Only a therapist will get this, but you others can read anyway

A client once told me, ” I don’t care” , about 50 times in a session.

So eventually I asked, ” What ‘s it like for you to feel this way?”

Client said . ” It sucks.”

Ok – now the ball was rolling.

 Only a psychotherapist really understands why that was a good thing to hear from someone for the purpose of helping them.  

Actually – Jim Camp and his students would get it.

I’d try to explain it to the rest of you, but to tell you the truth…I don’t care

If you think you get it, give it your best shot in the comment section. Prove me wrong. If you don’t care – join the club.



3 Responses to “Only a therapist will get this, but you others can read anyway”

  1. oldfussbudget Says:

    It’s a point of entry. It’s the client saying that one level of abstraction up he really does care, i.e. he cares about not caring. That gives you an opening to start exploring pain, because he’s acknowledged that he really does hurt, even if he believes it’s in a very abstract way. And once you’ve made it safe enough for him to actually touch that pain, you’ve begun.


  2. oldfussbudget Says:

    Ah God! To see the branches stir
    Across the moon at Grantchester!
    To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten
    Unforgettable, unforgotten
    River-smell, and hear the breeze
    Sobbing in the little trees.
    Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand
    Still guardians of that holy land?
    The chestnuts shades, in reverend dream,
    The yet unacademic stream?
    Is dawn a secret shy and cold
    Anadyomene, silver-gold?
    And sunset still a golden sea
    From Haslingfield to Madingley?
    And after, ere the night is born,
    Do hares come out about the corn?
    Oh, is the water sweet and cool,
    Gentle and brown, above the pool?
    And laughs the immortal river still
    Under the mill, under the mill?
    Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
    And Certainty? And Quiet kind?
    Deep meadows yet, for to forget
    The lies, and truths, and pain? …oh! Yet
    Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
    And is there honey still for tea?
    — Rupert Brooke, fifth stanza of _The Old Vicarage, Grantchester_


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