, getting glasses in high school changed my life. For the first time, I could see the world relatively clearly. I was pretty far behind in school, but I began to realize that I was not as dumb as I (and my parents) had always thought I was. I was admitted to college on probation, mostly because I was one of the few applicants who showed up for the interview without my parents. As an aside, the admissions officer who gave me that break and admitted me into the university with such a dismal academic record eventually became my colleague when I became a professor at that same institution 10 years later. We sat in a counselor education faculty meeting one time and I confessed that we had a history. 12 | Living and Being a Therapist

Nobody really expected much from me in college. I was not particularly bright, talented, experienced, or ambitious. I remember sitting on the steps of the library one day watching students walk by. I wondered how one could tell who was smart and who was not: I decided the smart kids carried books around, lots of books. It occurred to me that I could be smart too if I lugged books around and actually read them. I started doing that, from that day forward, and then a strange thing hap- pened: Friends starting treating me as if I was smart. They asked me for help with their schoolwork. I may not have been an athlete or a brilliant scholar or particularly good-looking, but I was going to work harder than anyone else. And I did.

Act II, Scene 2

I am a junior in college, doing well academically, majoring in psychology. I am mostly enjoying my classes, but I’m far more involved in social activities, especially trying to work things out with the love of my life. Most recently it had been touch and go. When my girlfriend decided she no longer wanted to continue to see me, I lost all semblance of control. I stopped going to classes. I went for long walks so that I could grieve in private. At one point my pain became so intolerable that I had serious thoughts of suicide. Although my mother did not actually kill herself with pills, she did die some years after that day she had spent locked in her bedroom. The doctors said it was lung cancer but I knew she had really died of her depression. Now it felt like I had become like my mother—helpless, despondent, and with recurrent thoughts of ending my life. I remembered her kindly psychiatrist and although he had not really helped her much, I liked the wise, assured way he handled himself. It was time to see such a professional for myself.

Act II, Scene 3

I had seen a psychologist at the counseling center on campus for a little over a year. She was psychoanalytically oriented so I did most of the talking. She took notes, listened attentively, and occasionally offered an interpretation or two. I deliberately did and said things during sessions in order to get her to reveal more of herself but I was mostly unsuccessful. I continued to talk and she listened. The counseling helped a lot and I greatly enjoyed the experience. My therapist was a bit aloof and cold, befitting a proper analyst, not at all the warm and loving CHAPTER 2 Becoming a Therapist | 13

mother figure I most yearned for. Nevertheless, we covered a lot of ground and I improved steadily. I couldn’t believe that people actually got paid to listen to and help others with their problems. Since I was about to graduate and had learned from a series of boring jobs that working really sucked, I was determined to stay in school just as long as I could. Graduate school in something, anything, was far preferable to holding a real job. Becoming a therapist appealed to me because it would provide the opportunity to continue working on myself while I was trying to help others.