“Who will heal the healers: reflections on mental health from a health professional”
Dr. Brian H. Williams
An adapted excerpt from The Bodies Keep Coming by Brian Williams, PhD
I am sitting in an office, engulfed by a cannibalistic couch. Its massive cushions devoured me as soon as I sat down, and my back contorts into angles that would shame an Olympic gymnast. Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I press the power button until the screen goes black. I double check to ensure it’s off, paranoid it might broadcast my secrets to some random person in my contact list.
My therapist sits across from me and, unlike me, she seems quite comfortable, sitting on a padded chair with her legs folded beneath a blanket. She cradles a teacup, never releasing me from her gaze. Holding the string of her tea bag delicately, she dips it in and out of the scalding water before allowing its remaining life to steep as it sinks to the bottom. I sit in silence waiting for her to begin the session.
She knows the story of what had happened the night of July 7, 2016–the largest loss of life for US law enforcement since 9/11. She knows the victims were cops, and the sniper, like me, was Black. She has seen the footage, and in earlier sessions I narrated the story to her in dispassionate and even tones. By now, I am skillful at recounting the events of that night. I should not have even been working, it was supposed to be my night off. As the leader of the trauma team, I tell people, I treated seven officers from the scene, and the remaining officers were taken to a crosstown trauma center. And yes, I became the only surgeon in history to operate on multiple police officers victimized in a mass shooting.
A protest for racial justice. Dallas, Texas. A Black shooter. Dead white cops. Honestly, what else do people need to know?
I wait for her to speak. It’s my second session (or is it my third?), and I’m getting used to these silences. She cradles the teacup and sips from it as a cloud of steam rises. Her hand movements are deliberate, her facial expressions comforting. Then she draws first blood.
“Have you written letters to the families?” she asks.
“To the families?” I’m suspicious and shift deeper into the maw of the couch.
“Well, you said you never reached out to them. So what’s stopping you from writing to them now?”
Let me count the ways, I think: It’s been a year. I’m getting hateful mail. There was a death threat. I feel responsible for their deaths. What would I say to them?
Shaking my head in a languid arc, I answer, “No. That would be intrusive.”
“Why do you feel that way? What’s different about these deaths that bother you compared to others you’ve had?”
I mentally roll my eyes, wanting to extricate myself from this damn couch and leave, but suppress the urge. I know her therapeutic curiosity is genuine, but it still feels like an interrogation. I don’t allow strangers to tug on my psychological weeds.
“It’s just different,” I say. “And I don’t think sending letters is appropriate.”
I convinced myself that too long a period had passed. That to reach out now would seem disingenuous or traumatizing. That my silence is about respecting their privacy, when I know it is actually a desire to regain my own. By not sending letters, I can shield myself from more attention and avoid getting closer to anybody than absolutely necessary.
“You don’t have to send them,” she says. “Just write what you’d like to say.”
We sit in silence while I process this madness. Write letters to the families of the dead police officers. My dead patients. But don’t send them? What’s the point of doing that?
A coffee table sits between us, a physical barrier reminding me this is indeed a reversal of my usual life. Now I’m the patient, and to heal, I have to place my trust in someone else. And my trust account is pretty close to bankrupt. I stall by grabbing a chocolate from the coffee table and rolling the candy from cheek to tongue and back to cheek. I scan the room—table, floor, wall, clock—looking everywhere but at my therapist. Might I be saved by the end of my billable hour? Seconds feel like minutes. Minutes feel like hours.
Finally breaking the silence, she spares me. “Just think about it,” she says, with a barely perceptible nod. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I think it might be helpful.”
“I’ll think about it.” A committed noncommittal. That I can do. And I can do it very well.
Ordinarily, I would mentally trash her suggestion and move on. But she has proven surprisingly adept at her job. She works on me like I work on my trauma patients. Even when I cannot see the internal damage, my job as a surgeon is to decipher external clues—physical exam, heart rate, blood pressure, oxygenation, respiratory rate—and rapidly treat the destructive forces beneath the surface.
Each clue by itself could mean nothing. Interpreted together, they often reveal enough to discern the difference between life and death. With experience, I have learned what to look for and what questions to ask. When a critical patient is unresponsive, I must intervene without their input. And then there are those challenging patients who can speak but refuse. Like I’m doing now.
I began our sessions intending to talk about the shooting, nothing else. But now my therapist casually strolls around in my psyche, shining a light into its dark recesses and pointing out unrelated secrets hiding in plain sight. At first, I was unconcerned about what she would find. After all, I’m the one who hid everything there. But clearly, I have done a poor job covering my tracks. I wonder if she had me figured out the moment I offered myself to her carnivorous couch.
As my hour expires, I thank her and leave, restarting my phone before her office door closes behind me. And, like some of my patients do to me, I promptly dismiss everything she has asked me to do.
Another year will pass before I take her advice.
***
Eight years later, as we recognize Mental Illness Awareness Week, my journey through trauma and resilience feels especially relevant. It took courage, and persistent prodding from my wife, to face my own struggles, seek help, and speak openly about my experiences.
I know I’m not the only one resistant to seek support. Many wrestle with the fear of being judged, misunderstood, or ostracized. It’s time we crush the barriers that prevent people from seeking the help they need, and build a society where vulnerability is seen as a strength, not a weakness. As the poet Rumi wrote, “The wound is the place where the light enters you.” Let’s embrace our wounds and follow them towards healing and wholeness.
Dr. Brian H. Williams, a trauma surgeon, USAF veteran, and recent candidate for U.S. Congress (TX-32), reveals his own journey towards healing after the July 7, 2016 mass shooting of Dallas police officers in his book, The Bodies Keep Coming: Dispatches from a Black Trauma Surgeon on Racism, Violence, and How We Heal.
“Who will heal the healers: reflections on mental health from a health professional”
An adapted excerpt from The Bodies Keep Coming by Brian Williams, PhD
I am sitting in an office, engulfed by a cannibalistic couch. Its massive cushions devoured me as soon as I sat down, and my back contorts into angles that would shame an Olympic gymnast. Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I press the power button until the screen goes black. I double check to ensure it’s off, paranoid it might broadcast my secrets to some random person in my contact list.
My therapist sits across from me and, unlike me, she seems quite comfortable, sitting on a padded chair with her legs folded beneath a blanket. She cradles a teacup, never releasing me from her gaze. Holding the string of her tea bag delicately, she dips it in and out of the scalding water before allowing its remaining life to steep as it sinks to the bottom. I sit in silence waiting for her to begin the session.
She knows the story of what had happened the night of July 7, 2016–the largest loss of life for US law enforcement since 9/11. She knows the victims were cops, and the sniper, like me, was Black. She has seen the footage, and in earlier sessions I narrated the story to her in dispassionate and even tones. By now, I am skillful at recounting the events of that night. I should not have even been working, it was supposed to be my night off. As the leader of the trauma team, I tell people, I treated seven officers from the scene, and the remaining officers were taken to a crosstown trauma center. And yes, I became the only surgeon in history to operate on multiple police officers victimized in a mass shooting.
A protest for racial justice. Dallas, Texas. A Black shooter. Dead white cops. Honestly, what else do people need to know?
I wait for her to speak. It’s my second session (or is it my third?), and I’m getting used to these silences. She cradles the teacup and sips from it as a cloud of steam rises. Her hand movements are deliberate, her facial expressions comforting. Then she draws first blood.
“Have you written letters to the families?” she asks.
“To the families?” I’m suspicious and shift deeper into the maw of the couch.
“Well, you said you never reached out to them. So what’s stopping you from writing to them now?”
Let me count the ways, I think: It’s been a year. I’m getting hateful mail. There was a death threat. I feel responsible for their deaths. What would I say to them?
Shaking my head in a languid arc, I answer, “No. That would be intrusive.”
“Why do you feel that way? What’s different about these deaths that bother you compared to others you’ve had?”
I mentally roll my eyes, wanting to extricate myself from this damn couch and leave, but suppress the urge. I know her therapeutic curiosity is genuine, but it still feels like an interrogation. I don’t allow strangers to tug on my psychological weeds.
“It’s just different,” I say. “And I don’t think sending letters is appropriate.”
I convinced myself that too long a period had passed. That to reach out now would seem disingenuous or traumatizing. That my silence is about respecting their privacy, when I know it is actually a desire to regain my own. By not sending letters, I can shield myself from more attention and avoid getting closer to anybody than absolutely necessary.
“You don’t have to send them,” she says. “Just write what you’d like to say.”
We sit in silence while I process this madness. Write letters to the families of the dead police officers. My dead patients. But don’t send them? What’s the point of doing that?
A coffee table sits between us, a physical barrier reminding me this is indeed a reversal of my usual life. Now I’m the patient, and to heal, I have to place my trust in someone else. And my trust account is pretty close to bankrupt. I stall by grabbing a chocolate from the coffee table and rolling the candy from cheek to tongue and back to cheek. I scan the room—table, floor, wall, clock—looking everywhere but at my therapist. Might I be saved by the end of my billable hour? Seconds feel like minutes. Minutes feel like hours.
Finally breaking the silence, she spares me. “Just think about it,” she says, with a barely perceptible nod. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I think it might be helpful.”
“I’ll think about it.” A committed noncommittal. That I can do. And I can do it very well.
Ordinarily, I would mentally trash her suggestion and move on. But she has proven surprisingly adept at her job. She works on me like I work on my trauma patients. Even when I cannot see the internal damage, my job as a surgeon is to decipher external clues—physical exam, heart rate, blood pressure, oxygenation, respiratory rate—and rapidly treat the destructive forces beneath the surface.
Each clue by itself could mean nothing. Interpreted together, they often reveal enough to discern the difference between life and death. With experience, I have learned what to look for and what questions to ask. When a critical patient is unresponsive, I must intervene without their input. And then there are those challenging patients who can speak but refuse. Like I’m doing now.
I began our sessions intending to talk about the shooting, nothing else. But now my therapist casually strolls around in my psyche, shining a light into its dark recesses and pointing out unrelated secrets hiding in plain sight. At first, I was unconcerned about what she would find. After all, I’m the one who hid everything there. But clearly, I have done a poor job covering my tracks. I wonder if she had me figured out the moment I offered myself to her carnivorous couch.
As my hour expires, I thank her and leave, restarting my phone before her office door closes behind me. And, like some of my patients do to me, I promptly dismiss everything she has asked me to do.
Another year will pass before I take her advice.
***
Eight years later, as we recognize Mental Illness Awareness Week, my journey through trauma and resilience feels especially relevant. It took courage, and persistent prodding from my wife, to face my own struggles, seek help, and speak openly about my experiences.
I know I’m not the only one resistant to seek support. Many wrestle with the fear of being judged, misunderstood, or ostracized. It’s time we crush the barriers that prevent people from seeking the help they need, and build a society where vulnerability is seen as a strength, not a weakness. As the poet Rumi wrote, “The wound is the place where the light enters you.” Let’s embrace our wounds and follow them towards healing and wholeness.
Dr. Brian H. Williams, a trauma surgeon, USAF veteran, and recent candidate for U.S. Congress (TX-32), reveals his own journey towards healing after the July 7, 2016 mass shooting of Dallas police officers in his book, The Bodies Keep Coming: Dispatches from a Black Trauma Surgeon on Racism, Violence, and How We Heal.
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