A VIRGINIA TECH MFT ETHICS CLASS REFLECTS ON THE SHOOTINGS AT VIRGINIA TECH

Journal of Marital and Family Therapy, Apr 2008 by Piercy, Fred, Banker, Jamie, Traylor, Ryan, Krug, Sarah, Castanos, Carolina, Cole, Elise, Ciafardini, Anthony J, Jordal, Christian, Rodgers, Brandon, Stewart, Shelley, Goodwin, Annabelle

Similarly, we have the power to help shape other people's experiences in therapy. Rather than passively accepting the direction a therapy session is going, I am now more inclined to appreciate my role in directing that conversation, and to recognize that the focus in therapy can shape my client's experiences of their problems. I was aware of this, to some extent, before my experience of the media coverage of April 16th. However, my experience of the agency I have in choosing what to focus on-and the positive power it has for me and others-will forever be on my mind as I continue my therapy career.

THE SELF OF THE STUDENT-THERAPIST IN THE MIDST OF THE TRAGEDY

Sarah J. Krug

I have felt a growing sense of peace since I moved to Blacksburg nine months ago. On April 16th, 2007, I greeted the morning with a cup of coffee as I sat down to finish a research proposal. First, I checked email and learned from the university that a few minutes earlier a gunman had killed two students. I was surprised, but decided not to turn on the television. Instead, I plugged away at my article. As I wrote, a total of 33 students and faculty lost their lives.

When I learned the extent of the tragedy, I felt my inner peace drain out of me. For a brief moment, it seemed like the events were happening many miles from the place I call home. I felt a growing sense of despair.

I stayed in contact with my friends in the MFT program. Later that morning, I received a call from a professor checking to make sure those in the program were accounted for. During that phone conversation my role as a student glued to the television was about to change. Because of my training in mental health, the professor told me that I may be needed to assist people during this time of crisis. He said he would be in touch. Out of my stupor, I thought, "Me? Help?"

I went to the memorial convocation and the candlelight vigil the following day. All of it was surreal. I watched as people around me connected with each other, and as the drill field became a memorial. I saw the communities of Blacksburg and Virginia Tech unite. The "professional" part of me analytically watched the processes after a crisis-the memos from University Relations, the disaster response teams, the support communities reaching out. The student part of me mourned.

I stood at the yellow crime scene tape which lined Norris Hall. I yearned for a spiritual, philosophical, or in the least, intellectual understanding of my role simultaneously as a mourning student and as a mental health professional. Could I be of much help to anyone? I didn't know.

Classes resumed the week following the shooting. I, along with hundreds of other mental health professionals, volunteered to be present on campus and in classrooms as the students returned. As a volunteer, I was assigned to speak to a class whose students had been affected by the tragedy. I had received advice and information from the mental health professional leaders regarding what I should cover, and by the time I was in the classroom, I felt confident. However, as I stood in front of that room of students, many stunned, quiet, and some visibly hurting, I was humbled. The formal words I had prepared did not seem appropriate. Instead, I stood transparent and vulnerable, a lot like them. It was in this moment that I realized that I could simultaneously hold in my mind two roles, professional and vulnerable student. I could and would be both helpful and honest about my own grief. Both were true to who I was and neither was mutually exclusive.