Alina
Over the last few days, she has slept and eaten very little. She advises her audience to see the bright side of everything. “I just discovered that I have cheekbones,” she says with a sense of unanticipated pleasure. Her voice is otherwise quiet and calm, with slow, thoughtful tones that strike a peaceful chord in me and no doubt the rest of her audience, like a friendly and familiar echo. Her name is Alina, and she is a fellow psychotherapist who works in Ukraine. Though her face reveals neither panic nor despair, there is something more profound and deep about her that hints at fatigue and sorrow, but also of hope.
Alina webcasts live every day in order to support her people. To support those who need to be in the presence of a kind and compassionate face in the midst of pitch-black darkness. You can almost feel the touch of her cold hands, which she desperately tries to warm by clutching a mug of hot tea. “You need to drink a lot of water, friends, it helps to fight against the stress,” she says, while at the same time listening to the sounds of regular explosions, whose proximity she tries to determine in order to decide whether to rush to the nearest shelter. In her webcast, Alina is “ready to take tender care” of any suffering soul, regardless of nationality or current place of residence. “Please just don’t swear in the chat. Everyone is suffering right now. I understand all of you, but please let’s love and take care of each other,” she says so gently, as if she is gently stroking each one in her audience.
Mikhail
“I don't know what to talk about…,” Mikhail, my own client, says after a long pause. And along with the words, tears that were just moments before frozen within him melt and cascade freely. Yet he cries in complete silence. His face is twisted by pain and horror. But I can see by the position of his neck, shoulders, and arms that something inside of him has been released, opening a space which later may be filled with something other than those tormenting feelings. Three days ago, he found out that his only son had died in Kharkov. From that day, he has known nothing of the simple comforts of sleeping, eating, or any other “normal” part of his previous life. He only knows that his child was killed. “He... was… ki-i-i-illed... killed…” Again, a speechless yet deafening grief which starts my own hands trembling, so I hide them away from the screen. “What would I do if Mikhail was actually sitting right in front of me?” a thorny voice echoes from deep within me. Mikhail blames himself. It was he who left his child in Kharkov several years ago when he moved to Moscow for work. It was he, the father who could not protect his son. It was he who did not die in place of his son.
Long before I became a therapist, my own great-grandmother told me how she had survived the orphanage, World War II, the evacuations, tuberculosis, breast cancer, and her only husband by 50 years. She was the most cheerful and resilient person I have ever known. She always had something to tell me, something to share. However, she almost never talked about the war, only briefly mentioning it. Whenever I cried over some trifle, she would look at me in surprise with her gentle blue eyes and admonish: “Why are you crying? Has a war begun? No. No reason to cry, then, right?” “Okay,” I remember thinking at the age of seven, “should the war start, I’ll cry then to my heart’s content.” That calmed me.
Now I can't cry. During the worst of my life’s upheavals, I have never cried. This has helped in my work. Who needs a tear-stained psychotherapist?
Alina
While Alina's voice sounds more subdued over the following days, there is an increasing power in it. She sniffles but does not cry. Maybe it’s just a cold. Alina will not leave her homeland. Ukraine is her home, this is where her family is with whom she will stay to the end, and “this is not a subject for debate.” Alina promises to go live whenever possible. This is how she chooses to create, or perhaps re-create, the world around her. And there are more and more participants with each of her webcasts, which means the boundaries of her world are getting wider, rather than smaller. This is her contribution, her mission. Over the ensuing days, it seems harder for her to choose words, but they are becoming more precise, and her message is becoming clearer. “Take care of your loved ones, hug them, take care of yourself.” It is amazing how much sense shapes these simple messages. “Do your everyday routine, physical exercise, drink herbal teas.” During one of the live chats, someone asks, “Do you drink tea with or without sugar?” Alina replies, “I drink mine without sugar.” Suddenly, her eyes widen and twinkle as she says, “You know, the most delicious tea is served in trains! There it is served with sugar and lemon. I normally don’t drink tea with sugar, but I just love that one they serve on the trains! You are traveling somewhere far, far away with your tea in tea cup holders…” It is not only the Ukrainian audience that is warmed by the cordial human flame that is Alina. This flame spreads well beyond her Ukrainian audience. By the end of the nearly two-hour webcast, someone who is not from Ukraine suddenly calls in and says, “It is we who should support you, not the other way around.” Alina shrugs it off and sends air kisses.
Mikhail
Again, Mikhail doesn't know what to say. The pauses are the longest we’ve had in our sessions. I hear my heart pounding in anticipation of what he will say. Even through the screen, I seem to be able to hear his heart as well. I follow his chest as he slowly but rhythmically draws in and then out. It seems labored and pained. I know from our work together that he needs a doctor and medicine. But right now, he is here. And I'm here with him. I feel the urgency of helping right here and right now. “And you are,” an inner voice confirms that I am, indeed, already helping. Although I am a cognitive behavioral therapist as a last resort in the most difficult situations, I reach far up my sleeve now and pull out what I believe will be the most useful therapeutic offerings—trance techniques, light hypnosis. Slowly and carefully, I calibrate my voice and tone. I follow his facial expressions, his posture. It is as if I am conducting open-heart surgery. He starts following me. Or perhaps it only seems so to me? No, he is definitely following, his eyes are closed, his lower jaw has slightly slipped down. Good. We go ahead.
That 60-minute session with Mikhail seems to last for weeks. Towards its end, I ask him about his feelings or whether he has anything he wants to say. “When I closed my eyes, I saw his face so clearly, as if he was standing in front of me. I was asking for forgiveness; asking again and again.” At that very moment, Mikhail’s face falls below the sweep of the camera, and he quietly slips away from view. My hands shake, but this time, there is nobody to hide them from. After an instant, I see Mikhail's face again on my screen. He says, “…and you know what? He forgave me, my son forgave me.”
Alina
Alina did not go live today. In the chat, she hurried once again to calm everyone in her audience. “Don't worry, my friends, the connection is acting up. But know this! I believe we will all meet in person in some wonderful place and hug each other.”
File under: The Art of Psychotherapy, Musings and Reflections
Over the last few days, she has slept and eaten very little. She advises her audience to see the bright side of everything. “I just discovered that I have cheekbones,” she says with a sense of unanticipated pleasure. Her voice is otherwise quiet and calm, with slow, thoughtful tones that strike a peaceful chord in me and no doubt the rest of her audience, like a friendly and familiar echo. Her name is Alina, and she is a fellow psychotherapist who works in Ukraine. Though her face reveals neither panic nor despair, there is something more profound and deep about her that hints at fatigue and sorrow, but also of hope.
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Alina webcasts live every day in order to support her people. To support those who need to be in the presence of a kind and compassionate face in the midst of pitch-black darkness. You can almost feel the touch of her cold hands, which she desperately tries to warm by clutching a mug of hot tea. “You need to drink a lot of water, friends, it helps to fight against the stress,” she says, while at the same time listening to the sounds of regular explosions, whose proximity she tries to determine in order to decide whether to rush to the nearest shelter. In her webcast, Alina is “ready to take tender care” of any suffering soul, regardless of nationality or current place of residence. “Please just don’t swear in the chat. Everyone is suffering right now. I understand all of you, but please let’s love and take care of each other,” she says so gently, as if she is gently stroking each one in her audience.
Mikhail
“I don't know what to talk about…,” Mikhail, my own client, says after a long pause. And along with the words, tears that were just moments before frozen within him melt and cascade freely. Yet he cries in complete silence. His face is twisted by pain and horror. But I can see by the position of his neck, shoulders, and arms that something inside of him has been released, opening a space which later may be filled with something other than those tormenting feelings. Three days ago, he found out that his only son had died in Kharkov. From that day, he has known nothing of the simple comforts of sleeping, eating, or any other “normal” part of his previous life. He only knows that his child was killed. “He... was… ki-i-i-illed... killed…” Again, a speechless yet deafening grief which starts my own hands trembling, so I hide them away from the screen. “What would I do if Mikhail was actually sitting right in front of me?” a thorny voice echoes from deep within me. Mikhail blames himself. It was he who left his child in Kharkov several years ago when he moved to Moscow for work. It was he, the father who could not protect his son. It was he who did not die in place of his son.
Long before I became a therapist, my own great-grandmother told me how she had survived the orphanage, World War II, the evacuations, tuberculosis, breast cancer, and her only husband by 50 years. She was the most cheerful and resilient person I have ever known. She always had something to tell me, something to share. However, she almost never talked about the war, only briefly mentioning it. Whenever I cried over some trifle, she would look at me in surprise with her gentle blue eyes and admonish: “Why are you crying? Has a war begun? No. No reason to cry, then, right?” “Okay,” I remember thinking at the age of seven, “should the war start, I’ll cry then to my heart’s content.” That calmed me.
Now I can't cry. During the worst of my life’s upheavals, I have never cried. This has helped in my work. Who needs a tear-stained psychotherapist?
Alina
While Alina's voice sounds more subdued over the following days, there is an increasing power in it. She sniffles but does not cry. Maybe it’s just a cold. Alina will not leave her homeland. Ukraine is her home, this is where her family is with whom she will stay to the end, and “this is not a subject for debate.” Alina promises to go live whenever possible. This is how she chooses to create, or perhaps re-create, the world around her. And there are more and more participants with each of her webcasts, which means the boundaries of her world are getting wider, rather than smaller. This is her contribution, her mission. Over the ensuing days, it seems harder for her to choose words, but they are becoming more precise, and her message is becoming clearer. “Take care of your loved ones, hug them, take care of yourself.” It is amazing how much sense shapes these simple messages. “Do your everyday routine, physical exercise, drink herbal teas.” During one of the live chats, someone asks, “Do you drink tea with or without sugar?” Alina replies, “I drink mine without sugar.” Suddenly, her eyes widen and twinkle as she says, “You know, the most delicious tea is served in trains! There it is served with sugar and lemon. I normally don’t drink tea with sugar, but I just love that one they serve on the trains! You are traveling somewhere far, far away with your tea in tea cup holders…” It is not only the Ukrainian audience that is warmed by the cordial human flame that is Alina. This flame spreads well beyond her Ukrainian audience. By the end of the nearly two-hour webcast, someone who is not from Ukraine suddenly calls in and says, “It is we who should support you, not the other way around.” Alina shrugs it off and sends air kisses.
Mikhail
Again, Mikhail doesn't know what to say. The pauses are the longest we’ve had in our sessions. I hear my heart pounding in anticipation of what he will say. Even through the screen, I seem to be able to hear his heart as well. I follow his chest as he slowly but rhythmically draws in and then out. It seems labored and pained. I know from our work together that he needs a doctor and medicine. But right now, he is here. And I'm here with him. I feel the urgency of helping right here and right now. “And you are,” an inner voice confirms that I am, indeed, already helping. Although I am a cognitive behavioral therapist as a last resort in the most difficult situations, I reach far up my sleeve now and pull out what I believe will be the most useful therapeutic offerings—trance techniques, light hypnosis. Slowly and carefully, I calibrate my voice and tone. I follow his facial expressions, his posture. It is as if I am conducting open-heart surgery. He starts following me. Or perhaps it only seems so to me? No, he is definitely following, his eyes are closed, his lower jaw has slightly slipped down. Good. We go ahead.
That 60-minute session with Mikhail seems to last for weeks. Towards its end, I ask him about his feelings or whether he has anything he wants to say. “When I closed my eyes, I saw his face so clearly, as if he was standing in front of me. I was asking for forgiveness; asking again and again.” At that very moment, Mikhail’s face falls below the sweep of the camera, and he quietly slips away from view. My hands shake, but this time, there is nobody to hide them from. After an instant, I see Mikhail's face again on my screen. He says, “…and you know what? He forgave me, my son forgave me.”
Alina
Alina did not go live today. In the chat, she hurried once again to calm everyone in her audience. “Don't worry, my friends, the connection is acting up. But know this! I believe we will all meet in person in some wonderful place and hug each other.”
File under: The Art of Psychotherapy, Musings and Reflections