Andy.

Let me tell you about my friend Andy. 

Andy was a supervising therapist at a day program for serious post traumatic and dissociative disorders where I trained. I ran lots and lots of groups with Andy. 

The thing most people will remember about Andy, I suspect, was his playfulness. Which can be a fine line as a trauma therapist. Survivors are so used to being mocked or otherwise invalidated that playfulness and humor can be touchy for them— but he pulled it off. 

His smile was at once mischievous and genuine. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. 

As a therapist Andy came from the psychodynamic theoretical orientation, meaning he believed trauma was healed by giving survivors the opportunity to feel safe in the therapy relationship— even as they tend to reenact old, painful patterns in the therapy relationship. 

Andy was good at making people feel safe. 

Andy loved, loved, loved classic rock music. He had a particular thing for Neil Young— and I don’t think it was only about the music. Neil Young’s spirit of uncompromising rebelliousness spoke to him. 

I cannot remember Andy ever being pissed at me, or showing a flash of irritation or anger in group. Even when he was challenging you, he had a way of doing so that felt supportive— and, importantly, didn’t leave you feeling stupid. 

A lot of how I do therapy echoes how Andy did therapy. I definitely hadn’t evolved my therapeutic “voice” before working with him. 

So, if you’ve been helped by me as a therapist, you were also helped by Andy. 

Andy worked in a challenging setting. Not just because he specialized in working with complex trauma, but because programs that treat complex trauma tend to be— how shall I put this?— sh*t shows. In the program where we worked, there was a lot of office politics and other toxicity— but, while I was not great at just blowing it all off, he was. He never let it get to him. He didn’t deny it or disown it or anything— he navigated it, deftly, intelligently. I’m still not great at doing that kind of thing. 

When I had a serious professional falling out with my long time mentor, who was kind of a big deal in the trauma treatment world, Andy was one of the few people from the old program to check in on me, offer me support in building my first solo practice, and remind me not to take any of it too personally. 

When I heard that Andy had passed, I did what we all do— I checked the last time we texted. It was a few years ago. He wanted to know if I wanted the high end keyboard (piano, not computer) he remembered me playing when I’d been at his house. I told him thanks for thinking of me, but I didn’t have room for it. 

What a stupid last text. 

I can hear his voice perfectly in my head. 

“How’s that workin’ out for ya?” 

“Don’t confuse how you’re feeling with how you’re doing.” 

“Say more.” 

Andy wasn’t perfect, none of us are. I know he could rub some of his colleagues the wrong way, mostly because he refused to get worked up about things THEY were worked up by. I know he could sometimes run afoul of the expectations of hospital leadership— which he also refused to get worked up by. 

He was one of the few people I ever saw stand up to my ex-mentor. Which, I cannot describe how big a deal that was in the professional circles we ran in. 

I will miss my friend. 

Tonight I dug out one of the CD’s he burned for me back in the day, with his handwriting on it. 

I’m quite sure Andy saved peoples’ lives with the work he did. 

And I’m quite sure he’d support us through our sadness at his loss with the same kind of playful genuineness he always gave.