A client once burst into my office for his first session and collapsed onto the couch. A little startled, I began with my usual protocol, asking what he had come for help with. “I’m a teepee,” he said. I stared at him, unfazed. “I’m a wigwam,” he continued. I nodded.
“I’m a teepee,” he repeated. “I’m a wigwam!”
I took a deep breath. “Obviously,” I explained, “you’re two tents.”
This story didn’t happen, but it’s my favorite therapist joke. (If you haven’t gotten it yet, read it again aloud).
People who know me outside the therapy room tend to think of me as a comedic fellow. The reason being, I surmise, is that I am in fact a comedic fellow — if I must say so myself. Some of them wonder how I could possibly be a therapist as well. Often, they do this aloud and in my presence. People generally regard therapists as serious professionals helping people with their serious problems in a calm, soft-spoken, (non-comedic) manner.
It’s a fair question, and one answer is that I actually do have a serious side. It comes out mostly when I’m asleep, but it also makes appearances in the therapy room. If you wanted to psychoanalyze me, you might discover that my powers of humor derive from a sincere desire to spread joy, happiness, and empathy — which I maintain is foundational to all therapy — and is consistent with that desire.
The other answer is that humor can be a powerful tool in the therapy room. Many people come for their clinical visit feeling terribly nervous and uncomfortable. This is especially true in my area of expertise, couples counseling, in which two people come to meet with a complete stranger to share their most personal moments (especially the most personal failures). Can they be blamed? Who’s excited about discussing their sexual dysfunction with anyone, let alone someone they just met? In this particular venue of counseling, I have found humor helps loosen us all up. It helps chip away at some of the discomfort and the shame and the resistance that clients bring with them.
Donna and Dwayne
As an example, consider Donna and Dwayne, an African American couple from Baltimore City who came in for help with their relationship. She walked in looking timid but hopeful. He followed behind looking P.O.’d from the get-go. He literally sat back on the couch, crossed his very muscular, tattooed arms, and glared at me.
I started off with the usual pleasantries and asked them what brought them to therapy today. Donna looked at Dwayne, who didn’t move his gaze from me. She began to explain that they were having problems in their relationship. I listened for a few moments, nodding. When Donna finished the broad overview, I looked at her, then at him, and replied (mostly to him), “Uh-huh. So let me see if I get what happened: she’s unhappy with you, so she said, ‘hey, let’s go talk to a scrawny white Jewish guy about our problems and that’ll make everything better,’ and you were like, ‘that sounds GREAT!’”
He did a very subtle double-take when I tagged myself as a scrawny white Jewish guy, then cracked a smile. That loosened things up enough for me to get a foot in the door with a client who was clearly not excited to be there to begin with.
Humor has been a great connector for me, inside and outside of the therapy room. Someone somewhere said, “Everybody laughs in the same language.” (I just Googled it — turns out it was Yaakov Smirnoff, another comedic scrawny white Jewish guy. Go figure). Research tells us that the single most important factor in the outcome of therapy is the relationship between the client and the therapist. Nothing helps build relationships like a good shared laugh.
Clients know when they come see me that it’s not going to be an interrogation or a kumbaya circle. It’s going to be a real conversation between real people. It’s going to be deep, but it’s going to be fun. It’s going to be us connecting to help them manifest change in their lives. I don’t think that can be accomplished by the clinician being a detached professional. At least not this clinician. But you can’t do that as a friend either. The sweet spot shares some features of both extremes.
Pete
Pete was a young man who I was seeing for depression. He started off one of his sessions with a new concern: “I think I may have some short-term memory loss,” he suggested. “I know,” I replied. “You told me that five minutes ago.”
He looked concerned for a moment, then he broke out in a grin. Pete “got better” in due time. Not from that joke, you understand. But the camaraderie that undergirded our intense conversations, and the jokes that peppered them, certainly helped.
Poking a bit of fun at the problems can also make them less menacing. “I need help with my procrastination,” said Avi, the husband of a couple I was working with. “We can talk about that later,” I replied.
Of course, you have to know your audience. You don’t make a joke about memory loss with a senior. You don’t make off-color jokes or (do I need to say this?) racist jokes. Self-deprecating jokes are usually a safe bet. Puns likewise are not terribly risky, but let’s be honest, also not terribly funny.
Sure, some of my jokes fall flat. But that happens in real life too. I’d say that just makes the therapeutic relationship all the more genuine.
You know what I think? Laughter is love. And love is the most buoyant of human experiences. If you’re coming to me for help, I’ll use whatever tools I’ve got to lift you up. Comedy is just one of them.
But yeah, it’s my favorite.
Questions for Thought and Discussion
How does the author’s premise about humor in therapy sit with you?
How do you use humor in your own clinical practice?
Have there been instances when humor facilitated therapy? Hindered it?
If you appreciate humor in your life, do you bring it into therapy? If not, why?
File under: The Art of Psychotherapy, Musings and Reflections
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“I’m a teepee,” he repeated. “I’m a wigwam!”
I took a deep breath. “Obviously,” I explained, “you’re two tents.”
This story didn’t happen, but it’s my favorite therapist joke. (If you haven’t gotten it yet, read it again aloud).
People who know me outside the therapy room tend to think of me as a comedic fellow. The reason being, I surmise, is that I am in fact a comedic fellow — if I must say so myself. Some of them wonder how I could possibly be a therapist as well. Often, they do this aloud and in my presence. People generally regard therapists as serious professionals helping people with their serious problems in a calm, soft-spoken, (non-comedic) manner.
It’s a fair question, and one answer is that I actually do have a serious side. It comes out mostly when I’m asleep, but it also makes appearances in the therapy room. If you wanted to psychoanalyze me, you might discover that my powers of humor derive from a sincere desire to spread joy, happiness, and empathy — which I maintain is foundational to all therapy — and is consistent with that desire.
The other answer is that humor can be a powerful tool in the therapy room. Many people come for their clinical visit feeling terribly nervous and uncomfortable. This is especially true in my area of expertise, couples counseling, in which two people come to meet with a complete stranger to share their most personal moments (especially the most personal failures). Can they be blamed? Who’s excited about discussing their sexual dysfunction with anyone, let alone someone they just met? In this particular venue of counseling, I have found humor helps loosen us all up. It helps chip away at some of the discomfort and the shame and the resistance that clients bring with them.
Donna and Dwayne
As an example, consider Donna and Dwayne, an African American couple from Baltimore City who came in for help with their relationship. She walked in looking timid but hopeful. He followed behind looking P.O.’d from the get-go. He literally sat back on the couch, crossed his very muscular, tattooed arms, and glared at me.
I started off with the usual pleasantries and asked them what brought them to therapy today. Donna looked at Dwayne, who didn’t move his gaze from me. She began to explain that they were having problems in their relationship. I listened for a few moments, nodding. When Donna finished the broad overview, I looked at her, then at him, and replied (mostly to him), “Uh-huh. So let me see if I get what happened: she’s unhappy with you, so she said, ‘hey, let’s go talk to a scrawny white Jewish guy about our problems and that’ll make everything better,’ and you were like, ‘that sounds GREAT!’”
He did a very subtle double-take when I tagged myself as a scrawny white Jewish guy, then cracked a smile. That loosened things up enough for me to get a foot in the door with a client who was clearly not excited to be there to begin with.
Humor has been a great connector for me, inside and outside of the therapy room. Someone somewhere said, “Everybody laughs in the same language.” (I just Googled it — turns out it was Yaakov Smirnoff, another comedic scrawny white Jewish guy. Go figure). Research tells us that the single most important factor in the outcome of therapy is the relationship between the client and the therapist. Nothing helps build relationships like a good shared laugh.
Clients know when they come see me that it’s not going to be an interrogation or a kumbaya circle. It’s going to be a real conversation between real people. It’s going to be deep, but it’s going to be fun. It’s going to be us connecting to help them manifest change in their lives. I don’t think that can be accomplished by the clinician being a detached professional. At least not this clinician. But you can’t do that as a friend either. The sweet spot shares some features of both extremes.
Pete
Pete was a young man who I was seeing for depression. He started off one of his sessions with a new concern: “I think I may have some short-term memory loss,” he suggested. “I know,” I replied. “You told me that five minutes ago.”
He looked concerned for a moment, then he broke out in a grin. Pete “got better” in due time. Not from that joke, you understand. But the camaraderie that undergirded our intense conversations, and the jokes that peppered them, certainly helped.
Poking a bit of fun at the problems can also make them less menacing. “I need help with my procrastination,” said Avi, the husband of a couple I was working with. “We can talk about that later,” I replied.
Of course, you have to know your audience. You don’t make a joke about memory loss with a senior. You don’t make off-color jokes or (do I need to say this?) racist jokes. Self-deprecating jokes are usually a safe bet. Puns likewise are not terribly risky, but let’s be honest, also not terribly funny.
Sure, some of my jokes fall flat. But that happens in real life too. I’d say that just makes the therapeutic relationship all the more genuine.
You know what I think? Laughter is love. And love is the most buoyant of human experiences. If you’re coming to me for help, I’ll use whatever tools I’ve got to lift you up. Comedy is just one of them.
But yeah, it’s my favorite.
Questions for Thought and Discussion
How does the author’s premise about humor in therapy sit with you?
How do you use humor in your own clinical practice?
Have there been instances when humor facilitated therapy? Hindered it?
If you appreciate humor in your life, do you bring it into therapy? If not, why?
File under: The Art of Psychotherapy, Musings and Reflections