Hell Hath No Fury

I was 11 years old and in elementary school when my friend’s older brother suggested that we hide behind a tree together during what was supposed to be an innocent game of hide and seek (you can read that whole story here: http://ciracenter.org/2016/06/brock-turner-is-not-problem.html).  I was 11 years old when this boy jammed his tongue down my throat, rammed his hand under my shirt and my bra, grabbed at my breasts and attempted to wedge his fingers inside of me. I was 11 years old when I experienced what I now know as dissociation and the submit response - the final and forgotten phase of the nervous system's fight, flight, freeze response - for the first time in my life. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak...I could only cry and stare at the moon for what felt like an eternity because I was so utterly terrified of what was being done to my body without my consent.

I was 11.

Fast forward 26 years.  Brett Kavanaugh has been credibly accused of sexual assault by three different woman and he has just been confirmed as our newest Supreme Court Justice.  Every time I have thought about writing about this, I either start crying and then avoid it or avoid it all together.

What can be said that hasn’t been said already??  

We talk and talk and explain and plead for understanding...to be seen...to be heard...to be validated and none of it matters.  Brett Kavanaugh is still appointed to the Supreme Court. Donald Trump is still President. Women continue to betray their own.  And men will continue to rape, abuse and assault. So what’s the point?? For the last couple of weeks, I’ve pretty much been stuck in this deep, dark place, caught between profound despair and hopelessness and murderous rage.

Because anyone who is a survivor, and many who are not, could’ve told you before it happened that no one would take Dr. Ford seriously.  Because we haven’t been taken seriously either.  

We could’ve told you that even when people pretended to take her seriously, like with a joke of an FBI investigation, that it would end exactly the same.  Because our personal abuse/assault histories were never resolved either.

We already knew this was going to go down the way it did.  Because this is just simply how we treat survivors here - same shit, different day.  But to have it play out on this particular platform at this particular level...despite the fact that we knew it would end this way, it’s also too much.  The entire federal government just made it clear to the entire world that women have no worth other than the sexual gratification of men. They just made it clear that we will never be believed (if a white woman who also has a doctorate isn’t believed, then no one will be believed).  And that if it did happen and we are to be believed, that it’s our fault anyway because insert some rape-culture-victim-blaming statement here.

It’s just too much.

It’s one thing to have our friends and/or our families struggle to say and do the right thing when we disclose our sexual trauma or how it’s affected us.  And as much as we hate it, it’s so normal for us to have no real motivation to report or even disclose what happened to us because...well, we know how that goes.  But to know that at the highest level of our judicial system sits a man so steeped in privilege and power that he was able to get a promotion after having several very credible accusations of sexual assault….well, that can feel like the death blow at times.  That has made me feel like there’s nothing left to fight for. If it’s 2018 and THAT can still happen...we’re doomed.

So if you’re in that place too, I get it.  I’m sobbing as I write this because I feel it so strongly.  If you have moments of feeling like you have no fight left in you, I’m with you.  The world can be such a disturbing, fucked up place and sometimes the energy that is required to just get through the day is all you can muster.  I profoundly get it. So take a minute to rest. Hell, take a week. Get off of Facebook. Stop listening to NPR. Stop watching CNN. Read something light.  Cry with people who get it. Take a bath. Watch something funny. Take a little real-world hiatus. This is deserving of your tears and it’s Ok to take a break.

BUT THEN RISE UP.  Because this shit can’t stand any longer.  

How many times has someone grabbed your ass or your breasts without your permission?

How many times has someone rubbed their body against yours??

How many times has someone continued to touch you and pressure you despite your lack of an enthusiastic “yes”?

How many times have you felt threatened or intimidated by a man’s unwanted attention?

How many times have you been catcalled on the street?

How many times have you felt objectified as a sexual object rather than an actual person?

How many times have you been made to feel like you did something wrong even though you were a victim to someone else’s bad behavior?

How many times has a man bought you drink after drink with the intention of having sex with you when you’re not legally able to consent?

How many times have you wound up in a sexual situation that you’re not sure you want to be in?

HOW MANY TIMES???

ENOUGH.

All of these men in the government are banking on this “blowing over”, some have even explicitly said so.  So we need to scream at the top of our lungs. We need to VOTE in record numbers. We need to protest every chance that we get.  We need to talk to whoever will listen. We need to burn it down (not literally of course ;)) and start over again.

If they won’t listen when we’re rational and intelligent and non-emotional, as Dr. Ford so bravely did, then we’ll get ugly.  We’ll get loud. We’ll get angry. And when they still won’t listen, we’ll vote them out. Every last one.  By all means, ladies and allies, take a moment to rest and mourn this historical, monumental loss and failure at the highest level.  But then get your pitchforks and megaphones and get ready...

Because hell hath no fury as millions of women scorned.

For all things voting, go here: https://crooked.com/articles/be-a-voter-save-america/

Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma and anxiety expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago’s Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her or her staff, please visit www.ciracenter.org

Life Can SUCK (even when things look pretty on Facebook)

This June is a very significant time for me.  It marks the 1 year anniversary of creating a space for my business, but it also marks the 1 year anniversary of creating a new space for myself.  On social media, we see lots of posts about physical transformation (which is awesome!), but we rarely see stories of INTERNAL transformation, which is exactly what I want to talk about.

1 year ago my marriage was on the rocks.  My stress, anger & frustration were through the roof.  I experienced my first (& hopefully last!) bought of clinical depression that left it difficult for me to get through the day (and at times I didn't without some serious assistance from family and friends).  My business was rockin', but I simultaneously felt like I was failing at all of the things that no one else could see.  It was BRUTAL.  But ya know what else happened 1 year ago?  

I made a decision to change.  

I stopped blaming other people for my circumstances.  I started taking actual responsibility for my own happiness rather than relying on others to do that for me.  I stopped coping in unhealthy ways & instead started actually taking care of myself: I developed a daily practice of meditation; I got into my own personal therapy (again); I got Nick & I into martial therapy (again); I prioritized alone time, despite the barriers to actually doing that, which I have (re-)learned is vital for my well-being.  I reminded myself over and over and over again that I was worthy & deserving all of my efforts (even when it didn’t feel that way).

But let's be real about this enormous change.  I didn't just get miserable, wake up the next day & do things differently.  This misery, & subsequent change, took YEARS.  The build up of unhappiness that burst last summer crept up on me slowly & the whole working-toward-change-thing happened in fits & starts.  But I kept at it & now I'm beginning to savor the fruit of my labor.

So why am I telling you all of this?  Well…the other day I posted professional family pictures that portray my family in a beautiful way (curtesy of Jamilla Yipp Photography ;)).  We are all smiling & look happy…and in those moments, we truly were.  But the pictures I posted weren’t of my children’s tantrums (which they did).  They weren’t of Nick and I disciplining the tantrums (which we did) or hugging through the tears (which we also did).  Because those don’t make great pictures!  

But I feel very aware of how others might perceive my life and myself as a result of those pictures or simply from people knowing that I’m a Psychologist.  There might be assumptions about the happiness of my marriage or the behavior and/or general well-being of my children or the perceived ease of our family life.  Which I get - and the pictures certainly collude with those assumptions!  Social media is all about the appearance of perfection.  And trying to maintain that, even if it's not conscious, is exhausting.  And witnessing other people's seemingly wonderful lives in this fish bowl kind of way can be depressing & send us into shame spirals about why-the-hell-don’t-we-have-our-sh*t-together-like-so-and-so.  So here I am saying it: 

NO ONE IS PERFECT.  

Not me, not you, not anyone.  No life is as glorious as it seems on FB.  And I know that you probably know that, but it’s also very easy (for me at least) to forget so I think we need frequent reminders.  We all struggle at times.  We’re all climbing our own personal mountains and sometimes life really sucks even if we’re not blasting that fact on social media.  

So be kind.  To yourself & to others.  And please, celebrate the wins.  I know I certainly am <3 

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, the Founder and Director of Cira Center for Behavioral Health, a trauma and anxiety expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To learn more about her and her practice, please visit www.ciracenter.org

Brock Turner is Not the Problem

Chapped, rough lips covering my entire mouth.  Hungry, wet tongue slamming into the back of my throat.  My chest heaving, gasping for air that is hard to find.  A cold hand forcing it's way up my shirt.  Awkward, hard fingers frantically pulling at my bra to grope at my breast.  His hot, ragged breath in my ear. The gravel from the concrete digging into my thighs.  The tree in front of me, preventing me from seeing the world and the world from seeing me.  Tears spilling from my eyes.  My body betraying me, unable to move - unable to even speak - completely rooted to the ground in shock and fear.

I thought we were just playing hide and seek?  Why is he doing this to me?  Can't he see that I don't want this??

Eventually, the only thing I am aware of is the dark sky and the moon above.  I can vaguely feel his mouth and hands on me and I am aware of the hot tears running down my face, but all that is really clear is the moon.  I focus on that full, white moon for what seems like an eternity until I am jolted out of my trance (what I now can identify as dissociation), back into reality when I feel him trying to shove his hand down my pants.  Suddenly my body is working again and I am running away from the driveway, from the tree, from him.  Running as fast as I can to wherever I will be safe.

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I was 11 years old that night my friend's older brother turned a childhood game of hide and seek into a nightmare.  And that is to say nothing of the sobbing, turned to anger, turned to total despair that I felt later that night.  Or the rumors that started at my school, first that he raped me and then that that we had consensual sex.  Rumors that followed me around and haunted me.  Or the awful, embarrassing conversation where I told my parents what happened.  Or the years after that where I was absolutely terrified of actually being raped and couldn't be alone at night on the streets without experiencing intense anxiety and near panic attacks.  

But I am one of millions.

We've all heard endlessly about Brock Turner, the Stanford Rapist, and the brave survivor who held him accountable.  You can't go anywhere without reading something about it, including this.  Don't get me wrong.  I (obviously) have tremendous empathy, compassion and admiration for the survivor in all this.  She went through something awful, she has been wronged over and over again and she keeps fighting.  Rock on sister.  We stand with you.

And I'm really grateful that this awful incident has at least created a dialogue about sexual assault.   We need to be having these conversations.  And finally Turner...nothing can be said about this person that hasn't already been said.  Something is seriously wrong with him.  He IS a problem, without a doubt.  But he is not THE problem.

Why do I say that?  Well let's think about this story for a second.  At it's most basic, a man sexually violated a woman, he did not feel remorse for what he did and/or he minimized the seriousness of what happened and/or attempted to make her partly responsible for the assault and was not punished appropriately.

How many women have a story just like that?  

How many of us can say that happened to us?  

How many men can identify with this story if they are being honest with themselves?

THAT is the problem.  THIS IS EVERYONE'S STORY.

Statistically speaking, women are sexually assaulted ALL. THE. TIME.  Every two minutes according to some estimates.  Every two minutes.  Think about that!!  And every assault is horrible and deserves the rage of everyone in our society.  Of everyone in the world.  But how many of these millions of cases have received our rage the way Brock Turner has??  Very, very few.

Why are men so quick to protect Turner?  Because they can identify, but have never talked about it.  They've never had their crimes against women plastered all over American media, but it makes them think about what that would be like.  It makes these men think about all of the times they have been with a woman sexually when it was questionable to do so.  It makes them think about the time/s when they did assault someone, but got away with it because she didn't accuse him.  Or she did, but he denied it and shamed her instead.  Or he was accused, but not charged.  Or he was charged, but not convicted.  How many men have a story like this??

And the rage that women are expressing is profound.  It is justified and makes perfect sense and it is intense.  And my guess that is that it is partially fueled by their own anger about THEIR OWN STORY.  For women who have been raped and always labeled it as such, they can identify all too well with Turner's victim.  But this story is also causing women who never identified as a sexual assault survivor to re-think their sexual experiences.  They are looking back at their history and remembering things that men have done to them and instead of thinking about that event as simply "this weird thing that happened", they are thinking about it assault.

BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT IT IS.

The details don't matter.  How many women have been sexually violated in some way and they were forced to suffer instead of their perpetrator.  How many?!?  THIS is the problem people.

And we're not talking about it.  Which I get.  Sexual assault is a horrifying, isolating, and often times shaming experience.  It is intensely private and personal and ought to be the woman's choice about who, when and if she shares this experience with others.  She should not be pressured or cajoled into disclosing.  At least THIS should be on HER terms.  But part of the reason it feels so scary to tell people is because she (oftentimes rightly) assumes that she will be blamed for it.  Or at least questioned.  Made to feel like she had some role in it.  How many people would sign up for that??

We need to change the culture folks.  Enough is enough.  But how do we do that?  More on that in my next post.  But for now, let's just keep standing in solidarity with this brave, brave woman who said everything she needed to say to her perpetrator.

What would you say to yours?

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma and anxiety expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her or her staff, please visit: http://www.cirapsyd.com/

THIS is The Way You Should Be Parenting

That sounds ridiculous right??  That there's one way to do something so insanely complicated??  The idea that there actually are right answers??  And yet, we read those kinds of posts and articles all the time and hear it just as frequently.  This is the same...but pretty different too.  Let me explain...

I was feeding my 1yo dinner when she started to get really upset.  In a matter of minutes, she was screaming and real tears were pouring down her face.  I checked all of the usual suspects, but couldn't figure out what the problem was.  I scooped her out of her high chair and brought her into the bedroom to nurse and as she lay, her little body curled up on my arms, I wiped her tears off her cheeks, ran my fingers through her silky hair and quietly assured her that she was Ok.

Then it occurred to me: I wasn't supposed to say that she was Ok when she was upset.

Hadn't I read that a million times??  And I get it.  You don't want to invalidate or minimize your kids feelings and by telling them they're Ok when they are clearly not, you might be doing just that.  So I get that.  As a psychologist and a person, that makes sense to me.

But how many other things are we told?  We're not supposed to tell our kids they're smart or that they did a"good job" because we're rewarding an outcome instead of their effort.  We're not supposed to tell our children that they are cute or pretty because then they will learn to value their outsides more than their insides.  We shouldn't tell our kids that we're proud of them because now our children feel responsible for our "parental pride" (this was an actual statement...ugh).

And what about all of the other decisions that we are led to believe are life altering for our kids??  We should be working.  Or not working.  Breastfeeding.  Or not breastfeeding if it's too stressful (happy mommy, happy baby after all).  We should sleep train.  Or we shouldn't sleep train.  We shouldn't let our kids sleep in our bed...ever.  Or co-sleeping is the only way our children become securely attached.  So. Many. Rules.

So can I just call bullshit??

I mean, let's just call a spade a spade.  Are some choices technically better than others?  Yes.  Not many, but some are.  Research is able to make some of that muddy, treacherous water slightly more clear.  And yet...  Does any of it really matter in the long run?  I'm gonna go ahead and say not really.  None of that stuff is going to make THE difference about whether or not you raise a relatively happy, healthy, well-adjusted kid.

You know what does make a real difference?

The love behind all of those decisions.

Because here's the thing.  My baby isn't going to remember that I told that she's Ok when she was crying.  And that seems obvious because she's a baby.  But even my 3.5yo won't remember when I occasionally tell him he's Ok when he's crying.  Nor will they remember or care that they had fettuccine alfredo out of a bag tonight for dinner (It's frozen!!  And pre-packaged!!  And FATTY!!  The horror!!).  My oldest's life will not hinge on the decision of whether he should start kindergarten in 1.5 or 2.5 years.  Or that he was sent to school even though he had a double ear infection (relax, he was well medicated and in perfect spirits).  My youngest will be no better or worse off if she winds up taking a bottle past the recommended 15 months.  Or if she is nursed to sleep every single time I am home and available.  Here's what they will remember and what WILL make a difference.

The tenderness of my voice.

The kindness in my eyes.

The softness of my hand on their little cheeks.

The cuddles under mountains of covers.

The joy and thrill of being chased and tickled.

They won't remember the words I say to them and they certainly won't even know about .001% of the crazy, non-stop decisions that are constantly being made on their behalf, for the sake of their wellbeing.

But they will remember the love.  And that IS all that matters.

Does that make sense to you?  Do you agree?  Disagree?  I want to hear about it on my Facebook page!

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma and anxiety expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her or her staff, please visit: http://www.cirapsyd.com/

Broken Can Be Beautiful

Broken can be beautiful.

Does that sound strange to you?  Do you believe that it's actually true or that I'm just trying to spin something?

Initially, it sounded strange to me too, but it doesn't take more than a minute or two when I really think about what that means, for it to make perfect sense to me.  If you haven't already read my last post, read it here and then carry on with this one.  It'll all make more sense that way.

So let's be honest: brokenness does NOT always look or feel beautiful.  Sometimes that looks like we are a sobbing mess on the kitchen floor.  Sometimes that means that we're screaming at someone we love.  Sometimes that means we are pushing those away who want nothing more than to be close.  Sometimes we are so scared of getting hurt or someone actually seeing us that we stay isolated. Sometimes the depths of our despair is so powerful and heavy and dark that we feel like we can barely move under the weight of it.

I get that.  I've lived that.  I've been there.

But here's the thing: if we try to avoid suffering our whole lives, then we run around barely experiencing anything at all.  Life IS suffering.  At least some of the time, it just is.  There is no way around that.  Similarly, if we try to avoid showing anyone our true self, which is marred and scarred and flawed, then we run around barely knowing anyone...or letting anyone know US.

There are a lot of people who have known me for a long time....who were still shocked at my last post.  They never knew the extent to which mine and Meredith's battle against cancer affected me.  Affects me NOW.  Most people had no idea.  Why?

I don't talk about it.  Ever.

Talking about it serves as a reminder that it actually happened.  Talking about how it continues to affect me makes me feel crazy.  I'm not supposed to say that because I'm a psychologist and in my world, "crazy" is a dirty word.  I don't think other people are "crazy", ever, regardless of what they are struggling with or what they have been through.  I'm able to see other's problems very objectively and understand how they developed and see how they make perfect sense.

But that doesn't stop me from thinking that I'm crazy.

So I don't talk about it.  And to be fair, it's not like I'm dying to talk about it or thinking about it all the time.  I think about my identity as a cancer survivor on a pretty regular basis.  And I see Meredith's picture sitting on my nightstand every night before I go to bed.  But I don't think about our whole war and I certainly don't think about how the after-effects of that battle continue to play out in my life.  I don't think I could function very well if that was omni-present 24/7 (even though it kinda is).  But even when I have an intrusive image of something terrible happening to me or my kids and I know it connects back to Meredith, I tell almost no one.  My husband knows.  I just told one of my dearest friends last week as I was gearing up to write these posts.  But that's about it.

But how silly is that??  Feeling pain is only human!  Feeling upset after something upsetting has happened only makes good sense.  And the "upset" will show up differently in different people, but pain is pain is pain.

We cannot avoid suffering.  

And I don't think we should even want to.  Only when we experience deep despair can we truly experience profound joy.

Every day I get a chance to bear witness to people's flaws, quirks, struggles...to the parts of themselves that are broken.  And these struggles and their courage to talk about it is incredible.  Perfection bores me to tears.  Romance novels can shove it.  Disney movies - eff off.  I want the raw...the brutal truth...the good, the bad AND the ugly...the struggle.  THAT is amazing and inspiring and sometimes it is simply beautiful.

And maybe even my brokenness is too.

Inside My Childhood War

It was October 16, 1996.  I am 15 years old and sitting in an assembly at my high school chatting with my friends when the nurse finds me and tells me that my Mom is here and needs to talk to me.

Meredith is dead.

I hear my Mom’s words before I ever make it to the nurses station. Before I see her bloodshot, teary eyes. Before she actually says the words out loud and makes them real.

“Honey, Mere died this morning.”

Instantly, my world split open and I fall, swallowed up in the crevice. I don't remember anything else about that day after that moment.

I stumbled numbly - the shell of a person - through Meredith's wake, giving her eulogy, and then finally her funeral. When we were at the cemetery and it was time to leave, her coffin mere feet away, above ground for those final moments, the loss was so powerful, I literally doubled over in agony. A searing pain exploded from the pit of my stomach and chest that was so unbearable I thought I might die myself. Collapsed on the floor and completely inconsolable, grief wracking my body, tidal wave after tidal wave in an onslaught that seemed never-ending. I could not bring myself to leave her side.  It was some of the most traumatic pain I’ve ever experienced, my teenage self having no idea how to manage the intensity of those feelings.  

How does anyone bury a 15 year old?

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Meredith and I fought in a war against cancer together.  Our first tour of duty was in the Winter of our 7th grade year, when Meredith lost both her Mom and Grandmother to cancer within weeks of each other.  A few months after that, Meredith herself was diagnosed with a rare and severe bone cancer that took every ounce of her strength and courage, almost dying several times throughout her battle.  It wasn’t until the end of our 8th grade year that she finally started to recover.  After that we got a few months of reprieve, but in December of our freshmen year, we were deployed again when I was diagnosed with cancer.  A much less severe cancer than Mere’s (Hodgkin's Lymphoma to be exact), but cancer nonetheless and Meredith helped me until I was in remission in the middle of that Summer.  Our final tour commenced just a few weeks after my recovery before our sophomore year, when Meredith got sick again and this time succumbed to the disease.

For 3 years straight, all Meredith and I did was fight for our lives or help the other fight for hers.  

Our very young lives that were still silly and childlike despite our illnesses, were constantly peppered with facing our own, and each other’s, mortality; a white noise in the background that was impossible to get rid of and equally impossible to ignore.  We had the same oncologist at the same hospital.  We helped each other through hair loss, friendships lost (what teenager wants to deal with cancer??), and school dances missed.  Through chemotherapy, radiation and stints in the ICU.  Through wig-vs-bandana decisions (being bald in junior high and high school is NOT fun, for the record). We were the only ones capable of understanding what the other was going through.  And we both fought courageously.  

The problem is that my fellow soldier died...and I survived.  

Just saying those simple words all these years later still makes my eyes well up with tears that eventually spill over.  It’s unconscionable.  She shouldn’t have died.  She had been through so much already.  She never fell in love.  She never learned how to drive a car.  We were supposed to be roommates in college together.  She was going to be a veterinarian. It shouldn't have happened that way.

And why her and not me?  The survivor’s guilt I felt - correction, still feel - is the most illogical sounding concept, but haunts me endlessly nonetheless.  I have always lived for the both of us without even fully realizing that’s what I was doing.  Always striving to be the absolute best person I can be because I feel like I owe that to her.  She wasn’t able to become an adult, to go on and do the great things I know she was capable of doing.  So I need to do that for her.

And not just because she didn’t get to, but because I feel like I need to prove that I deserve to be here.  I push myself SO HARD because some deep, dark part of me feels like I need to earn my keep.  That if I let myself slide even for a second, death will come for me again and this time I will not evade it.  Or even if I do, someone I love will pay dearly...again.

I know that sounds ridiculous.  

But that’s exactly how it feels.

Most people can recognize that they are anxious because their stomach turns, they get a pounding headache, they catch their thoughts spiraling out of control.  Me?  During a particularly difficult week, I was driving on the Eisenhower to have a play date (and a Mommy date ;)) and had a horrible image of getting into an accident, my car flipping over multiple times with my babies and I inside.  Intrusive images of something terrible happening to me or the people I love - that’s how I know that my anxiety is up.  Those horrific images serve as a reminder to me that screwing up or simply falling short of my enormously high expectations means that I should be punished.

The point is this: there are times when I feel SO BROKEN.  Despite the almost 20 years that have passed, despite the therapy, despite the money I raised for cancer research in Mere's name (more on that later), despite loving relationships that affirm my goodness, despite amazing children that reflect my goodness, despite a career that I LOVE and excel at...this nagging feeling of not being enough persists.  Which makes me feel even more broken.  And at times, the feeling of brokenness is so intense and real and isolating, it can seem as though I am the only person on the planet who feels this way.  Yet I know from my role as a psychologist that I am not alone in this feeling.

And you aren’t either.

There are times when we all feel broken...we all feel unworthy...we all feel undeserving...we all feel like it’s an up-hill battle and we don’t have the energy/courage/will to keep climbing.  There are moments in our life when we ALL feel that way.  

To feel broken is simply to be a human who is still breathing.  And being a human who is still breathing is a truly wondrous thing.

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma and anxiety expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her, please visit: http://www.cirapsyd.com/

Here's Why I Feel Comfortable Sharing My Story With You

Well..."comfortable" is the wrong word.  Even simply writing the title of this article makes me acutely UNcomfortable...like I'm violating a very significant law of the Universe.  I was trained, as most psychotherapists, that you do not disclose personal information about yourself to your clients.  This is "the rule" for lots of really good reasons, but mainly because it's not about the therapist.  It's about the client.  I 100% agree with that and I am nothing if not a rule follower so that's what I have done.

That being said, when the question of should therapists disclose personal information is posed, I think the answer is a bit more complicated.

In the therapy room, I am pretty tight-lipped about my life.  Again, for lots of very good reasons, but mainly because it's not about me.  And I believe that and that has worked really well.  That being said, I don't refuse to answer when someone asks if I'm married, how far along I am in a pregnancy, etc because those things are visible.  And I don't respond in a super vague, potentially awkward way when someone is simply making perfectly acceptable small talk.  I value being authentic more than I value 100% non-disclosure so in these incidents, I feel perfectly comfortable being brief and honest...and that has served me well too.

But what about here, blogging, which is representative of this digital world in general?  Which arguably has become almost as expansive and possibly important as the "real" world we actually live in?  Some might say the same rules apply...but I disagree.

Social media, specifically, and the internet in a more broad sense, has made everything so PUBLIC and accessible, which is exactly why it makes some people nervous.  People who are moe private squirm at the idea of their stuff being out there for all the world to see.  While other people LOVE having an audience whenever they want one.  And then there's everything and everyone in between.

While I'm not an exceptionally private person, the idea of how having your "stuff" out there can feel scary absolutely resonates with me.  Raw honesty - whether it's a blog post, a sensitive picture or a Facebook status - makes us feel very vulnerable.  I experienced this vulnerability all of the time during this last year that I've been writing online.  But really, I've disclosed very little of substance.

I write about my struggles with parenting.  But that's everyone on the planet - certainly not a revelation.  I've written about how I can experience anxiety.  Again, that doesn't feel like anything extraordinary.  I've written about how I am a cancer survivor, which is dipping my toe in the water of disclosure a bit more, but still...I take pride in that.  And it's certainly not a secret given my active role in the cancer community.  My point is that none of what I have disclosed feels like much of a risk.  Not really.  I haven't taken any risks of this nature because I still have it in the back of my head that I shouldn't do that.  I still worry too much about what my colleagues will think.

But I'm done with that.

I spend most of my days encouraging people to be their authentic selves.  To worry less about what others think of them.  To embrace every experience they've ever gone through and figure out how to learn from it.  To not sequester certain experiences or parts of themselves to underground dungeons, never to be seen or heard from again.

And yet, that's what I've been doing on this blog.

Living my life - WRITING about my life - as if I don't have a past.  Or at least pretending like certain aspects of my past aren't still a part of me.  Or that this isn't the place for them.  But that's just not true.  And I'm done pretending like that's the case.

So from here on out, I'm just going to be honest about my life.  Not just for the sake of being honest - I don't want this blog to be the Colleen show.  But if I think that somebody can possibly learn something, or be inspired, or question their own behavior, as a result, then I'm going to be forthcoming and straightforward about my experiences.

Now why on earth does that sound like such a big deal??

What do you think?  If you read something deeply personal about your therapist online, would it make you feel more connected to them?  Uncomfortable?  Something else entirely?  I want to know!  Fill me in on my Faceback page.

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her, please visit: http://www.cirapsyd.com/