The Biscuit That Made Me Question My Ethics.

Biscuits are the perfect accompaniment to tea, an astutely British observation for sure. However, they were also the vehicle by which I came to the horns of a dilemma. Am I fit to practise?

What would you say is the most important muscle for a counsellor? Ears for listening? Well, true, but not really a muscle. Perhaps the mind for understanding? Again, useful, but still not a muscle. Well, it must be the heart for empathy, right? Well, it is a muscle, and I love the metaphysical association. However, it’s not exactly rooted in science. I’m talking about the tongue. As a counsellor, we need to be able to convey our empathy and understanding, to sometimes reassure, sometimes educate, sometimes help guide a client in the right direction, and even sometimes talk nonsense. (We all need a little levity, even in therapy… especially in therapy.)

I injured mine, biting a good portion of the way through it. I wish I could say I was in an accident, had a medical condition, or was even under the influence, but no, I was eating a biscuit. Actually, the fifth or sixth. Let’s not dwell on the numbers. Suddenly, a searing pain struck me, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

I was actually fortunate because tongues can bleed profusely if you’re not careful. Mine stopped pretty quickly, and I didn’t need any stitches. However, the wound was deep, from both top and bottom, and the problem with mouths is that they don’t heal like anywhere else. They don’t form scabs to protect themselves while healing, they stay open, becoming ulcerated instead. This means they remain raw and incredibly sensitive to everything, including movement. (There’s a great metaphor in here about trauma responses, PTSD, and so on. Perhaps that will come later.)

After the first 24 hours, it wasn’t too bad. I was still talking, albeit with an impediment, but it got worse. By the end of the week, I was barely able to talk at all. I didn’t realise how much it was impacting me until, before one client session, I felt a moment of dread, I didn’t want to engage. I was no longer fit to practise, and I probably hadn’t been for a couple of days. If I’m honest, I probably held back from saying certain things in previous sessions because of my physical discomfort.

As counsellors, we spend time working on ourselves, thinking about our ability to remain with the client, and considering when we aren’t in a suitable position to work. With illness or emotional trauma, like the loss of someone, we are ready to recognise it, with plans in place. Most of us have clinical wills that come into effect so a secondary counsellor can contact our clients if we are incapacitated. But I had just bitten my tongue, so I didn’t do that. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself but ultimately fine and capable, wasn’t I?

No, I wasn’t.

Looking back, was I helpful to my clients? Maybe. I hope so. Was I as good as I could have been? Was I as present as I should have been for them? Probably not. And that’s OK. I’m human, and I make mistakes. Like many people, I try to push myself beyond my limits for others. But I also recognise that I’m not necessarily doing the best by them, or myself, when I do that. And, crucially, I didn’t notice the gradual deterioration. It was easy to miss. I also have to acknowledge that this is my livelihood, I need to work to survive, so it can be hard to admit when I need to take a step back. There’s a lot there.

Did I truly work ethically? That’s a tough one. I want to say I tried to, and while that’s true, I always try to, I also know I’m reaching for that as a way to protect myself from the feeling that I didn’t measure up to the standard I had set for myself. I’m judging myself, and it doesn’t feel great. However, I didn’t work as ethically as I could have. I know that. I won’t lie, I’m a bit annoyed at myself for letting it slide. I will absolutely be taking this to supervision to explore what else was going on for me.

So, what now? Well, I have clients coming up, and I need to decide whether I’m healed enough to work. There’s no obvious yardstick for this, I have to base it on whether I can reasonably stay with a client, mentally and emotionally. Can I communicate effectively? Will I hold back from engaging because I can’t do it without pain or discomfort? These are the questions I’ll use to judge my readiness. I also need to give clients reasonable notice if I’m not going to be available.

There’s a lot to consider, and ultimately, I need to put the wellbeing of both my clients and myself first. And thus, we’ll see. But at least I am now aware of what’s going on.

To finish, let me share what I’ve taken away from this. Well, other than the fact that biscuits are dangerous little beasts, I’ve learnt that the journey of a counsellor is seldom a straight line. Things can crop up in our path that we don’t expect. Even when we think we have awareness of how we’re working and believe we’re doing what’s best, we can still be caught off guard by something unexpected. I take with me a greater awareness of what can affect me and how I work. And I have learnt how much I love to talk, but also that I am surprisingly good at charades. Even if my husband struggles to pick up on everything I’m trying to say. (The method of communication for the last few days.)

Whatever comes next, I know I’ll bounce back soon, bold as ever, and hopefully with fewer biscuit-related injuries.