Choosing the Path of Resilence

January 12th, 2012

As a therapist, I am struck more and more intensely by the importance of personal responsibility. So many clients come in overwhelmed with despair and helplessness. They express deep feelings of having been treated unfairly by the world. One of my jobs is to help them see that the series of choices they have made in their lives has led them to the very place they find themselves—spiritually, if not otherwise.

 

The late great psychiatrist Viktor Frankl based much of his work on the idea of the victim. He believed that in order to thrive, human beings need to challenge their sense of victimhood, that individuals need to approach life not as victims, but as students. Having survived the Nazi concentration camps, he learned that those who made it through that epic Hell were generally not those who were physically strongest but those who were more positive and resilient. Most importantly, they were the ones who, even in the midst of their own suffering, reached out to support others. In fact, this capacity for empathy—in spite of their own pain—enhanced their resilience. They approached life poised to learn and to give of themselves.

 

I am coming to the conclusion that we are the product of our choices. We choose how to face up to life. It’s not that everything is under our control, that unforeseen, unfortunate events don’t happen to us. It’s our response to those events, the way we choose to address them, that ultimately matters. And if we can stop focusing on ourselves, and help somebody else, we are transformed. In the words of
Rick Warren, author of The Purpose-Driven Life, “It’s not about you.”

Happiness 1

January 4th, 2012

 

What is happiness? As we enter a new year, it seems an appropriate time to reflect upon how we want to live our lives.

Happiness means different things to different people: a positive outlook, security, faith in a higher power, good health, meaningful work, love. Many psychologists believe that happiness, versus unhappiness, is a choice. They believe it’s the story people tell themselves about their lives.
Dr. Martin Seligman, the positive psychology guru who teaches at the University of Pennsylvania, chooses to use the term well-being. He created a handy acronym to describe what he sees as the five components of well-being: PERMA. P stands for positive emotion—expressing positive emotion as much as possible. E is for engagement, or flow—intense absorption in work or other occupations (such as an athlete in the thick of a game, or an artist creating a painting or sculpture) to the point of losing track of time and space. R is for relationships, probably the single most compelling element. M is for meaning—engaging in activities or work that provide a feeling of purpose. And A is for accomplishment—pursuing things in life that give you a deep sense of achievement.
While Seligman targets well-being, the late psychiatrist Victor Frankl addresses life’s meaning. Frankl, author of the iconic Man’s Search for Meaning, believed that man comes to the meaning of his life through three avenues: meaningful work or good deeds, love or relationship, and transcendence. Transcendence means rising above a painful life experience, or a quality within yourself, which sabotages your ability to thrive; and then transforming this experience by helping others who are struggling with similar hardship.
Ultimately, both Frankl and Seligman are attempting to conceptualize what makes life worth living. What their philosophies show is that for the most part, happiness is a choice. If the story you tell about your life is that of a victim, that will be your reality. But if you consciously begin to re-write that narrative, embracing gratitude for the miracle of life and committing to your own potential, you are making inroads toward happiness. And if you help others along the way, you may be already there.

Mirroring

September 10th, 2011

By Elizabeth O’Brien, M.A., LPC

Mirroring is one of the most important concepts in psychology; it is a lynchpin of Attachment Theory. Attachment Theory basically holds that an infant’s attachment to his mother (or primary caregiver) is crucial to his survival.  Not only is attachment a key building block of the baby’s sense of self, but also it becomes the template for how he attaches to others for the rest of his life. Without secure attachment, the baby’s brain literally does not develop optimally. Babies who are deprived of attachment suffer from a host of problems, from learning disabilities to emotional disturbances. Without therapeutic  intervention, they can be handicapped for life.

Besides touch, mirroring is the vehicle for attachment. When a mother is holding her baby (generally, some 18 inches from her own face), either to nurse or feed him from a bottle, she and the baby gaze into one another’s eyes. When the baby is finishing feeding, he may coo or cry or smile. The mother responds in kind: when baby coos, mom coos; when baby cries, mom looks at him empathetically and responds by holding him over her shoulder to burp, or by changing his diaper; when baby smiles, mom smiles back. This constant acknowledgement, or mutual validation, is mirroring; and ideally, it continues as the child grows up. Without it, a child doesn’t internalize a solid sense of “the other,” or an autonomous sense of self. His very identity is compromised.

Mirroring my youngest Sam as he takes his first steps.

As adults, human beings leave home to establish their own lives and ideally, they transfer that same attachment to a life partner. Even after the heady honeymoon period, when lovers gaze endlessly into each other’s eyes, couples continue to “mirror” one another through this mutual validation process, or “empathetic responding.” Both verbally and non-verbally, they communicate: “I see you. I am here for you.” And when they have children of their own, the pattern continues.

Walkin’ the Dog

August 29th, 2011

By Elizabeth O’Brien, M.A., LPC


I waited 20 years to get a dog again. After growing up with dogs in my home town of Memphis, taking on such a commitment after I left home was too much for my chaotic, itinerant life: college in Knoxville, TN, first jobs in Miami, all-consuming career and cramped apartments in New York City. I knew, from my mother’s example, what having a dog entailed. So I waited. Finally, in 1995, when my family was comfortably ensconced in Austin and my youngest child was five (big enough not to get toppled), we got a chocolate Lab puppy. We had a woodsy, fenced backyard that backed up to a greenbelt, and we installed a pet door. The pup, named Jordan, had the run of the house and property; and I began a dog-walking routine that I have continued to this day. Of course, 15 years later, Jordan has passed on. Now we have two dogs: a nine-year-old Bichon named Buffett and a three-year-old chocolate Lab named Jamie.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized the full beauty of dogs: they are not only devoted companions, but they are also ideal exercise partners. Certain breeds, like Labs, require lots of exercise, and this is exactly what I needed: someone to motivate me, hold me accountable and keep me company. We walk morning and evening, seven days a week.  Along our route, in hilly Lost Creek, we experience the world—other dogs and humans, cats, deer, birds, squirrels, armadillo, possum, road runners, rabbits, fox, snakes, tarantulas, scorpions, lizards, buzzards, and even the occasional coyote. We take in the sky and the trees; we stop to smell the flowers.

On weekends, my husband, dogs and I walk up to the park at the top of the hill and meet our dog-walking group. These are people whom we would not have met otherwise. We venture down into a deserted office park, where the dogs run gleefully off-leash. Just watching their exuberance makes us happy. Anxiety and depression float away. They put things in perspective, reminding us to embrace the moment, to live consciously. When we get home, we swim together to cool off. Occasionally, we venture out to Zilker, Red Bud Isle or Town Lake.

Besides the exercise benefits, my dogs keep me grounded. As a therapist, I have an emotionally exhausting job. I love what I do but I need therapy; and Buffett and Jamie are my therapists. I talk to them, tell them my problems. They listen, and love me unconditionally. During the week, I alternate taking Jamie or Buffett to work. They are wonderful therapy dogs. But they also force me outside between sessions to stretch and walk and breathe in the sunshine. We return refreshed, limber and ready to focus.

So for those who like dogs and want to stay fit, consider getting a dog. Even Buffett, the little Bichon, is hearty enough to walk three or four miles a day. Other than the cost of the dog, a reasonable expense at the local shelter, the only equipment you’ll need is a leash and a good pair of walking shoes!

Adaptive Competence—or Getting Back on the Horse

May 13th, 2011

By Elizabeth O’Brien, M.A., LPC

 

There is a term being bandied about in psychological circles—and in the media—called “adaptive competence.” National Public Radio (NPR) did a story recently on the secrets of aging well, and this high-falutin’ term dominated the story. It seems that individuals with adaptive competence, which basically means “rolling with the punches” of life, live longer (by some seven years, according to the research). They are also more productive and happy than those who lack it. What they’re talking about, ultimately, is resilience.

When I was a little girl growing up in Memphis, my mother schooled me in this concept. Her words were: “You just have to get back up on the horse again.” When my first boyfriend dumped me, when a favorite teacher humiliated me, when my best friend teased me about my flat chest in mixed company, at 13—I learned, eventually, to get back up, dust myself off and move on. Without knowing it, I taught myself the cognitive-behavioral technique of “acting as if,” which is just another way of saying, “Fake it till you make it.” I learned, sometimes the hard way, that ultimately my positive feelings, my self-esteem, had to come from within. Fortunately, I had a loving and stable family and a great deal of support. Not everyone does.

Indeed, lapses in resilience are what bring clients into therapists’ offices week after week. Clients who cannot shake off disappointment, rejection, a bad day, a medical issue, human mistakes, social and work difficulties, things beyond their control, and other normal life events are struggling with “adaptive competence.” Their thought pattern has become negative. However, the fact that they are seeking therapy is a positive sign, and speaks of their innate, human drive toward resilience. The great psychiatrist Carl Rogers believed that we are all capable of resilience; often, we just need someone to support us in accessing a strength that is already there.

Sometimes, a good friend or mentor can fill the bill; other times, it takes therapy.

Obviously, there are differences among us; some people are just born more resilient. Others, who have experienced severe early trauma, are more vulnerable. But many of us have simply never learned positive cognitive habits that could help us shake off negative experiences and debilitating thoughts.

I think about “adaptive competence” most often when observing my mother, who is 95 and going strong. She lives independently in a comfortable retirement facility, where she deliberately chose an apartment on the third floor to encourage herself, energy permitting, to take the stairs. My mother is still completely engaged in the world—seeing friends and family, playing bridge four times a week, exercising, traveling, reading good literature, volunteering for the Altar Guild at the chapel, hosting cocktail parties—and happy to be alive. Her life, more than any other, illustrates the positive side of Erik Erikson’s final life stage in his famous eight-stage model of human development: Integrity vs Despair. When one looks back on his life, is it with integrity that he has embraced life and contributed to the lives of others? Or is it with despair, at having not courageously addressed his existential imperative? Mother, it seems, has chosen to thrive.

Smart Parenting

January 24th, 2011

By Elizabeth O’Brien, M.A., LPC


We often have to “wing it” as parents, especially with our first child. Like many parents, there are several bits of wisdom I wish I had possessed early on. One concept I have learned as a therapist would have been especially useful: the concept of containment.

Containment means (in terms of parenting) the ability to literally “contain” your own emotions so that they don’t spill over, inappropriately, onto your child. Say you have a longstanding fear of heights and your eight-year-old climbs to the top of a tree behind your house. Your child has no such fear of heights, and is quite an agile climber. Yet, you become so panicked because of your own fear that you project that fear onto your child. You scream and scold, until the child—whose confidence is now shot—scrambles down, almost falling along the way because you’ve made him so nervous. Containment comes into even deeper play with teenagers and young adults, who require much more nuanced parenting. If, as a teenager, a parent had a close friend who was badly injured in a car crash, the parent could likely struggle with containment when her own child gets his driver’s license. A more insidious example would be a father who has been laid off, or whose career has otherwise failed: Dad projects that sense of failure onto his young adult son by criticizing his son’s career direction. Instead of honoring his son with his confidence, Dad’s anxiety and disappointment about his own situation spills over onto his son, who is struggling to find his way in the professional world. Instead of having the confidence to follow his instincts, the son now questions his own, authentic path.

It is clear to me that if a parent corrupts the child with her own anxiety—if Mom “takes over” the worry about her teen’s homework—she is robbing the child of the opportunity to feel his own anxiety and sense of responsibility, and act accordingly.

Containment can also apply to supporting your child in containing anxiety or fear about something troubling in his life. Hazel Douglas writes about this kind of containment in her book, Containment and Reciprocity: Integrating Psychoanalytic Theory and Child Development Research for Work with Children. According to Douglas, “Containment is thought to occur when one person receives and understands the emotional communication of another without being overwhelmed by it, processes it and then communicates understanding and recognition back to the other person. This process can restore the capacity to think in the other person.”

In this case, the parent can help her child contain certain overwhelming emotions by attuning to and empathizing with these feelings and processing them with the child. This kind of supportive containment is akin to what therapists try to do with their clients. Ideally, therapists create a safe, confidential haven for clients and “join with” them as they work through difficult issues and emotions.

Parents also need to contain their anxiety from spilling over onto each other. Children are perceptive, and modeling mature containment in the marriage—with both parents working to support one another—can help children learn to deal with their own emotions in a healthy manner.

For parents, keeping firm boundaries around their own emotions is important in freeing children to build a strong sense of self—and the ability to form their own “containers.”

Reciprocity, or the Golden Rule

December 2nd, 2010

By Elizabeth O’Brien, M.A., LPC


Reciprocity is one of my favorite concepts—in therapy and in life. Parents do well to model this give-and-take behavior, by nurturing their children and supporting them, while at the same time expecting the child to reciprocate with love, respect, consideration—and yes, even chores! This reciprocity concept harkens back to Attachment Theory, in which the mother “mirrors” her infant: when the baby coos, the mother coos back; when the baby smiles, the mother smiles; when the baby cries, Mom picks him up. Nursing reinforces this symbiotic connection. Research bears out that this constant mutual validation process literally promotes optimal brain development and functions as the chief building block for sense of self.

Biologically, we are hard-wired for connection—and reciprocity; babies who are isolated, who are not held and nurtured, experience “failure to thrive.” Adults who are isolated experience a similar fate, at least in an emotional sense.  Conversely, the baby who experiences secure attachment with his mother internalizes this primal relationship, and it becomes the “template” for all future relationships. With secure attachment, the baby is empowered to connect successfully with other human beings over the course of his life. He grows up with an ingrained and empathetic sense of  “the other”…it’s not all about me! This is the foundation of reciprocity, a global ethic embodied in Christianity as the Golden Rule. Judaism, Islam, Buddhism…virtually every established religion in the world espouses some version of reciprocity.

Parents who teach and model this crucial concept are equipping their children with the capacity for attunement, empathy and emotional intelligence, a way of being that makes for an authentic, fulfilling life.

By Elizabeth O’Brien

Licensed Professional Counselor-Intern

Town Lake Y Pro Bono Counselor

Mid-Life Crisis

May 8th, 2010

By Elizabeth O’Brien, M.A., LPC


I had my “mid-life crisis” at 30. I began questioning my journalism career, my life in New York, even my marriage. I was confused about the meaning of my life, and could not see continuing on the same self-absorbed path. What was my purpose? What sort of legacy—if any—would I leave on this earth? Was I making a contribution?
Then I got pregnant. At the time, I felt this complicated the matter. I hadn’t even figured out myself! I spent the next nine months in a relative fog, going through the hectic motions of workaholism, the standard modus operandi of Manhattan: negotiating the subway at rush hour, attending editorial meetings, researching story ideas, traveling every few weeks, eating meals on the run, seeing friends who were equally frenzied. I was able to “forget” about my condition almost until the end, since I barely showed.
Before I knew it, after swimming a mile at the health club and consuming a particularly spicy Mexican meal, I went into labor. Between contractions, I managed to take a shower, apply lipstick, and don my favorite dress and trademark string of pearls before speeding—by cab, of course—to Mount Sinai Hospital.
I was not prepared. After months of LaMaze classes and with several pregnancy books under my expanding belt, I was in such intense pain that I immediately begged for drugs. I was panicked, even on the surgical table, about this new person taking over my life. What was I thinking? I had a photographer husband who was always on the road, and our families were back in Tennessee. We lived above a Greek souvlaki vendor hub in a commercial loft off Canal Street. How would I manage?
But with one final, excruciating push, my dilemma was solved. The doctor placed Jesse Alexander O’Brien—a perfect, miraculous being—on my heaving, sweat-soaked chest, and I was reborn. “Oh, yes!” I said, under my breath, as I gazed at my tiny alien. “This is what all the fuss is about. I get it now.” And, though our three children are grown now, and in various stages of launching, I have never teetered again on the edge of that existential abyss.

Failure to Launch

September 2nd, 2009

By Elizabeth O’Brien, M.A., LPC


Last fall, I was asked by veteran therapist Mark White, LCSW/LMFT, to co-lead a parent group called “Holding On and Letting Go: A Group for Parents of Adolescents and Young Adults.” The group was so successful that we are holding it again this fall. A psycho-educational/support entity based on the latest research in Attachment Theory and developmental psychology, the group helps parents gently step back and restructure their roles as parents as their children mature and prepare to leave home. The nickname for the group is “The Emancipation Group.” The word “emancipation” refers not only to the emancipation of the adolescents into the world, but also that of the parents, as they learn to let go of their children (some of whom have become “stuck”) and get back to the business of their own, autonomous lives.

I have been struggling with these issues in my own personal life. With both a senior and a freshman in college, and a recent college grad having boomeranged back home, I am trying to learn these same lessons of empathetic detachment and parental “recalibration” that we are espousing in our group. When Sam, my college freshman, was a high school sophomore, I could see the Empty Nest approaching. I promptly enrolled in a Master of Arts

Jesse, Sam, Elizabeth and Owen O'Brien
Jesse, Sam, Elizabeth and Owen O’Brien

in Counseling program, something I had long dreamed about, and embarked upon my individual path. I tried to time it in such a way that when he was graduating from high school, I would be starting my new career. Although it wasn’t easy, this intense academic occupation was my vehicle for stepping back. (Sam, for his part, breathed a sigh of relief!) Now, whenever I regress and start being a heavy, over-involved parent again, I perform a little therapy on myself and say: “That is HIS path, not yours. Back off!” Somehow, this little cognitive exercise works pretty well, and it helps me re-focus on my own path.

In the Emancipation Group, we work to teach ourselves to honor our children’s right to their unique, individuated journeys by lovingly releasing our death-grip.

For more info about The Emancipation Group, contact Elizabeth O’Brien, LPC-I, at 512-680-7379/elizobrien@gmail.com.

Dogs

August 23rd, 2009
Buffett Leigh O'Brien

Buffett Leigh O'Brien

Dogs of Our Dreams

I have always loved dogs. In almost every snapshot of me as a child, I am clutching a squirming puppy in my chubby arms or trailing after one of my black, flop-eared Cocker Spaniels. Teddy and Tim, father and son, were the definitive dogs of my early life. They accompanied me everywhere I ventured in my midtown Memphis neighborhood—to friends’ backyards, to the patch of woods behind David Brown’s house, to the playground attached to our Episcopal church—and they were frequently enlisted as partners in mischief. On several occasions, my group of ragtag companions and I tethered all our dogs together in one barking cacophony, rang all the doorbells of a nearby boarding house, and set the pack loose in the foyer, scaring the stew out of the various residents who opened their doors to the collective dervish.

After high school, I endured a desolate, extended, period of doglessness. I couldn’t keep dogs at college, in East Tennessee, and when my husband and I moved to New York City to start our early careers, dogs were out of the question. We lived in a 600-square-foot “one-bedroom” on the Upper West Side and worked 12-hour days. After work, we went out to dinner. We were virtually never home. For years, I pined for a dog, coveting the motley packs orchestrated by the inveterate professional dog-walkers of Manhattan. But when we finally moved to Austin, the issue having been forced by the addition of three children under five, we moved to a tranquil, suburban cul-de-sac on the greenbelt and immediately scanned the “dogs” section of the classifieds. We bought Jordan, the chocolate runt of a Lab litter, from a plumber in Cedar Park. She became the definitive dog of our early family life, sticking close by the children and tracking their every move. When strangers approached, she circled them, sniffing, making sure they were kind. With her amber eyes, noble snout and velvet ears, Jordan was a vision of dog perfection. Her gentle temperament was equally stellar; and as the children grew up, and Jordan needed another “job,” she and I became “pet partners” with Therapy Pet Pals of Austin. We visited the forsaken elderly in nursing homes, and Jordan—instinctive in her compassion—padded over to the old folks in their beds and wheelchairs and delicately lay her head in their laps. Even those with the blankest of expressions would light up in her presence and stroke her sleek, seal-like head.

Jordan died in our arms two years ago. She had lymphoma, and since she was 12 and a half, putting her through chemo, and further compromising the last months of her life, was not humane. Our vet, Ian Voelzel, came over to our house with his assistant, Daniel, to administer innocuous-looking pink liquid through a Draconian needle and syringe; and after placing a lady-like paw, with black-lacquered nails, on our daughter Owen’s shoulder, she slipped away. When Ian and Daniel loaded her onto a stretcher and ferried her to the back of their SUV, I carried our young Bichon Buffett out to the tailgate and lowered him to her lifeless body to sniff her one last time and say his goodbyes. For the following four months, Buffett was listless in grief.

Now Buffett is back to his former, jaunty self. He has Jamie now, another chocolate Lab—a female yearling with half a screw loose. It is eerie how much she looks like her predecessor, Jordan. She started out as Jesse’s pup. My eldest son, 23, loves dogs as much as I do. He acquired Jamie by happenstance—when he was out jogging at dusk in Fort Worth last September. A college student then, he knew better than to get a dog, especially since his lease forbade pets. But as he jogged past a redneck couple hawking a box full of Labrador puppies, his mind flashed to Jordan. Before he knew it, he had reserved the runt. An hour later, he was back, cash in hand. At just shy of six weeks, Jamie was too young to adopt. Jesse cleared out a dresser drawer, lined it with soft towels, and placed it next to him in bed. He installed a doggie door in the ramshackle bungalow, knowing he wouldn’t get his security deposit back anyway. The crater in the kitchen wall, from a particularly wild party he and his roommates hosted, took care of that.

Jamie settled in and life was good. Jesse popped home between classes, and before work, to look after Jamie, feed her and take her out for quick walks. When he was free, he took her out for long adventures to Fort Woof, the premier, off-leash dog park in Fort Worth. But one night when Jesse came home, Jamie was not herself. She didn’t get up from the couch to greet him, and when he called, he saw that she couldn’t walk. And then he remembered, and ran to the kitchen. Sure enough, a soft plastic rat poison wrapper lay in tatters on the floor, just by the back of the stove. The exterminator, a crotchety old character dispatched by Jesse’s slumlord, had visited a few days before. Jesse and his roommate John rushed Jamie to Metro West Emergency Animal Hospital, where the vets swarmed into action. They hooked her up to tubes and machines, and at one point had to drain her chest of blood. When the plasma transfusion didn’t do its job, the vet used her own dog to give Jamie live blood. Miraculously, after three days on life support, Jamie, then five months old, pulled through. But just to be safe, my daughter, Owen, and I drove up to Fort Worth and took her home to Austin. Months later, Jesse and John were still finding soft packets of rat poison behind appliances, and under beds.

Jamie turned a year old in late July. Though the vets insisted she would suffer no ill effects of the rat poison after she recovered, she’s a little unbalanced. She spooks at children and machinery, becoming wild-eyed and even aggressive. But otherwise, she’s a jewel—a chocolate beauty with an  intelligent, exuberant spirit. Buffett adores her, although he still rules the roost. As for me, a Licensed Professional Counselor-Intern, I have two resident, furry therapists to listen to my dreams.

Jamie Leigh O'Brien

Jamie Leigh O'Brien