“Hilda: On the perils of superhero sleep disorders” Written and illustrated by: Margaret Whitehair-Sturtevant Copyright 2012

The vacuum cleaner kept getting louder and louder.

Hilda had a strange feeling that something was not quite right… 

Suddenly, it dawned on her…
She was doing it again!!

Sleep flying…

The end.

Therapy is a lot like cooking. Reflections on the tools in my “Thera-Pantry” By Margaret Whitehair

Therapy is a lot like cooking. Reflections on the tools in my “Thera-Pantry”

By Margaret Whitehair

Being a therapist is similar to being a chef. I find myself using food as a handy reference for visuals and concepts in sessions with my clients. We all need to eat. Some of us cook, and some people are great chefs. I often use cooking and food as a metaphor for the therapeutic processes. I have to admit, I think I am a much better “chef” in a therapist’s office than in the real kitchen.

1. Your energy is like pizza at a party.

I often refer to pizzas and parties. For example, you can cut the pizza 18 ways or 6 ways, but it is still the same pizza. The slices will be a different size, but the pizza does not get bigger just because you cut it into more pieces. We all have been at that party. Or being the host, feeling like you didn’t order enough pizza for the party. Something has got to give. do you invite fewer people? Do you change the type of party? Are you OK with giving yourself a tiny, tiny slice of pizza? Would your kids be satisfied? I use this referring to energy.

How much energy do you have today? Are you cutting your pizza into 18 or 6 slices? Do you have enough for 6 good slices, and are somehow expecting the pizza to magically create 18 fulfilling slices? This is not unlike the “spoons” reference, as a way to communicate about your mental and emotional state when dealing with chronic/emotional conditions. But there is something very real about the experience of getting a tiny little slice of pizza. It is very frustrating.

So, is your pizza a medium-sized pizza today? Great. So, how many slices would you want to have? How many slices do you want your guests to have? How many people can you really invite to this pizza party?

2. Mindfulness and minestrone.

“Stirring the soup”- A way of working on mindfulness and pause before emotional reactions.

When things get moved around, from a session the things that have settled at the bottom start moving upwards with the momentum of the soup.

There is a little bit of celery. Notice the carrot floating by; this is now a minestrone with different parts and things floating around. This is a good thing. You don’t go “ Oh no! There is a carrot! This is crazy, disgusting!”, you know what the ingredients are, and you expect that if you move stuff around, you will see some of the ingredients, and you notice them.

Maybe you forgot about the carrot… ah, how did that get in there? Notice the reaction. Do we dump out the soup? We don’t pour out all the soup. We don’t stop making the soup.

Sometimes we will disturb the thing before it settles before it simmers too long. What kind of soup are we making?… “So how did you get disciplined as a child when you’ve poured out all the soup?” Some reflections could help. “I have noticed some anger here and there when we talk about that time in your life.”… Is that question making the soup boil in a rolling boil? Is it time for the therapist to adjust the temperature to a low medium for the remainder of the time?

3. Merengues and souffles, a light-handed approach.

Sometimes my approach is more related to a gentle spatula, incorporating the fluffed egg whites with the cream. Gently, slowly, and mindfully not to flatten the delicately fluffed egg whites. “I see, yes, that makes a lot of sense. The situation was delicate.” That is way too much sugar. Yes, the people-pleasing tendency and fawning are trauma responses. You want the merengues to be just sweet enough.

These Cheetos make a balanced dish, wouldn't you say?

4. Breakfast, bri-nner, li-nner, brunch, why not?

Sometimes you scramble the crap out of the eggs, to make sure they are integrated, you know these eggs are ready to be an omelet. They are ready to become their next best thing. They just need some movement and motivation. Sometimes you need a little vinegar to make the eggs poached… Gently formed. Yes, it is hard to know you can show up that way sometimes in relationships. Understandable that you feel defensive when he says this. But, also, what would you do when this comes up? Exactly. Vinegar.

5. Sauces and reductions, time and patience.

The balsamic reduction comes in handy more often than I would imagine. You just want to let it reduce, simmer, slowly, and intensify. This is like progress in therapy; it feels like nothing is happening at first. It takes time, and you want to trust the process.

Or maybe things boil too quickly,

The therapist needs to know what the right amount of heat this issue requires, so as not to burn the bottom of the pan. But also enough heat to support the process.” What do you think caused that? Where is that coming from? Interesting..”

“What makes you say that? The intensity and identity of this flavor, this person’s self, is slowly becoming the best balsamic reduction it can be. The person puts everything in the pot; this is not a refined process, but then the slow heat and time, taking the time to explore these things, makes some sort of magic. How did you end up with a delicious meal, after seemingly doing nothing? Therapy.

I like to think of theories and perspectives as ingredients. As a therapist, I know what is in my pantry. I know the tools I have in my drawers. I am often “getting new tools and ingredients” as training and CEUs, and impulsive CEUs and trainings. I need that spatula, that beautiful turquoise spatula for this recipe. So, I signed up for another training.

6. Essential Tools and the walk-in pantry.

At the end of the day, you can have the latest Instant Pot or the latest blue Le Creuset, and all the best tools. But, if you do not have the “magic”, that ineffable thing that makes “mom’s cooking” or the “old family recipe” taste the way it does, that “thing”, then therapy will still be food, but it won’t taste the same.

In some way, you need to know how to do both, follow the basic recipes, and make up new recipes with basic ingredients. I use a little EMDR here, some art therapy there, a little bit of DBT, some positive affirmations, and mindfulness. I adjust the temperature. I don’t follow a recipe exactly at this point. Step by Step? Motivational interviewing? Sure, I took the training, but I know what salt does to a dish. I know what lemons taste like. So, I think and feel, do I want them to purse their lips? Or just have a hint of that other flavor to pop?

Sometimes, I will find something unexpected but perfect in my “therapy pantry”, like a meme I saved 8 months ago because it reminded me of a client’s struggle, so I will add it. Does this now need 2 tsps of EMDR? No, I know this recipe needs 4 teaspoons. Everyone needs a little more of that. One more BLS set. Yes, go with that.

7. Salt, fat, acid, heat?

Sometimes we have to let the thing settle in the fridge overnight and take it up the following week. It will hold its shape if you wait. Sometimes waiting and letting things cool down helps with things “not falling apart”. What did we make? Is this a Jell-O mold? Oh no, just a seven-layer dip. I can’t wait to get into that.

Where do we start? So your mom is Latin but from Costa Rica? Yes, they love sour cream. Are you lactose intolerant now? Ok, that makes sense. Yes, the salsa has to go on the side, cause everyone has different spice tolerance. Of course, you tolerate the spice. Oh, it gives you heartburn now, but you still love it?

What would happen if you opted to use the salsa in moderation? How did your family manage moderation? Did you all eat it together at the table? Or was there a moderation conversation, but then everyone put way too much on their plate and way too much salsa? Oh, they wondered why they had indigestion. Interesting.

Do you know why you have indigestion? Didn’t you say you were lactose intolerant before? Oh, you like very spicy salsa? Right. I am sorry, but our time is up. Don’t forget to journal and get some outside time.

So moderation… what would that look like? Can everyone make their 7-layer dip? Ooh, a buffet. Yes, this way you can choose what to put and not put on your plate. People will have their feelings about what you put on your plate, but that is OK. They don’t get to choose what you put on your plate. Yes, your plate is smaller today. Oh, her plate is always bigger? Ah. What would happen if everyone had the same plate? I know you feel like you should have a bigger plate. The oldest kids often do. The baby always gets the best plate again. Well, I seem to remember you didn’t want dessert? Isn’t that interesting? You did not want dessert, but now that Johnny had the last piece, you wanted more. How will you set the table when you make the meal? Our time is up today.

8. Allergies? Food sensitivities? Family dynamic intolerance?

So, in our last session, we sort of established the layers of the dip. I wonder how all the flavors work together? Is this like a turducken type of experience? Or more like a lasagna? Oh, you are allergic to wheat. I understand. Your Dad was too? Interesting. Oh, but his favorite dessert was donuts?

Ok, so yes, almond flour could help. I know, tapping and brainspotting are similar, not quite the same as EMDR, but they do a good job. Similar but different. You get used to it. Exactly, like Oatmilk, almond milk… exactly.

Oh! Non-dairy cheese in pizza? I understand, it is not the same. But, sure, you can have “faux-sadillas”. Step-parents? Yes, not all of them are cashew cheese.

Truffle oil. Right, yes, well, it is used, and hard to find, but if it works for you and you love it. It is an amazing taste. Yes, there is an entire community of people who love truffles. If you write that down in your Psychology Today criteria, the truffle-loving community will find you. They will.

My love affair with a venture capitalist mental health entity and the Narcissistic abuse cycle.

My love affair with a venture capitalist mental health entity, and the Narcissistic abuse cycle.

By Margaret Whitehair 

LPC/S; ATR-BC, EMDRIA Certified Therapist/ CIT; KAP provider

 I was a naive therapist going into my private practice. Professionally, I had ten plus years under my belt and many letters to follow my name. Going into private practice was a way to bet on myself. So far, I had only had experience with “safe” known organizations like hospitals, community organizations, and insurance panels, which my peers and supervisors had vetted. But I was ready to grow, and other insurance providers reimbursed at a higher, more reasonable rate. I heard about an organization (we will call it Armpath for privacy purposes) from some of my colleagues. From the stories I heard about Armpath, I knew there was some hesitation amongst providers, but I was intrigued.

1. Love Bombing: “You are showered with intense love and often referred to as their soulmate.”

Armpath was promising and offered some solutions that I needed. They would panel me on several insurances, at NO cost to me. Wow, that sounded very appealing. Not only that, if I signed up and had some clients (four, so not that many) within two weeks, they would give me a $500 bonus. Also, they promised me $250 -$350 per referral for providers. So if I made them look good and shared their awesomeness (typical dynamic for a narcissist), they would reward me. They wanted me to join and were making it easy for me to want to join. The people I talked to were friendly and responded promptly to my emails. I felt reassured and decided that they could not be as bad as some people imagined.

Human-made drawing of information.

Initially, it was great. I got some clients who had found me through the new insurance I was now paneled with. I felt like Armpath was treating me well and helping my practice thrive. Some other providers were hesitant to share my enthusiasm; they seemed cautious about my eagerness, but did not say anything to me directly. I, on the other hand, being in the glow of love-bombing, spoke very fondly of Armpath. 

I eventually transferred some of my other clients to the Armpath platform because it seemed so much easier to have everything in one location. Armpath had promised to make my life easier, and for a while, they did.

….Yellow Flags appear….

One of my clients noted that he had been charged more for the session than I was. So I checked, and yes, it was $15 more than my contracted rate with that insurance. My client was very money-conscious, and I was glad they noticed. Then the same thing happened with another client, and they noticed it too. So, I switched them off Armpath, back to how I had originally seen them. I remembered the faint echoes of warning from the older, wiser providers. But these were small oversights compared to the benefits I was enjoying. 

I tried contacting Armpath about the billing issues, but suddenly, there was no person to be found on the phone. Their contact form was the only way to get a response. They weren’t quite as eager to talk to me now. Thankfully, I was able to reverse the situation without much impact on my clients or their trust.  

2.Devaluing: “Once you let your guard down, you notice red flags and the intense love disappears.”

I did not get many clients directly through Armpath, but clients were finding me through the insurance I was now working with. I chugged along and continued to build my practice and add clients, including some private pay clients. Armpath was very happy to have me add any of my clients to their platform, including private pay clients. I followed my instinct and did not upload any of my client's documentation or notes from sessions to their platform.

 In November 2024, I got some emails and messages from Armpath saying that I needed to “re-attest” with CAQH (another step we have to do to comply). The messages provided a link to do so. I went to CAQH, which is a reputable organization that keeps all of the therapists and providers credentialed and legal. I followed all the steps to re-attest, and received a confirmation email from CAQH that I was successful.

But a banner appeared on my account, and I received emails from Armpath telling me that I was not successful, and I still had to re-attest. I repeated this procedure several times, receiving confirmation emails from CAQH each time. Yet the banner remained. I was confused. I emailed Armpath to get some clarification. I asked for some clarification as to why this kept coming up, when on CAQH it said I had completed the steps. This felt like gaslighting. Then the silent treatment began. 

3. Silent treatment: “Your abuser stops all communication with you. This is to gain control over you, you are left wondering what happened.”

The banner remained on my account. I continued to re-attest on CAQH, get their confirmation, and email Armpath. As far as I knew, I was doing the right thing, following the steps, and CAQH was confirming I was successful. That is the word CAQH uses in their emails, “Successful Attestation”. Armpath would mark my question as “complete” on the contact form.

This emailing and attestation went on for four months. I have records of four months of this back and forth, with very little response from Armpath. 

4. Discarding: “Your abuser ends your relationship abruptly without warning. They are in a new relationship almost immediately.” 

One day, the banner on my Armpath account said, “Your account will be deleted tomorrow due to a lapse in credentialing.” I was stressed. I had been emailing about this issue for four months, had continuously gotten a “Successful” confirmation from CAQH, and had no real guidance from Armpath.

That week, I had seven people reach out for consultations. I had just changed my “accepting clients” status to open. I usually get several responses. This was great. I was looking forward to having the consultations with my potential clients. I reached out and spoke to some of them, agreeing to send them the confirmation for when we could follow up or start sessions via Armpath. Some of these people happened to have some traumatic histories. I made sure to follow up, as safety and trust are essential to the success of the therapeutic relationship.

The next day, my Armpath account was deleted. I could not access any of my client's information or log in to my account as a provider. I was nowhere to be found in the Armpath system, as far as I could see. I tried to reach out to the clients I had spoken to from the telephone numbers I had from our conversations to make sure they knew I had not intentionally dropped them. At the same time, I was getting emails from my current Armpath clients confirming meeting times or asking for reschedules, as is often the case. My current Armpath clients had no idea my account was erased. They assumed we were still meeting, but I could not log into my account.

I reached out to Armpath, sent emails, and waited. 

5. Hovering: “The abuser will beg for you back after they have left and humiliated you.”

When I finally heard back from Armpath, it was an email from someone interested in chatting about “signing me up.” I was confused. I had been with Armpath for three years at that point, yet this person had no idea. They thought they were signing up a new provider. 

Once on the phone, they spoke to me as if I were an Armpath “virgin,” ready to give me the spiel about the sign-on bonus. I was livid. I reiterated that I was already in an intimate working relationship with Armpath, and had been for three years. She could not find my account.

The girl was kind enough to try and get some additional help. More emails and contact forms followed. No real solutions. In the meantime, I had to let my Armpath clients know that our sessions would not be covered because Armpath had deleted my account. My clients said I was still on their portal as a provider. Armpath offered no explanation or communication to my clients.

How can a company that is entirely electronically based delete my account completely and be unable to access it? How could I have just disappeared from the system? In this day and age, where everything is logged and backed up? This did not make sense. 

I had to cancel sessions and figure out ways to support my clients and continue to see them, people I had seen weekly for three years for mental health needs, while Armpath did nothing to take any responsibility. I offered some super bills and adjusted rates for the time being. Armpath eventually let me know it would be forty-five days to get me “re-certified” with them. 

I emailed and consulted my lawyer because, as a mental health provider, I am responsible for people’s welfare. Armpath was not very worried about the impact on my clients. They simply wanted me to “join again” so they could continue to benefit from my work. There was no concern for the impact this event had on my practice, my clients, their mental health, and my stress levels.

I lost income, potential clients, and really possibly hurt some people's interest in finding therapy. From their perspective, I had “ghosted” them, but the truth was that Armpath erased me.

Armpath was eager to get me to join again. (Refer to step  #1 again) But, honestly, after the stress of it all,  I had to reevaluate my commitment to my practice and to the work that I love. I felt bullied. I was exhausted and stressed. I felt I had little control and all the responsibility. I was shocked at how this company was treating me.

To cut ties with Armpath and continue seeing all my clients, I would have to get credentialed independently with several insurers. This can take some time. I inquired about canceling my Armpath contract. People online shared that it took them months to get off their contract, because, well, there’s no one there to respond. The contact form is the only way to get hold of them. Unless you want to join, of course. In that case, a human magically appears.

This had been going on for more than six months when I was finally re-paneled. My clients thought they were ready to be seen, because on their end, nothing had been noted or changed, except for the period of radio silence from Armpath and my emails about the situation with my account.  

Clients were seeing we could meet, but no, we could not. I was re-paneled, but their new system had a “waiting list period” for new contracts. Guess who they did not notify about this change? My clients or me. . 

As it often goes with narcissistic abuse, the relationship lingers as the victim tries to figure out how to leave the relationship unharmed. I will hopefully break this relationship soon and will search for a healthier situation.  I am now hesitant to trust this type of venture capitalist mental health organization. I now sound like the providers who tried to warn me with their eyes years ago, but could not articulate the reasons. 

Not all mental health providers have had this same experience, but if you do a quick search online, you’ll see that I’m far from alone. Many organizations promise solutions to our very real problems with reimbursements and time demands. And many providers are having the same issue with their versions of Armpath. Some of them serve people well. For example, I have heard that “Soul” and “String Instrument” are pretty good for providers (faint memories of warning whispers and looks emerge).

 All I know is that I have lost trust in this type of solution and that I will now be one of the loud whispers of warning.

As therapists, we get into this business to help people, not to line the pockets of venture capitalist investors. I have nothing against making money or finding great solutions that are a win-win. But if you want to support therapists, you have to care about the people they support, too, not just the business model. There are real people and their mental health care that you are dealing with. 

Motherhood Rant #103 “My Body and My Baby” By: Margaret Whitehair, 2025

Breastfeeding Mother

By: Margaret Whitehair

Pencil, paint markers, watercolor, paper 2015

“We laughed at how absurd it was that I was running funny to make sure my baby was “Okay in there”, so he wouldn’t “fall out.” Somewhere between not wanting him to “fall out” and hoping I could “push him out naturally” there was some serious processing that was needed.

I went on a run when I was about 6 weeks pregnant, and came home complaining about my back. My husband asked what was wrong, I told him I was very awkwardly walk-hop-jogging, holding my belly, because I was worried the baby would “fall out.” Mind you, I am by any measure a well-educated woman, with years of working with kids and mothers, and babysitting, and childcare, who has read all the “What to Expect books,” and the “How to be a good mother” books.

We laughed at how absurd it was that I was running funny to make sure my baby was “Okay in there”, so he wouldn’t “fall out.” Somewhere between not wanting him to “fall out” and hoping I could “push him out naturally” there was some serious processing that was needed.

I name my education and the fact that I am female-bodied because it did not matter. It did not matter that I was inherently born with a uterus and had breasts and could get pregnant, and I wanted to be a mom. It didn’t matter that I had planned this with my consenting and willing husband so that we purposely made this happen. I still felt like I did not know what I was doing. 

I did prenatal yoga, I did prenatal meditation, and self-hypnosis. I would repeat in Goddess pose, “My body and my baby and I want a vaginal delivery.”  

My body and I were talking to each other, but something about the “natural” aspect was not feeling very natural. I was worried. When doing the scans, the nurses would say, “Oh, that is a big baby!” My husband is 6’3.” I am 5’2.” No surprise there. 

“That is a big baby.” 

“You are carrying him so well.” 

I gained 40 lbs? That is good, right? 

I am considered a geriatric pregnancy? Oh,  38 is geriatric? Okay. 

Big baby equals–subtle foreshadowing–you will have to have a c-section.

I had the c-section at 4:00 am. I was lying flat on the operating table, completely naked, with nurses and providers hovering over me. All I could see was their eyes. I was fully conscious and did not know anyone’s name. They had not introduced themselves by name to me before meeting my bulging belly, shaved vagina, and vulnerable desire to meet my baby. I felt like a slab of meat. I felt like a heffer.

Whoever said to you that nursing is easy has not done it. 

The idea that this very natural thing we are meant to do as women, or mothers, is easy, is a lie.

My son would not latch right away. The nurse would shove his little face into my engorged boob with an intensity and aggression that bothered my newly emerged mama bear mother spirit. He wanted to nurse. I wanted to nurse. He was hungry. I was desperate to satisfy his needs. In my post-c-section haze, after 24 hours of labor in the hospital, with only a popsicle in my system, I wanted to feel him close and to be good enough. 

After the blue-gloved rough-handling nurse pushed him into my boob another ten times, they agreed we would have to supplement. She could have been a winged angel from heaven who was trying to get my son to nurse, motivated only by pure love, and I would have still wanted to chop her head off.

She had gorilla hands on his delicate little head.

Supplement?? Ok, so I feed him formula, and then put him on the boob? Dad can help? Ok, that is great. But why can't he latch on? My nipple shape. Oh.

“Yes, this is hard because you have inverted nipples.” My inverted what?

We were in a daze in the hospital for three glorious days of being completely fed and cocooned, both in love with our son, and each other. But I also felt like something was not right. Why was feeding my son from my milk-filled breast so hard? Why did I not know that I had inverted nipples? Why did they have to shove him into me so firmly? 

I was desperate, thinking I was not doing this correctly or that something was wrong with me. With my nipples, now it was confirmed. 

On the last day at the hospital, a new lactation consultant visited us. I already had lots of hesitation due to the heavy-handed, blue-gloved gorilla hands lady who had repeatedly pressed his little perfect face into my engorged boob pillow breasts.

But, this one, she was wonderful. I am still not sure if she was real. 

She was gentle. She was warm, glorious, kind. She placed his little sweet face on my breast. She spoke to me gently. She reassured me that everything was okay, that he would learn, that my nipple would pop out. You heard correctly, my nipple would adjust.

The feeding schedule was as follows:

Breastfeed the baby every 3 hours for 20 minutes.

After the 20 minutes, hand him over to Dad. He will give him a bottle of formula to supplement, while you pump for 20 minutes (10 or so on each boob). 

Oh, and you need this plastic nipple for nursing. 

Don’t worry, it won't impact your milk supply (wink wink). Depending on who you talk to, the plastic nipple shield can impact your milk production. Milk production, Yes, you are now the cow. Officially you can now start to measure your worth by how many ounces your dear body can produce of this golden elixir of white cells.

All the books warn you of confusing the baby’s latch with the nipple, or the bottle, or going back and forth. They don't get into confusing the mom about her capability to do this “natural easy thing.” The natural easy birthing, slash “ you are now the charcuterie plate”. Or the natural and easy nursing, a.k.a. becoming the cow. 

No one warns you. 

I want to warn you. Not to scare you, but to do what a good friend does, prepare you and protect you from not being prepared. I want to inform you. 

Let me break down the  nursing math: 

This process would take one hour and forty-five minutes to complete. 

And then one hour and forty-five minutes later, we would repeat.

For TWO weeks. We were up every three hours, day and night, trying to get his little body to gain weight so we could stop supplementing, and I could do what my body was meant to do. 

On top of that, our son was what you call a grazer, meaning he took his time and fell asleep while at the breast. I would have to wake him up gently by removing his warm layers of clothing and coaxing him into nursing. Naturally, of course, with the added plastic nipple suctioned into my very achy and sore and, at times, bloody nipples. 

The lactation angel came to our house two weeks later to weigh his lanky, long, and perfectly shaped pale body. He had gained enough weight so we could stop supplementing. What a success. Now we could get into “the real nursing.” 

I thought we already had. 

I am grateful for the one friend who dared to share the truth of her experience of nursing and all of the other mystified “natural processes” we’re supposed to intuitively know how to do as new mothers. She helped me set some realistic expectations. This here, is my gift to you, my dears. 

P.S. In case you are worried, ALL information I share related to any therapy experience is a composite of stories, and no personal accounts or private information is shared other than my own. Also, I am completely grateful I was able to get pregnant, have a healthy child, was able to get the appropriate care and deliver the baby safely. I do not take one day of being a mother for granted. It is my favorite and most challenging role. This is by no means a complaint about being a mother or having the ability to have children and nurse, etc. I also believe in having the right to choose and respect for women’s bodies and rights. For your comfort, I had a second baby two years later. She was not a graser, but more of what is called a barracuda. But that is a whole other story.…

How can we cope? From a therapist who needs her therapist.

How are we coping with the intensity? How are you dealing with the existential anxiety and stress of this day and age? More specifically, how can we support people who are directly impacted by things that are outside of their control? We are all impacted by things outside of our control. As a therapist, I have the privilege of hearing people’s internal struggles, fears, hopes, dreams, regrets, and goals. It is not often that I feel like I have no resources or solutions to offer.

Oh, you have anxiety, can’t sleep, or have panic attacks? Breathe. Have you tried the 4,6,8 breathing pattern? Have you tried the 5,4,3,2,1, grounding tool? Breathing is your friend. Yes, look at the clouds passing by, that is what we do, look at the clouds in the sky, they move and morph. You are noticing, no judgment. Same with your feelings. There is one, notice it, name it, non-judgmentally, and let it go, release.

Oh! You have depression, lack of interest in getting out of bed, sleeping a lot? Yes, exercise, sleep hygiene, healthy food, socializing, and talking to friends all help. Have you tried SSRIs, NSRIs, Ketamine, or TMS? Yoga? The 70% therapy and 30% medication is a great combo.

But these days, the issues that are shared in sessions are quite hard to offer solutions to.

You are worried that AI is taking over the world, and will remove all the usefulness for human thinking? You are worried that your basic rights to be who are, to marry who you love, to dress how you feel, to align your internal experience with your external presentation, or to have your very real documents reflect a very real reality, are being systematically stripped from you? Or maybe some people thinking that access to hormones is somehow only a few people’s issues? Everyone has hormones.

I know we are all female first, in utero. I know! It is crazy how people forget. People forget. How is a gradient and spectrum of life, color, gender, joy, feelings, and an ombre of existence somehow hard to understand? Your brother once described a person as a “two-dimensional lizard”? Yes, two-dimensional lizards have difficulty with nuance and gradients. It takes at least three dimensions to get that. I understand.

You wonder what matters, what is important, what makes a difference? Does recycling still make a difference? I love my Keurig, too, and yes, it IS sad that their pods are not recyclable.

Oh, wildfires and snowstorms in places that never see snow? Have you tried breathing? Exactly.

Hmm… have you tried breathing? Yeah.

Honestly, sometimes breathing is the only thing we can control. Oh, you vape? ….

“Art: The word, the thing, or the person?”

Exploring the theoretical and practical overlaps in Ketamine Assisted Psychotherapy, Art Therapy, Psychoanalysis, and Trauma.

By Margaret Whitehair, LPC, ATR-BC; EMDR Certified Therapist, and KAP provider

Title: ‘What the fuck is that guy doing in my painting?” 

Watercolor on paper 5”x7” 

by Margaret Whitehair 2024

The structure was twelve women–six sitting and six journeying. One nurse, strong, calm, and centered.  Two facilitators: one very experienced and comfortable holding a big space for everyone, and one learning the ropes and offering her Yoga skills as a part of the opening grounding rituals.  Everyone, everyone in the room is trauma-informed and therapy trained and certified to the gills. I, trained and experienced. Thirteen years of professional experience, multiple therapists starts and stops, and real blocks at times. I was feeling the boost of confidence from my recent certification in trauma. And some of the imposter syndrome is starting to lift. And yet, a total disbelief at my discovery. 

You set an intention at the beginning of the journey. What do I want to learn from this? What am I open to receiving in this journey towards myself, my true self, and my higher healing intelligence? Initially, my exploration was about understanding my attachment style.  Why do I have to go so far to be able to come back and be close? There is, and has been, an inevitable orbit to my relationships and attachment patterns. The most noticeable one that was confusing and recurring was becoming an issue in my daily life. Why would I need to “hate” or “dislike” or even resent my other? Why was it inevitable that at times I would enter into that mind frame and need to escape? It sent me off on a trajectory, which now feels like an orbit of sorts. A lopsided orbit, where the gravitational pull at the farthest end of the orbit served to catapult me back to closeness. I was tired of the trajectory, this involuntary trip I took, in response to I did not know what. Years of trying to understand my “why”. 

In my daily life, I would feel it like a switch. Suddenly I would want to get away. To run, to go anywhere. Walgreens? To run an errand? It did not matter. Any escape would soothe me. And like magic, going away, then gave me permission to miss or see clearer. An emotional nearsightedness. Exhausting.

I love people, I love their stories, their eyes, their love, their feelings. I connect deeply and then the orbit starts. I had been used to it as a child, having parents living in different countries, spending time in one or the other, adapting to the rules of one household and the lack of rules in the other. Oscillating from a level of taking for grantedness, and comfort that, at its worst, resembles emotional neglect. At its best, it meant freedom. Too much freedom at times. Then catapulted to a structured ruled environment with clear expectations and “routine”, that dreaded word.

In these two existences, I wanted to connect. There were unspoken rules. In one, do not talk about your mother’s boyfriends, parties, impulsivity, or beauty. In the other, don't do anything to risk not being accepted in this already precarious arrangement. Be as cute and helpful as can be. Be nice, so nice.

In one, I wonder where on the planet the person may be, or what they may be doing, all though it was probably sleeping with a hangover if it was early. In the other, wonder and notice any sign of tension and diffuse it. Diffuse and frustration, and be grateful. Learn to speak English as soon as possible so that the person who is caring for you can understand what you need while your dad is at work. Do whatever your older sibling says, as he is in charge while you travel alone across the globe on planes four times a year. He is your ally, but he has a temper. 

Don't say things you should in the second place because he will get upset. 

Don't upset the lady, because then there will be a family meeting. And there will be consequences. Don't drink her ginger ale. 

Consequences. What are those? Can't we just do what we do at the other place? Leave in the middle of the night to some random trip 14 hours away, wake up in the car after being snuck in there on a whim for some spontaneous fun. This is so fun. Where are we? Sleep in the car because we arrived too late to take the “lancha” to the cabin? No problem. Don't complain, and look pretty, like a lady.

Are you thirsty? Don't worry, the adults have beer. Take a sip, beer will calm your thirst, you cute seven-year-old.

At the lake, I would paint. Art was allowed in both places. It was the bridge. The one aspect that transcended the distances, language barriers and the rules. So I fell in love with art. I needed it, and I depended on it.

Art also had a “lancha” and a cabin and a lake. And he was the epitome of good. Kind, warm, like a muffin man. A picture-perfect husband with a picture-perfect wife. Both were tall, tan, and blue-eyed. Both beautiful…

 After the second day of training and my first journey, I made art as a way to integrate my nonverbal experience, as a way to process whatever had been moved.  As I was painting, I realized there was an image in my painting that I had not intentionally “put there”. I asked myself, “What the fuck is the person doing in my painting?”. There had been no asking and no permission to enter that space. And yet there he was, in my painting. Pain.Thing.

It was a string I had noticed in my consciousness and started to pull on. If KAP is a gateway to the dissolution of walls and dropping into the unconscious, then is art the language to bring that back?

The following day, the intention was to “be better with myself more” to know “I will find my way home”. I was more open and ready to release. I knew I was safe, in my nest with the support and guidance of these 11 other amazing women exploring their own intentions.

The colors and the music were everything, I descended into the earth and became the earth. I observed with love and awe and encountered creatures. At some point, I say, “ I cannot see”...”, “I do not want to go there”, then,  “ I love dancing, blinking my eyes. I'm going to stay here for a minute.” There is so much going on… I love art so much”....and then silence. 

There it was. Motherfucker. I said it. “Motherfucker”. “That guy?” in total confusion and disbelief. 

The level of disbelief, despite all the evidence and supporting structure, was harder to believe than the possibility itself. Even though I knew it in the experience to be true, nonverbally, and with Default Mode Network offline, letting and allowing all the connections to be made freely, with my body and spirit knowing I was safe, surrounded by support and expertise and readiness. The conclusion or realization was hard to believe. This is what was most surprising. 

Love can turn into anger so easily. 

I cry. If music is God then what is art? I am not sure I want to go back there. Wait, if this is true, does Art equal hell?  That doesn't make sense. I felt my intellect (defenses? Words?) start trying to work overtime. Does that mean I have to choose? How can I choose? I asked myself to just feel. I cry. 

How could it have taken me so long to understand? The language piece and interrelationship between these words and their function in my life. Art was my main source of self-expression, the main way to express feelings where words were lacking. “Art” is an identity and foundation for all my quirks and permission to be who I am and how I am, due to art. 

Why would I then think Art is hell? Why would I feel like I have to choose between the “Art” that I thought to be mine and true, and the art that was hiding all along? Or that had gotten buried in my psyche?  The one that would have crushed my reality if I had dared accept the experience. 

I was now confused at having solved a puzzle that made no sense. Why would this conflict lead me to believe I had to choose? How could art be the perpetrator and the savior at the same time? 

The kind and calming presence of the retreat leader, whom by this point I trust fully, the experienced and compassionate gaze of my therapist/colleague sitter reminded me I was safe. Her beautiful presence, long black hair, and precarious relationship with her own body and pain, reminiscent of Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride come to life, gave me permission to feel my own pain. Their presence reassured me it was OK to feel this. The nurse's caring and supportive curiosity asked me, gave me permission to take that extra step to admit that this was a difficult thing to navigate.  I did not want to have to choose the thing that is so important to me, my healing, my lifestyle, and my journey because the “word” was and is somehow contaminated by this early experience whose reality was now undeniable, but which I could still somehow not allow myself to believe.

What would it have taken for me to even consider that experience true? Where would my reality have gone? As I emerged from the journey, the sadness and fragility of my sweet child self was overwhelming. I felt bare, exposed, and deeply connected to some other time and place. 

So many contradictions, and so much confusion. I was such a shape-shifter that I didn't even know who I was. I had secrets I could not tell my mom or dad. What if I DID want to talk?

Was it Art? Is this bad? Did Art hurt me or save me? Probably both. 

Quita Penas…