Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday...

Oye. So on Wednesday, which happens to be a full moon and I find that incredibly cool for some reason, I turn 43 years old. I've never been embarrassed to tell people how old I am. Today, I actually had a student say she thought I was in my late-20s. After I resisted the urge to get up and kiss her on the forehead, I had to remember that she was 16 years old and maybe when I was that age, I too would have been "liberal" in my calculation of someone's age. Although, when I think about it, I've always been HORRIBLE at estimating things: inches of snow, outside temperatures, height, weight, and yes, ages too.
So, what did I learn in my 42nd year? What were the highs, what were the lows? What did I waste too much time and energy on and what should I have paid more attention to? What did I celebrate? What did I discover?
The most defining factor of the past year has been my employment status. As most of you know, it was about one year ago that I was preparing to start my "dream job" at the Wisconsin Resource Center on May 20, 2013.  That dream quickly turned into a nightmare. Overall, I was certainly qualified for the job but what really made the difference in their decision to hire me were my references. One in particular from the brother of the Medical Director at Winnebago Mental Health Institution, who was my internship supervisor and has always been an advocate for me. He knew how much I wanted that job and he laid it on thick while talking with the Clinical Director of the WRC. He didn't lie about my skills or tell them I possessed some magical power that would make me "the perfect candidate" for the position, but he definitely "pushed my ego" while talking to the Clinical Director, of that I'm sure. I will always be indebted to him for doing that, because without that extra "umph" I think they may have gone with another applicant. And this job, at this location, with this population was what I concentrated my Research and Evaluation final project around. I was quite vocal in my dissatisfaction with my current job: not enough hours in a week to see all of the clients I was expected to see, not enough hours to complete all the necessary paperwork; I just really wanted a 40 hour work week instead of a 32 hour work week, but I had been repeatedly told that the possibility of that happening "wasn't in the budget this year" so how long could I remain in what felt like a very restrictive environment?
May 17, 2013 was my last day as the Older Adult Counselor at The Thompson Community Center, which has been one of, if not the best work environment I've ever had the privilege to be apart of. That group was solid. At my "going away lunch" several of my coworkers got up and sang a song about my love of the Packers, my tradition of decorating every one's doors for Halloween and organizing a Halloween lunch for the staff, in costume of course. Each year it got bigger and better and that just made my heart swell with excitement as a bunch of adults got to act a bit more childlike for an hour or two.  When we lose contact with that "child within", I'm convinced we begin to take things too seriously, and what better time of year than Halloween to rediscover the child in us all! We trick-or-treated from office door to office door, showed off our stylish, hip costumes and came together to break bread and enjoy a meal together...something that doesn't happen nearly as often as it should, regardless of the employer or agency or holiday.
After such a grand send-off, I loaded down the trunk of my car with all of the appropriate text books I had lugged into my office in the summer of 2011, training worksheets, handouts related to various conditions that had proved helpful in my work with this population, graduation photos, vacation photos, pictures of my nieces and grandson, of my parents and siblings, even a photo of my dog and cat that I thought for sure would find an honored place on my new desk as a state employee.
"You can't always get what you want/ No, you can't always get what you want/But if  you try sometime you just might find /You get what you  need"
I wanted my "dream job": Going to work every day with a sense of hope that would inspire the inmates I worked with to have hope. To be willing to work hard, uncover the deep-seated motivations for what they had done to get themselves here and to process those feelings, challenge those motivations; to prove them wrong, to accept that they were men who could have meaning and purpose in their lives, despite their current circumstances. I used the "blossom where you're planted" metaphor often with inmates. "You may not be in the best soil and frequently people will forget to water you, but you have to cultivate than inner sense of meaning and purpose to get what you need from this place each day; just enough to carry you through to the next day, and then we'll see what that day brings."
I was an employee for approximately 22 days before that theory smacked me in the face like a cold, wet trout.
Anyone who knows me, essentially knows this story so I won't bore you all by retelling it.
Bottom line: Sometimes you don't know what you want until you know what you don't want.
"Take me in, into your darkest hour/And I'll never desert you/I'll stand by you"
Per what has twistedly become part of the "norm" of my life, my husband once again went into detox and AODA treatment for alcoholism this year. It was kind of weird, but when he wanted to go into treatment in July, I told him he had to wait until August when my state benefits started and treatment would be much less expensive for us. If I think about this decision in terms of him needing a kidney transplant and me telling him to "wait it out until our insurance is better" that would be incredibly cruel, and think what you will, that's exactly what I told him. Again, anyone who knows me, essentially knows this story too, so I won't bore you all by retelling it.
The differences this time were that he went to residential treatment for a month about 4 hours north of home, then went to a sober living residence for men in northern Illinois, about another 4 hour drive from home, just in the opposite direction. Having talked with the director of the Illinois residence several times, she assured me that "we get into the guts of it here" which is exactly what I thought was needed to get my husband "over the hump" of the mountain he keeps sliding back from. What no one really knew is the depth of the trauma he needed to work through. I don't think Mark was even aware of what would come pouring out of that rusty bucket once he tipped it over. Within days of leaving WRC, he called me and asked me to come pick him up; that he couldn't make any more progress there and he'd gone as far as they could handle. I basically told him to "fucking buck up camper, this is treatment, these are the issues that continually drive you to turn to alcohol so you don't feel what you need to feel in order to heal." In a way I was right: he needed to walk through this trauma and feel all of the unbelievably shitty feelings that go with it and stop running from it, stop hiding from it in the bottom of a beer can or vodka bottle. What I was wrong about was my impression that the sober living residence was equipped to help him through this journey. Two days after his call asking me to pick him up, the director called and told me Mark was at their local hospital due to suicidal ideation, that the level of care he needed to deal with his trauma was more than they could provide and that his belongings were packed and someone needed to pick him up from the hospital then pick up his stuff from their residence. I told her I would leave ASAP and I drove to Illinois and picked him up, then we drove to get his stuff. I was angry, resentful, disappointed, heartbroken, catastrophizing, sad, hurt, confused...I was feeling every negative and angry emotion you can list.
To make a long story short (as they say) Mark's been sober since August 6, 2013. When he got home he started seeing a therapist who specializes in trauma treatment. He's changed in radical ways that three years ago I could only dream of occurring. His change has spurred my own change; we relate to each other in such healthier ways now.  We're certainly not perfect and we both frequently resort to those behaviors that had become "our norm" and "comfortable" for us, but when one of us calls the other out and makes a small step toward the other, we're making progress. We're both changing and growing. It takes incredible courage to approach someone in a different way, when the "old way worked so well" for our dysfunction (another over-used term, I know). We kept dancing the same old, familiar dance and when nothing changes, nothing changes. Now we're changing.
Bottom line: Expect the unexpected. Believe when every instinct tells you not to. Don't give up before the miracle happens.
"Well, it seems like so long ago/But it really ain't you know/I started out a crazy kid/Miracle I made it through the things I did/The things I did..."
On March 25, 2014 the state of Wisconsin granted me full licensure as a Licensed Professional Counselor. I had completed all of the educational and supervisory requirements to hold such a license, but with a history like mine, there are always raised eyebrows, skeptical looks and additional questions to be answered.
When I applied for my training license as a professional counselor, I completed the additional addendum related to "Convictions and Pending Charges", mailed in all the necessary legal paperwork related to my two misdemeanor drug charges, paid $8 to have that information reviewed and verified, and there was no additional work required on my part: the state issued my training license without any delay related to my legal history.
Obtaining my full license and becoming credentialed as a mental health provider with various insurance companies, however, has been another story.
After I submitted all of my application paperwork to the Department of Safety and Professional Services, I was asked to provide additional information in an email which read: "It is your responsibility to submit the following: Personal statement describing each offense listed below along with an explanation of the penalties imposed and verification that you completed all requirements."
The insurance companies generally request additional information with versions of the following email:
"Thank you for disclosing your criminal convictions on our Confidential Questionnaire.  For the review of our Credentialing Committee, please provide detailed  explanations  of the events  as well as any/all official documentation that you may hold.  Be sure to indicate whether the convictions were misdemeanors or felonies." Or, I've received this email as well:
"Regarding credentialing for Kristine Sack: I work with credentialing for (Blah blah blah insurance company) and am reviewing the credentialing application for the above clinician.  Regarding her 'yes' response to disclosure question # 21on the application regarding the 9-21-04  infraction, please have the clinician advise:
·       An explanation of the charge and her response to the charge,
·       how this experience affected her
·       what the legal requirements were and if they were completed 
·       If this information was reported to the LPC  Board."
My first response to a request like the one listed immediately above is: "Really? Do you think I just 'skipped' that part of the application? Like the state wouldn't find out if I just didn't mention it to them?" I mean really, I understand that government oversight happens, but does this particular company really think I just blew past that portion of the application process, expecting that no one would look back at my training license application and overlook an enormous discrepancy?
The kicker for me is the second bullet point: "how this experience affected her." Do they want to know that on January 20, 2003, I clung to my father, sobbing, from an ER gurney while a deputy sheriff read me my Miranda rights? Do they want to know that the social worker who lead the groups on the hospital's inpatient unit was married to the doctor whose DEA number I had stolen and used for calling in my own prescriptions? Or are they more interested in the humiliating six hour "interview" I had with the DEA and DOJ in April 1997 where I felt like I had to serve up my former lover on a silver platter in order to save my own ass?
Bottom line: The past is never gone forever.
In less than 75 minutes, I will officially become another year older. Older, yes. Wiser? What do you think?
"You held me down, but I got up/Already brushing off the dust/You hear my voice, you hear that sound/Like thunder gonna shake the ground/You held me down, but I got up/Get ready 'cause I’ve had enough/I see it all, I see it now" 

 

When Your "Little Sister" Turns 40

On February 18, 2014, my "little sister" Jan turned 40 years old. Tomorrow, Saturday, 02-22-14, my parents and I are driving to Eau Claire to help her celebrate with about 30 of her closests friends.  It doesn't seem that long ago that I celebrated my own 40th birthday and graduation from graduate school at the same time. I had set a personal goal that I wanted to have my Master's Degree by the time I turned 40, and I accomplished that goal by approximately 8 days. That was when I developed my first-ever "five year plan" which was to apply to a PhD program by my 45th birthday and start that program in the fall of 2016 after I turned 45 in May, 2016. So far I have done some preliminary research on what doctorate programs I would be most interested in, and my interests tend to lean toward forensic psychology, which equals two years of law school and three years of psychology. So if I start a five year program when I'm 45 years old, I'd complete it at age 50 and then would need to work until approximately age 70 just to make it worth the time and effort I put into it  my current age of 42. That seems like a long time into the future, and I've never been the type that creates goals so far in advance; I'm more of a day-by-day person, which is somewhat unusual for someone with my perfectionist personality type.
Regardless of my "own stuff", the point is that my sister has already turned 40 years old, which kind of freaks me out as the oldest of three children. I don't remember Jan's birth. I was not yet three years old  when she came along and scientifically, people cannot remember anything before approximately age five; if you dispute that fact, I will refer you to my Research and Evaluation instructor from my graduate class who is all about statistics, "hard science" and valid research which overwhelmingly establishes that humans cannot remember anything prior to age five. As proof, he provided his own "memories" from the car ride home at three days after his birth and everything he reported to "remember" about the trip, his  parents disputed. Plus, there's a butt-load of research that indicates that the human brain is incapable of remembering details of experiences prior to age five, given how the human brain develops.
So most of my memories of Jan's infancy are related to her being placed in a pelvic brace and cast due to a hip dislocation at the time of her birth. All of parents' offspring were born in a breach position. I was born in 1971, my sister in 1974 and my brother in 1976. This was long before ultrasounds determined the sex and position of the fetus, so all three of us were born in the "breech position" which comes down to instead of us being delivered face down, head first position, we were all born "butt first", face up, which isn't the ideal position to be in when one is being born. Due to what I and my mom believe to be basic incompetence from the general practitioner who delivered my sister and brother, my sister was born with a "dislocated hip" because, again this is just my opinion, the MD had to "pull" her out of our Mom's birth canal and in order to make that process easier, given that my sister was in a breach position, he pulled one of her legs forward to make the delivery a bit easier. This resulted in her hip being dislocated. She spent her first months of life in a plaster cast and after that she was in a brace that kept her legs/pelvis from developing normally. Regardless of the photos my parents have of my sister in her cast and brace, I do remember her being in the brace. To this day, she uses a "lift" in one of her shoes as one of her legs is approximately 1 1/2 to 2 inches longer than the other.At times she has seen a chiropractor regularly and used a "lift" in one of her shoes.
So tomorrow, I will be a part of the celebration of the 40th celebration of her birth, because, I only have one "little sister" regardless of her chronological age.

Now, Shingles? Really?

One week ago I was diagnosed with Herpes Zoster, commonly known as Shingles.  According to Taber's Cyclopedic Medical Dictionary, h.zoster is, in part, "reactivation of varicella virus years after the initial infection with chickenpox...A painful vesicular eruption occurs along the course of the nerve (called a dermatome) and almost always is unilateral...the virus may cause meningitis or affect the optic nerve or hearing. The incubation period is from 7 to 21 days. The total duration of the disease from onset to complete recovery varies from 10 days to 5 weeks." Fan-frickin-tastic.

Oddly enough, even though I'm only 42 and Shingles most commonly afflicts those age 60 and older, this is not the first time I've had a Shingles outbreak. My first outbreak occurred when I was 19 years old. Apparently it never crossed the mind of my family practice doctor at the time that what I presented with could be Shingles, so he "cultured" one of the "vesicular eruptions", which, in English means he popped one of the blisters, rubbed a long Q-Tip on the fluid that oozed out (seriously, that's exactly what happened) and sent it to the lab for analysis. 48 hours later he called to tell me I had Shingles. That was approximately 46 hours after I was peeled from the ceiling of the exam room because the popping and oozing hurt so frickin' much. 

Although Taber's doesn't mention it, it's commonly thought that the likelihood of a Shingles outbreaks can occur when one is under stress and natural immunity is lowered. It is scientifically proven that people who are immunocompromised (undergoing chemotherapy or have HIV/AIDS) are more susceptible to Shingles. Since I don't fall into either of those two categories, I'm left with this outbreak being prompted by "stress" which both concerns and confuses me.
Those of you who follow my blog, have friended me on Facebook, or just talk with me from time-to-time know that the past four years have been less than smooth. Ok. I was laid-off from a job I didn't really like, started graduate school full-time, completed a year long unpaid internship, graduated, turned 40, went to my 20th high school reunion, got a job in my field, left that position after getting a job working with what I thought would be my "ideal population", realized that was not a good fit, then went back to the agency where I had previously worked but in a new position. I had surgery on the great toe of my right foot, several basal cell carcinomas removed, and a breast biopsy from an abnormal mammogram. I lost my Grandpa Krause, one of my great-aunts, a great-uncle and my dog Peanut to the natural process of death. I gained a daughter-in-law and a grandson. There were family issues, marital issues, vacations to Hawaii and Utah, family weekends in the Dells, a trip to Super Bowl XLV, and the addition of a wonderful, hyper little dog we named Apollo.  This is the "stuff" of life when "life happens."
During particularly stressful periods, in the back of my mind, I thought about a potential Shingles outbreak. Sometimes I wondered, if the stress I was under wasn't enough to trigger an outbreak, what kind of stress on God's green earth would be required for an outbreak? I didn't want to consider what my life would look like with that level of stress involved.
Then last Tuesday, 01-21-14, at the end of the day I felt an ache in my lower back. When I woke up on Wednesday, the area just to the left of my tailbone felt swollen and I couldn't lay on my back or sit with my back against the back of my office chair without feeling really uncomfortable. That night I stopped by my parents' house and my mom looked at it (with a magnifying glass, no less) and said I should see my doctor. Since I couldn't really see the area that hurt, I wasn't all that concerned, until the pain prevented me from sleeping most of Wednesday night. So on Thursday I saw my very competent doctor who took one look at it and said, "You've got Shingles." So there you have it.
My insurance won't pay for the Shingles vaccine because I don't meet the first qualification of being at least 60 years old. Granted, it's been 23 years between outbreaks, but if there is something that could lessen the intensity should I have another outbreak before I hit the magic age of 60, I would like to take advantage of it. Shingles at 42 is odd enough, but add into that the fact that I had them once before when I was 19, well that's just a medical anomaly in my view. I'm not going to get into the politics of insurance-driven health care decisions because I've been in that fight since I was 23 years old in one form or another and my goal here isn't to get all righteous about how, because of my history, my insurance should cover the cost of the vaccine. Interestingly enough, when I picked up the medications my doctor did prescribe to help with my symptoms, my pharmacist told me that the retail price for the vaccine is approximately $219. That's not really in my budget right now and I'm ok with that. In another 23 years I will meet the criteria of being at least 60 years old (I'll actually be 65) and then Medicare will pay for my vaccine! Medicare, provided that's still around.
You know me: I quite enjoy being the odd-duck, the anomaly, the somewhat-weird one who odd things happen to - provided it's not something that will get me into serious trouble of any kind. I have finished my 5-day course of steroids and have two days left of anti-viral medication which I will finish even though I'm feeling a bit better after spending last weekend trying to rest; it's uncomfortable and awkward when you can't lay on your back. Although I will admit, I do enjoy the look on the faces of co-workers when I tell them I have Shingles and they assume I'm contagious on the same level as someone spreading SARS.
I'm just hoping for another stress-free 23 years. And although I did choose the photo below, I look nothing like this! Trust me!

  

Good-Bye 2013

As December 31 seems to come more and more often, and because I am naturally a sucker for any time to reminisce, tonight seems an appropriate time to put down my thoughts about the year that will soon to be part of our collective history: 2013.

Earlier today, I was thinking that the best way to describe 2013 would be as "annus horribilis" and in some ways that may be true, but overall, I would describe 2013 as the year that I learned A LOT about my professional-self.

Those of  you who are on our regular Christmas card list likely noticed that there was no "Sack Family Letter" included in this year's mailing. That was because there wasn't a lot to "brag" about this year, which is usually what those letters include. However, personally, this was a year that stretched me and challenged me professionally more than anything I had ever experienced before. Even though it may not be considered "successful" by some people, for me, it really was.

The general story is that in mid-May I left my position at Lutheran Social Services (where I had been since the start of my internship in 2010) for what I considered one of my "dream jobs"; at least it was certainly a population I wanted to work with SO badly that I applied and interviewed there for an internship position in 2010, but was told I was "third on the list with only two positions." The psychologist who gave me that news was someone I kept in regular contact with as I earned my training license and interviewed for any open position they had at the Wisconsin Resource Center. I was eventually hired there and started as a Psychological Associate on May 20, 2013.

If you've been following my blog and my Facebook posts, then you are already aware of what I considered a "high price" to work there: I was told to take down my blog posts about my experiences there, even though I had not violated any HIPAA rules. I was told to take down a "team photo" because some people who work at the WRC considered it an invasion of their personal privacy.  Although I considered it a violation of my first amendment rights, I complied. Apparently that was not enough because at the end of October, I was told that my Clinical Director and Unit Supervisor had serious concerns about my ability to work with the inmates on my unit and my apparent lack of boundaries with them.

When I began my position at WRC, I was still accumulating training hours toward the 3,000 hours I needed before applying for full licensure as a Professional Counselor with the state. During one of my weekly supervision sessions with the Clinical Director, he told me that he "dreaded every day" of his first year working at WRC. At the time he had spent approximately 26 years as a state employee. At the time I found comfort in his experience because I was experiencing something similar: I really didn't look forward to going to working there every day.  I was verbally abused by inmates on a regular basis that I wanted to provide therapy to. I was often yelled at from behind their steel cell doors, being called "a fat bitch" and "a useless bitch." I had inmates start to masturbate in my office while we were supposedly in a "therapy session." I was told by inmates that they "visualized" me while masturbating while trying to fall asleep the previous night. On more than one occasion I saw inmates from my unit in segregation who were naked in their cells and rubbing their penises while I was asking them questions to determine if they could be released from "observation status" and returned to the unit. I was a stranger in a strange land. I had absolutely no previous experience working in such a setting and I wasn't provided with a lot of professional help: I didn't observe anyone who experienced these scenarios to learn how to deal with them. I was sort of thrown into a "baptism by fire" setting and when I failed, I was held accountable. I can understand that. Without appearing to "whine" about it, I will say that my training with actual inmates was at best sub-par and overall sucked. Maybe I should have been more demanding in the training I needed. Maybe my supervisors should have picked up on my lack of opportunity to observe others in similar situations.  Who knows. Either way, I came to the decision that continuing to work at the WRC was like trying to jam a square peg into a round hole; it just wasn't a good fit. That was incredibly hard to me to admit. You see, I have this "perfectionist" trait where my brain tells me I can do anything if I just work hard enough and am good enough to succeed in ANY situation. That ran smack-dab up against my day-to-day work at the WRC. For the first time in a long time, I had to admit that this wasn't something I was good at. I had to acknowledge my limitations as a person and as a counselor. During grad school when other students admitted that they would have to refer a client out or that they couldn't see themselves working with a certain population, I thought, "Ha! I would never do that! I am invincible and I can do anything!" And after five months of working with maximum security male inmates, I admitted that I couldn't work with them. All of the experience and training and education in the world likely wouldn't make me successful in that setting. Maybe if I was on another unit I could have felt competent in the services I was providing, but that wasn't the circumstances I found myself in. So I swallowed a BIG dose of pride and left my "dream job" on November 1st.

I applied and interviewed for several counseling positions from that date until I was re-hired by LSS and started there on December 2nd. Previously I worked as the Older Adult Counselor at the Thompson Community Center and the Oshkosh Senior Center, plus providing outreach counseling to older adults in their homes. My current position is as a counselor that meets with adolescents in the schools they attend through a United Way supported program called PATH (Providing Access to Healing) where I see students in the school setting so they don't have to arrange transportation or insurance coverage in order to see a counselor. Currently I spend two days a week at a high school in Appleton, one day at a middle school in Appleton, and one day at a high school in Menasha. On Fridays I am in the LSS office completing case notes and various other administrative "stuff" that has to be completed for the students.

My very first graduate school class was "Intro to Counseling and Human Development" and I actually wrote a short paper on the population I felt least at ease with seeing: kids. At the time I thought that because I didn't have any children of my own, nor did I spend a lot of time with kids, that it was a population I couldn't relate to. However, during my year as an intern, I worked with many children and adolescents and learned that I didn't have to be afraid of them. They were and are just like any other client I may see: they want someone to help them sort out what's going on in their lives and they have a strong drive to live more full, active lives. Even though it's been just a bit less than a month that I started working with them, they have taught me more than I have taught them, of this I'm sure. Unlike maximum security prisoners, they want to overcome the obstacles in their lives, they want to be successful, and they work very hard to be so.  They have hope and so do I, which is something I didn't find at the WRC.

So that's basically what I've learned in 2013. It was sometimes painful, but in the end it allowed me to be who am I as a counselor and as a person.

Bring on 2014. I have a feeling that I'm ready.

Thanksgiving Traditions, Fry Bread and All

As usual, this year I cooked the entire Thanksgiving meal my family has annually enjoyed for the past eight years. I generally start cooking items that I can easily reheat the day before the meal, so this year I made the green bean casserole, pumpkin creme brulee for dessert, and pumpkin tomato soup (which is actually much tastier than it sounds) in advance.
By the time the turkey is about 45 minutes from being removed from the oven, I generally look like a wreck. We always eat at 1pm. If someone had taken a photo of me yesterday at 12:15pm, I would have had on no make-up, been wearing an old (likely holey) tee shirt and shorts (I get WAY too warm to wear sweatpants while cooking), had flour in my pulled back hair, a sweaty forehead, and glasses that kept slipping down my nose. It's never my most flattering moment, but within the 45 minutes I have before Tom or Tina Turkey is ready to "rest" before carving, I somehow pull it together: I clean myself up, put in my contacts, put on some make-up, change into decent clothes and manage to look refreshed! Just like Martha Stewart! LOL!
Except for turkey, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole, I generally don't serve any other portion of the meal from one year to the next. That means coming up with a new dessert and several new side dishes every year. This year I decided to make fry bread, as defined by Merriam-Webster's online dictionary as "quick bread cooked (as by American Indians) by deep-frying" and the website goes on to claim the first known use of the term was in 1950. 1950? Seriously? I can trace my Native American heritage WAY back before 1950. Good grief, my parents were born by 1950.  I guarantee you the women in my mother's family had been making fry bread LONG before 1950.
My great-grandma Ziemer, who was Native, and her husband, my great-grandpa was even more so, called fry bread "hounds' ears." When I told my maternal grandma (their daughter) that I was making fry bread this year, she didn't know what I was talking about until I described them and she exclaimed, "Hounds' ears!"
The plain fact of my maternal family's Native American heritage has been a point of contention among some of my family members.  One of my great-aunts (sister to my grandma) hated the fact that she was "Indian." When we would drive past an anonymous house in Shawano (where both of my parents families' are from and where I was born) that had a bunch of stuff on the front porch, or a car parked on the lawn, my great aunt would say, with noticeable disdain in her voice, "I bet Indians live there." As if she wasn't one herself.
When my parents were attending Shawano High School the mascot was an Indian. The school has since had a change of heart about Native American school mascots and are now known as the Shawano Hawks.  When my parents went to high school, there was no high school on the Menominee Reservation so Native American kids were bused into the Shawano school district. According to stories I've heard, it wasn't an easy atmosphere; certainly not as contentious as the integration of white schools in the south, but similar in a lot of ways.
Then there was the Menominee Warrior Society's siege on the Alexian Brotherhood's property outside of Gresham, WI on January 1, 1975, known as the Novitiate. I'm not getting into this portion of Menominee history because it is much better documented in a book titled The Abbey and Me by J. Patrick Rick, a former Catholic resident of the Novitiate. I met with him two years ago in Gresham after I had read his book, but I bought another copy just so I could have him autograph it. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about the author's interpretation of the events that occurred that winter, but the fact that Marlon Brando showed up as a sign of support to the Menominees indicates the level of craziness that was going on at that location at that time. Legally, it's trespassing to enter into the Novitiate and its grounds, but I've done it and have taken photos of what I discovered, which was a horribly damaged and beaten skeleton of a once majestic, grand building.
But I digress. What I really want to write about is the feelings I had while making my very first batch of fry bread yesterday. I had the luxury of a marble rolling pin and electric deep frier for my first try at it, but I did knead the dough and beat it down, then knead it some more before finally rolling it out and cutting out 6" circles to place in the hot oil. While my hands were covered in flour and the dough squished between my fingers, I thought about my great-grandmother, Margaret Ziemer, and who had taught her how to make fry bread and what it was like for her to create her first batch. And I kept thinking farther and farther back to the Native women in my family who had likely created hundreds of batches of fry bread, not just as a novelty at Thanksgiving, but as a staple for their families. What were their lives like, especially compared to my 21st century existence? Me, with my graduate degree, when I'm sure I don't have to go back too many generations to find family members who couldn't read English, but sang beautiful Native lullaby's to their children. Me, who uses bottled hair color to keep my grays from showing though my hair, when I know my great grandmother and her sister (my great great aunt Sarah) would take down their hair at night and braid it down each other's backs, speaking a language I didn't understand, but that was lyrical and something special shared between the two sisters.
I see a lot of my great-grandma Ziemer in myself: she had plenty of beaus and absolutely loved big, bold costume jewelry.  She wore rouge the color of bricks and always had lemon drops in one of her many handbags. I can say I had a number of suitors in my youth and that my motto toward jewelry, shoes and purses has always been, "Go big or go home."
These are traits I possess that I attribute to my great-grandma.  I hope I honored her and all the other Native women in my family yesterday, by making my first batch of fry bread.

Photo I took of the Novitiate, October 2012.

Mental Health Inside the Walls: Resignation

Having never worked in a prison, when I began my career at my former employer on 05-20-13, I didn't know what to expect. I was excited and ready to begin working with inmates in a therapeutic way; building rapport, identifying their issues, drawing on past experiences inmates could provide where they acted appropriately, managed their emotions, and made effective decisions.  I wanted to use various therapeutic interventions to help inmates develop whatever it was in their lives that they lacked – challenging distorted thinking, processing emotions, building self-esteem, working through past traumas, all in a supportive, safe environment.

That is not the type of therapy practiced where I formerly worked. In fact, I had been told multiple times that “there is no therapy (on the block where I worked)” which likely makes the block function better to provide the structure it does.

I, however, am not the type of counselor who can walk into an interaction with a client with the direction to “never trust an inmate” who is, for all intents and purposes, my client, shading the entire session. Maybe it’s inexperience or maybe it’s naiveté that prevents me from entering and maintaining that mindset for 8 hours. Or, maybe it’s believing in the intrinsic good in people, having both compassion and empathy for my clients and letting my clients know that.

I will be the first to admit that I am an open and out-going person.  I like to get to know my clients to better put whatever it is that they came to see me about into context. Outside of therapy, I am opinionated, loud and generally always include my input in any discussion. Those may not be traits for a successful counselor in this environment, but they have served me well up to this point.

I am a damn good counselor. That much I know is true. I professionally relish in participating in sessions with clients that move forward, that don’t rehash the same topics and complaints again and again, where even if progress is painful, it’s still progress.  I don’t believe that this type of therapy is what’s needed in my former role. Which is neither good nor bad, it’s just a difference between who I am and what is needed to fulfill that role.

I am slowly gaining what I believe is a sense of relief since being informed that my tenure there has ended.  Although I found it comforting when a psychologist once told me that he hated every day of his first year of work there, I don’t want to hate coming to work every day. I don’t want to work in an environment where I am routinely called a “fucking bitch” or a “fat bitch” or any other of the numerous insults I have endured while working there. I don’t want to work in an environment where men do walk around in their cells naked and that I need to be prepared to deal with that. That is a skill set I don’t currently posses, nor do I think I ever want to.

I have learned more about myself as a professional counselor and as a person in my short tenure there, and I am grateful for that. Sometimes in order to discover what one does want in life, one has to first discover what one doesn’t want. I’m still academically and intellectually intrigued by the experience of incarceration on people and the role of psychopathy development in people, especially those with a lengthy history of personal trauma, however I am now much more aware that these are my academic and research interests, not necessarily my employment interests.

"Some birds just aren't meant to caged; their feathers are just too bright. And when you set them free, your soul rejoices because they never should have been caged in the first place." 

I am no longer caged.

Halloween Memories

I love Halloween. It's my second favorite holiday closely followed by Christmas. I think part of it has to do with summer fading into fall and seeing the majesty of Mother Nature work her magic and change the summer leaves of Kelly green to rich burgundy, bright gold and deep, blood red. Sometimes in Wisconsin the weather jumps from late-winter into late-spring/early-summer without much of an official "spring" in between, but autumn always takes its time; changing shades layer by layer until the green is gone, the dazzling hues fill the woods, neighborhoods, and yards and eventually the trees retract their sap and the leaves are forced to wither and fall, all in preparation for the glorious burst of budding branches we wait so patiently for through winter.
Autumn is a period of transition in nature, and it's often been a transitional time in my life. I started my college career in the fall of 1989 at UW-Madison. Many years later, I left my first husband during the fall of 1994 and began a relationship with another man that would influence the direction my life would take for many years to come. My first serious attempt at recovery began in the fall of 1996 and I sustained that for the next four years. On October 1, 2002, I moved from Milwaukee back to Appleton, which was a major life-shift that has resounded for me daily since. I married Mark on September 30, 2005, and our wedding photos show just a hint of the approaching autumn.
I love decorating for any holiday, but besides Christmas, Halloween is my favorite.  One year I handed out candy to trick-or-treaters dressed as a shower curtain. I have one of those plastic door covers that I place over our front door every year that has a skeleton with big red eyes on it. It comes with a battery pack & button that when pushed, makes the eyes of the skeleton blink and emits a creepy sound.  I love it. I wait until neighborhood kids are just about to our front door, hit the button and scare the crap out of them. On some Halloween in the future, I envision myself dressed as a scarecrow sitting in a lawn chair on our front porch, only to move and emit scary sounds when kids walk up the porch toward our front door. I can't help myself. Halloween should be scary and exciting and a bit nerve-racking. Over the years it has lost its luster of the unknown by offering tick-or-treating at the mall and hospitals offering free x-rays of the collected candy to make sure there are no pins or needles in the treats received from strangers. I can understand the comfort a candy-x-ray provides, but that's not how it was when I was a kid. I will be the first to admit that when I was at the pinnacle of my trick-or-treating years, there weren't sociopaths jamming pins and needles into mini candy bars, so the fear of the actual loot taken in was low, however, walking down neighborhood streets which appeared innocuous during daylight became scary enough when walking through them in the dark, with a flashlight as our only lighthouse beacon.
I remember Halloween being so cold that my parents would buy plastic (likely flammable) costumes for me and my sister and brother that were big enough to fit over our snowsuits. I'm not kidding; one year I went as Fred Flintstone and my sister was Barney Rubble (why we weren't Wilma and Betty is an entirely other discussion) and those costumes with the plastic-like masks that wrapped around the backs of our heads with a single elastic sting were two sizes too big in order to fit over our snowmobile suits. It was our father that roamed the neighborhood with us, carrying the flashlight, consoling us when we got apples or a nickel instead of actual candy. It was always a bit of a thrill to see another flashlight bobbing down the block, heading toward us, wondering if it was friend or foe. That, my friends, is the memory kids should have of trick-or-treating.
When I lived off campus in Boston, apparently the Dorchester neighborhood where I lived was too dangerous to trick-or-treat in, because I have no memories of youngsters ringing my doorbell, yelling, "Trick or treat!"
When I moved to Milwaukee, however, I was disturbingly surprised by the trick-or-treat process. First, trick-or-treating doesn't happen on the evening of Halloween; it's either the Sunday afternoon before or after Halloween for safety concerns. From the living room windows of my first apartment there I saw shotty mini-vans drop off large groups of kids (and I use that term liberally, many of them appeared to be well into high school) who had no costumes, no masks, but only a pillow case in which to collect their treats. These kids were so intimidating, I wouldn't dare think of challenging them for a trick, instead. They weren't local neighborhood kids and, quite frankly, I think their idea of a "trick" would've been to pull a weapon of some sort.
So come this Thursday (Halloween!) I will offer the tots of my neighborhood a variety of cavity-causing treats. I will be dressed in very conservative costume-like attire (dictated this year by my employer), but I will push that small red button that causes the eyes of the skeleton on my front door to blink & emit that creepy sound, because it is, after all, still Halloween.