There has been a lot of excellent writing (c.f., Figley, Norcross, and others) on such topics as compassion fatigue, secondary trauma, vicarious trauma, and therapist self-care, and we've included some of those references in our bibliography. (By the way, if you have other references we should include, please post them on the blog and we'll add them to bibliographies). Those are the kinds of issues that can creep up on us in the course of our work, and we need to watch for them, and address them before they get out of hand and adversely effect our home and family lives, our ability to enjoy life, and ultimately, our patients.
Shared trauma is different. It may be the experience of having lived through a natural or man-made disaster. (Hurricanes Katrina, Rita, and Wilma, the earthquake in Japan, the Tsunamis, or and the multitude of tornadoes that have already crossed the US in 2012 are examples of natural disasters; the attacks of 9-11, the Oklahoma City bombing, fires set by arsonists, and school or workplace shootings would all be examples of man-made disasters). In the shared trauma experience, we quite literally share the experience of loss of property, friends, family, and sometimes, even the loss of hope. This may be akin to providing mental health care under fire--providing mental health care services to active duty military near the front lines, or as a population at war.
After the initial trauma of the Hurricane had passed, after the wind and the rain stopped, and after the broken levees stopped pouring water into the shattered city, those of us who returned shared with our neighbors the consequences of the storm. Our homes were damaged or destroyed. Friends and extended family scattered like some contemporary diaspora. Job continuity was uncertain or lost. A police officer I knew blew his brains out, and a professional colleague hung himself. We experienced serial re-traumatization as each day we drove through powerless communities, homes with waterlines up to "there" and marked with an X where there had been a search for bodies, boats parked on roads, empty lots where houses used to be, and communities dispersed like some contemporary diaspora. It was 14 months before the Lower Ninth regained potable water.
We became "second responders" who stayed, taking care of first responders and the community after the catastrophe psychology teams had left and the trauma mental health teams had gone home. It is the ultimate "been there, done that" that we can't and don't share with our clients, but the impact of the experience permeated what we do, how we work, and how we make choices. It was frequently difficult finding a balance between helping others, and taking care of our own needs, and especially so in a situation like this.
Shared trauma is different. It may be the experience of having lived through a natural or man-made disaster. (Hurricanes Katrina, Rita, and Wilma, the earthquake in Japan, the Tsunamis, or and the multitude of tornadoes that have already crossed the US in 2012 are examples of natural disasters; the attacks of 9-11, the Oklahoma City bombing, fires set by arsonists, and school or workplace shootings would all be examples of man-made disasters). In the shared trauma experience, we quite literally share the experience of loss of property, friends, family, and sometimes, even the loss of hope. This may be akin to providing mental health care under fire--providing mental health care services to active duty military near the front lines, or as a population at war.
After the initial trauma of the Hurricane had passed, after the wind and the rain stopped, and after the broken levees stopped pouring water into the shattered city, those of us who returned shared with our neighbors the consequences of the storm. Our homes were damaged or destroyed. Friends and extended family scattered like some contemporary diaspora. Job continuity was uncertain or lost. A police officer I knew blew his brains out, and a professional colleague hung himself. We experienced serial re-traumatization as each day we drove through powerless communities, homes with waterlines up to "there" and marked with an X where there had been a search for bodies, boats parked on roads, empty lots where houses used to be, and communities dispersed like some contemporary diaspora. It was 14 months before the Lower Ninth regained potable water.
We became "second responders" who stayed, taking care of first responders and the community after the catastrophe psychology teams had left and the trauma mental health teams had gone home. It is the ultimate "been there, done that" that we can't and don't share with our clients, but the impact of the experience permeated what we do, how we work, and how we make choices. It was frequently difficult finding a balance between helping others, and taking care of our own needs, and especially so in a situation like this.