It might surprise some people to know that as a counsellor 90% of the time I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. That’s only surpassed by the fact that as a client the figure is closer to 99.99% percent of the time.
The other 10% that is engaged and functioning (as a counsellor) seems to be composed of a number of elements. The main one being that I’m trying to pay as much free attention to the client as I can muster. So I’m listening to the words and the tone of voice as much as, sometimes more than, what is actually being said. Their story is important, yes, but often just as important is their tone, their posture and mannerisms. I’m trying to separate the person from their patterns of behaviour. Patterns of behaviour that have become adopted as a means of managing, maybe even surviving, their everyday lives. Which, given that I have never lived their life, is a pretty big ask.
Another bit of that 10% is me trying to think of any way that I might assist them in dismantling those behaviour patterns. This might be something as simple as offering words of encouragement, complete with the right tone of voice. Often though, the right thing to do won’t be that obvious. So a fair bit of the time I’m probably making random or, at best, intuitive guesses as to what might be workable or even appropriate.
Sometimes it’s hard to know when I’ve got something right or if I’ve got it badly wrong. As is the case when I take a random but maybe intuitive stab in the dark and the reaction surprises us both. So, if for example their reaction is rage and indignation, does that mean I got something right or wrong. Emotional release is considered part of the recovery process, so in that respect one could argue that I was right to take that intuitive risk. On the other hand, is an apology in order because I’ve crossed a boundary of some description. Then again, might it be both. Even after more than 40 years of doing this I still find it a bit of a minefield.
Navigating Hades. 