Whose Burden Is It Anyway?

What lives in a space where two traumatized bodies make up the consulting room? How do we support womxn¹ whose rights are constantly in danger, while our own are as well? What of the womxn, treating those womxn?

As a cisgendered Black woman, and a psychotherapist for Black folks of a variety of gender identities, my personal and clinical experiences have opened my eyes to the dangers that are ever present for the psyches of womxn today. My consulting room is often a melting pot of our shared cultures, traumas, and fears, unconsciously dancing together and singing in transference and countertransference. Does psychoanalytic theory adequately explore the impact of the constant threat of gender-based violence on both patients and clinicians? Is it sufficiently acknowledged as a ghost that looms in the background of our consulting rooms?

As global instances of Gender-Based Violence (GBV) increase, it is inevitable that this trauma would make its way into my work, just as it is inevitable that I am personally impacted by it daily. In response, my attention to and exploration of transference and countertransference, as well as my observation of my own internalization of both, have been heightened. Thus, I have become more curious about how our fears interact as womxn, as well as how our told and untold stories materialize in the space. My eyes and heart have taken note of the air of heaviness that lives in our interactions as we explore dread, grief, and the fear of annihilation; I wonder how healing can derive from this twinship (Kohut, 1984)

Whether I am fighting alongside Trans patients to advocate for their right to gender-affirming surgeries, or exploring the dangers my patients face when refusing to give a man their phone number, GBV has made me a participant in the constant fight for my patient’s human rights. Alongside this role, self-preservation requires me to tend to my own fears, safety, and desires as a woman – quite a load to bear.

With so much political discourse surrounding our bodies, one cannot help but wonder how said bodies and psyches are actually impacted. Where does the primary and secondary trauma live? Where does the fear live? Personally, I have found it has made a home in my shoulders, squirmed into knots in my chest, and sometimes manifested in a walk that folds me into myself, one where my eyes shift constantly and hypervigilance becomes woven into my movements. I have made use of stretching, walking, and engaging in grounding techniques to attempt to loosen what has been stored but I continue to build resentment about needing to conduct this duty in the first place. Whose burden is it anyway?

Womxn, particularly womxn of color, have long carried the task of educating, theorizing, and fighting for equality alongside our healing. With full hands, womxn continuously show up, a dynamic that has become expected and often necessary for change to occur. This is not without consequences and not without exhaustion. For many, fighting back has looked like a variety of things: marching, more representation in office, setting firm boundaries, staying abreast of global news and changes that may impact us all.

I offer a radical and revolutionary anecdote, alongside these other useful (and often taxing) engagements. I offer the concepts of rest, care, creativity, and connection to community as options for the womxn whose hands are full. All of these are revolutionary in the face of continued danger and oppression. For clinicians, I implore us to prioritize honoring the bodies that are marginalized and degraded; honor its sensations and its messages in hopes of providing a reparative space; both ours and our patients alike. With more dedication to these acts among ourselves and each other, maybe this “burden” can be a catalyst to a more compassionate and connected dyad.

Notes

1 The term Womxn is widely used via intersectional feminism, as an alternative spelling of 'woman', in order to be inclusive of trans and nonbinary women.