Fondling my LCSW

It's true. I am both a mumbler and a soft talker.

My friend and sponsor in 12-step recovery work called just as I was writing what was going to be the title for this post: Shawn R Winger LCSW. He laughed and explained that he thought I said "Fondling my LCSW," and that, he believed, is a better title.

My first thought was this something to the effect of "what a strange person;" I mean, really, how could something else work better. Soon, however, the analogy became clear. The word fondle, in my professional paradigm, is the ugly thing sexual perpetrators do to children. In my private sexual world (or formally private), fondle is what I do to objects of lust. It's what I do, for the most part, simply to get off. Granted, a fair amount of selfless reciprocal fondling occurs, a form of compassionate service to my partner, if you will. However, fondle measurements of self-gratification often lean in the direction of ME.

You may be asking yourself how the fondling of objects of lust relates to fondling my LCSW. Moreover, what does that have to do with the "hopeless failure" label I metaphorically taped to the back of my shirt in recent years? Simply put, I loved that title; I really loved it. I remember writing "Shawn R. Winger LCSW" over and over again like a love-smitten girl writes the name she dreams of acquiring after marriage. I lusted after that title. My personal identity, my self of value and ability to contribute to society, became contingent upon having it.

And then, on December 12, 2003, the Division of Occupational and Professional Licensing reared their ugly head, showed their iniquitous teeth and demanded that I surrender my license; I was hurled back to the lonely world of "MSW."

Ok. So the above was written entirely for dramatic effect, another one of my skills for sure. They did call me in, however, after learning that I had been arrested and charged with possession of a controlled substance. And, they did ask me to surrender my license, explaining that my only other option was to go before the entire licensing board and explain myself: the drug use, the arrest, the fact that I was arrested after inviting an under-cover cop to come home with me, get high and have sex.

I signed the surrender form immediately.

Then I went home and got high. And for the months, even years, that followed, getting high was my solution for having lost my identity as a psychotherapist. The truth that alluded me for so long, however, was that by that time I had already lost my identity as a man. I had surrendered it in exchange for the identity of meth addict, and rather than giving a dramatic description of what it was like to assume that identity, I'll say this: it really sucked.

Loosing that label has also sucked. By "sucked" I mean painfully challenging. In fact, I still have it. It's like a really old, beaten, dusty suit that sits piled in a heap on the floor, that I pick up and put on sometimes. The funny thing is, despite how ridiculously ugly that thing is, if I'm high on meth, I think I look hot. That is, until I come down; that's when I think I'm a hopeless failure.

The law of cause and effect would suggest that I throw the piece of shit suit away. This weekend I'll be attending a Queer Spirit retreat where a bonfire will be created for the literal burning of "old bones," things that symbolize stagnant patterns of thinking or living. My commitment: throw into the fire all the self-assumed labels that keep me down, that hold me back and that drain me of the sense of joy and connectedness that is my natural state of being.

Damn...that's a big commitment. God help me.