WWBSD? (What Would Ben Stone Do?)

I wish I could say that I sprained my ankle doing something extraordinary. At the very least, doing something admirable – like running a half-marathon for charity. I was running along having collected 10,000 dollars for breast cancer research when I saw a little puppy lost in the jumble of pumping legs and sneakered feet. When I reached down to pluck him from the many-laced danger, I stumbled and went over on my ankle, but somehow managed to keep the puppy up out of Harm’s way. I handed the puppy off to a little orphan girl and a nun and then proceeded to continue on to the finish line. And my fundraising efforts made a cure for cancer possible!!!

I wish I could say that.

But I can’t.

What I can TRUTHFULLY say is that I went to see a certain Quentin Terintino Jewish revenge fantasy in the local cinema. Now, I am fastidious about peeing before the movie, but when I’m faced with a film of more than two hours in length, or extensive trailers… I usually have to duck out again at a boring part to take the pressure off. (OMG, I nearly DIED at Titanic! I was full of coffee, beer and watermelon and that thing is full of nothing but rushing water and panicky people. Good thing there were lots of boring parts!)
Terrintino movies are full of things: action, witty dialogue, intese tension-filled awkward pauses, blood, gore and cringe-worth depictions of violence. One thing they are NOT full of is boring bits. And MAN did I have to pee.

So I waited for a story arc to peak and drop off and made a beeline for the bathroom – which was convieniently located on the other side of the building. Seriously, they should install shuttlebus service. Not wanting to miss anything, I ran. I ran fast. And I ran back. Also fast. And I fell. And went over on my ankle. I barely registered the pain due to the overriding embarrassment that happens in these situations. But AFTER the movie, I got up and left the theatre. I took a few steps, every other one with increasing stabby pain shooting through my ankle. I couldn’t get 20 feet.

The next day I went to a walk in (hop in?) clinic and met the world’s most apathetic doctor who basically shrugged and said, “It’s not broken! What do you expect me to do about it?” Not being able to walk, I was hoping for some advice on icing, rest, elevation, and oh, I don’t know… a tensor bandage and some CRUTCHES!? No such luck. He said, as he exited, “go buy a cane a something.”

Thanks Dr. Arsewipe, for essentially accusing me of malingering. Oh, and where the hell do you buy a cane in this neighbourhood?

The pharmacy? Nope.
Medical supply store? Now that would make a ton of sense. But nope.
The dollar store? Bingo!

I hobbled around on this dollar store cane, doing an increasingly accurate Dr. House impersonation, as I realized that the world is really pretty hostile towards the aged and infirm. I couldn’t cross the street in the time allotted by the walk/don’t walk sign. Someone actually SHOVED me to get in front of me while getting on the bus. And don’t get me started on navigating a parking lot. Holy Jeebus! I would have an appointment to get a filling replaced the very next day on the other side of town…

So what’s my point? How does this relate to psychology? Well, I’ll tell you.
First of all, I never realized just WHY people with mobility issues tend to be such raging assholes before. But now I KNOW. It’s because the rest of society has no appreciation for how difficult it is for them to get around. They don’t understand that if the automatic door with the wheelchair guy on it doesn’t open, that you can’t get in to the building you need to be in. They don’t grok that if you bump into them that there is a real risk of falling right over. They don’t get that it would be nice if someone would just offer a seat on the bus instead of you having to make a scene by asking for one.

I used to be one of these unenlightened assholes (actually, I don’t think I really was, but any residual assal traces are now gone) but now I GET IT. And yes, you Sir or Ma’am with the cane, stroller, wheelchair, limp, fussy child – AFTER YOU. And if I find that the automatic door isn’t working, I’m taking out my cellphone and calling maintenance for you right now.

The second point has more to do with my own psychological reaction to having a (temporary) disability. I hated it. I was in total denial. I didn’t want that cane. My husband bought it, he forced me to use it, and he helped me chuck it down the garbage chute when the stupid piece of shit broke in half in front of my first tutorial (moral: don’t buy medical supplies from a dollar store). I didn’t want people to think of me as anything other than completely functioning. I’m uncomfortable with accepting help, despite the fact that it angered me when people could see I was struggling and didn’t offer help. I feared being labeled a faker, a malingerer – “You just want attention, Psyche!” As though wanting and accepting attention is some sort of cardinal sin in our modern culture. Something that successful people attain with ease but that we put down the person who struggles for craving. When the cane broke, I felt uncomfortable. It didn’t do anything to actually help my ankle heal, but it provided this sort of safety and security. People were less likely to bump into me in a crowd. I had this literal and metaphorical crutch for when I was feeling weak, something I could sink back into and BE for a moment when I didn’t want to deal with something difficult. (Wah! My foot hurts! I can’t do this right now, I’m in pain!) I think that we both envy and are fearful of disability. We all want to be given attention and be looked after while being scared out of our minds of NEEDING to depend on others. I mean, let’s face it, societally, we’re not the most dependable bunch on record.

So I hobbled to the bus-stop on my own. And I asked someone to give up their seat for me. And to my surprise I got a pleasant and caring reply. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I just can’t stand while the bus is moving, blah blah blah…”
Whenever the Dr. Hose inside of me threatens to take over a more significant area of brain space, some humble and quiet citizen proves to me that I don’t need to sink into grinchdom as a permanent personality trait.

And thank goodness for that. Because I would end up sucking as a psychologist if I did. Say what you will about Dr. House. He’s brilliant, he’s a genius. But he’s also a fictitious asshole. And I don’t think any REAL patient would actually put up with him. No, if I have to identify with any fictional TV (anti)hero, it’s going to be Michael Moriarty’s Ben Stone from the original Law and Order. He channeled his fiery rage and disgust and contempt for injustice into the most polite and restrained and EFFECTIVE rejoinders ever uttered.

So excuse ME… SIR. It would be more appropriate, more in keeping with your responsibilities as a CITIZEN to give that seat to that old lady.

Sir.

Tomorrow Tomorrow And Tomorrow Creep From Day To Day At This Petty Pace

Hey all you Shakespeare lovers! Today is not the first day of school. Tomorrow is. Too bad really cause I was previously all geared up for nothin'.

It's fine because I still have a bit of BTS shopping to do and might as well buy groceries while I'm out. I'll also go to the gym. Why? Because after a week's vacation, it is freakin' creepy quiet around my appartment and I am having trouble tolerating it. So I'm taking some readings with me to the stairmaster. NB. Reading on the stairmaster is a timesaver; highlighting on the stairmaster is an excercise in bright yellow futility.

So yeah, off to see the world as I brace myself for each day turning into the next and trying not to measure out my life in coffee spoons. It's the day before school actually starts and I am already tired. (Didn't sleep well -- rarely do.) I have an 8:30am meeting at Dr. Supervisor's to kick things off. I don't know how bright yellow it will be, but I'm expecting frustration levels to approach stairmaster level 7... so I will be taking a vallium-of-the-mind and hoping to start my year right.

Wish me luck, wish me well. Wish me a fate better than MacBeth's... for I have my own ambition (don't need me no Scottish wife egging me on!) but like him fear to mess with the King. If I find out anyone in my lab was from their mother's womb untimely ripped(!) -- I'm putting a kybosh on the whole deal.

Please note: I am in no way intending to kill "Duncan" while he sleeps. Just being melodramatically apprehensive. Enjoy.

Ways My Department Has Fucked Up Before School Even Starts

1. Telling me that school starts a day earlier than it really does.

2. Suddenly withdrawing the tuition support they have provided to everyone in my lab for the past countless years.

3. Only giving me half the promised financial support (promoted on their website) because I won an external scholarship. Please note, that when a student wins external funding it brings up THEIR ranking in the University evaluations. So essentially, I am being penalized for increasing their standing.

4. Telling me 6 days before classes start that no one in my lab has an office anymore. Apparently, we can have our office hours at a conference table with no privacy now. Oh, and we can bring our own laptops since we won't have access to a computer anymore. Glad I have a laptop.

5. Refusing to tell me how my funding breakdown works until I get my first paycheck -- and that's 6 days before my RENT is due. So I don't know if I'll have enough money to pay it, or if I can afford groceries until it's too late.

Yeah, not a humourous blog today. My university is run by fucking C students with their heads so far up their asses they can see out their own mouths. Fuckers, seriously.

Psychiatry Vs. Psychology

Sometimes I really wish I was in med school and specializing in psychiatry. I'm sure it's just as political and just as stupid as this field, but there would be greater access to drugs.

Look, it's no small secret that this profession (and really almost any helping profession) attracts three kinds of people:
1. People who are dealing with mental health issues themselves (either personally or with a loved one) and who are trying to work out their shit -- then work it out -- and go on to be insightful and compassionate practitioners or researchers.
2. People who are dealing with mental health issues themselves (either personally of with a loved one) and who *think* they are trying to work out their shit -- but never really make significant headway -- and go on to traumatize their patients, break ethics repeatedly, do harm, and eventually have their lives come crashing down around them in a litigious comeupance that they ultimately deserve for missing the point of therapy entirely.
3. People who are just a little more than the usual amount of power-happy, looking to restore some childhood malignment to their self-esteem by taking up an "expert position" as a clinician, researcher and/or professor and subsequently torturing their clients, participants and/or students with dickish mindgames the likes of which would make Andy Dick curl up into the fetal position and beg for mercy. But this is really just a subset of #2 and one hopes that they will also come to enjoy their end in the Ironic Fate Division of the Afterlife or Retirement.

So yes, although I'm certain that psychiatry has these basic career categories, and although I have been told by many survivors of medical schools that the competition is much more overt and direct (as opposed to the covert, passive-aggressive weird-o type of competition that is glossed over by Stepfordish harmony in the social sciences), I just think that there might be greater access to benzodiazepines, which would allow me to perhaps cope better (see covert, passive-aggressive weird-o type competition above).

Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay! It's not THAT bad. I guess. It's just so fucking WEIRD sometimes. Like, c'mon, we all KNOW that people only take this kind of job because they were initially attracted to the profession to figure something out about themselves or a loved one. Then some people get their answers and change their lives (or don't) and leave and go on to do normal, sometimes healthy jobs, like remove aesbestos from old buildings or work on oil riggs. But others get hooked because they are hardwired to help other people or get addicted to the Ivory Tower bullshit... but my point is that we are all here because either we ARE suffering, or we HAVE suffered GREATLY. In my profession, the idea is to help the client heal through TALKING. Regardless of what specific theoretical framework you are coming from... you form a partnership with a client and help them through it by utilizing your relationship. I don't care if you're using CBT, SFBT, NT, REBT or AVON -- you're TALKING it through.

But psychiatrists, oh psychiatrists get to (have to?)... (are supposed to?) prescribe psychopharmaceuticals. I prefer to call them DRUGS. And dammit, sometimes I wish I had greater access to them. Not because I want to give them to people, but because sometimes the ridiculous tension of not getting to know my funding situation until a week after classes STARTS makes it a bit difficult to sleep. I imagine that the significant bull-ca-ca that pervades daily life in grad school would be not nearly so irritating if I had a dose of adavan at the ready. I would probably feel like punching people less.

It's just this low-grade tension and irritability caused by underlying tension from PA stupidity and an administration system that predates Moses. I keep asking for my funding breakdown so I can know if I can afford to pay my rent in September, but they haven't invented the zero yet.

It doesn't matter. Tension or no tension. I have exactly 11 days left to enjoy before this starts in earnest again. Maybe I'll visit my doctor and ask for one and only one mother's-little-helper I can keep in a pill box like a pendant on a chain around my neck. A talisman against the onslaught of stupidity I am bound to meet.

Eleven days to go...

Mid-Summer Night's Dream

Today is the last day of July. Do you KNOW what that means?



It means that tomorrow is the first day of August. And THAT means I have only one month left of summer before I have to go back to classes. I have been doing a remarkably good job of actually relaxing since that root canal. Something about a heavy dose of benzodiazepines that will drain the workaholic vibe out of you... The point is, I've been relaxing, and I've gotten a taste for it. I have also not watched television this month. Not once. So I am actually relaxing as opposed to vegging out, which I think is different.



I've been enjoying my down time in "flow," a concept made accessible by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the Hungarian-born psychology professor. Flow is an enjoyable state of mind wherein the task at hand is suitably matched to one's skillset and abilities and provides meaningful feedback so that the person can become actively and mindfully engaged in what they are doing. This is something that just doesn't happen when passively viewing entertainment. Television and movie watching flow experiences are few and far between (the exception perhaps being trying to stay one step ahead of a really good MYSTERY! on A&E). It happens much more often with games, good conversation, sport, tasks and problem-solving activities. It's the feeling of falling into a groove, when you are doing something and are so engrossed that you suddenly look up and it's 8 hours later and you don't know where the time went.



And I've gotten a taste for it.



I've even felt more like I can fall into flow at work. When I get a good counselling session going and feel totally present, always adjusting my gameplan and strategizing to give my client the best therapy I can. Getting feedback directly from the client in terms of how the session is going for them. Yeah, it feels like the days when I was training and HAD to pay such close attention for fear I'd really screw something up.



And that's the thing. Once you become good at something, the challenge lessens. In order to experience flow, you need the right amount of stress. You need to be challenged enough to keep you on your toes, but not so much that you feel hopeless and give up. If your skills are solid, that's great... but the danger is that you will go on autopilot and not be truly present. It doesn't matter how skilled the therapist is, if they are not present in the therapy exchange, if they are bored, if they are multi-tasking in their mind, the client loses out.



Right now I'm present.



And it feels good and I don't want to lose it. Which is why I started to get a little weird and possessive of my time in the past few days. Suddenly my inbox is filling up with messages from the University. Workshops are being advertized, working groups are planning when they will meet, the mailroom is being reordered for the incoming students, and I'm expected to register. Oh, and a paper that I gave to my supervisor almost 5 weeks ago, which they told me they could turn around in 48 hours, is still sitting on their desk. There are still deadlines counting down in the summer "break." There are things I have to DO.



But I'm enjoying flow too much.



And before you say anything snide, yes, of course I know I can apply my newfound flow prinicples to school work... I just don't want to yet. You see, it's the thing about meaningful feedback. Last year, it was pretty non-existant. In one class I didn't get any feedback until after the semester was over. In another class, the feedback was meaningless because the prof belled grades on such a steep curve... you had no idea what your skills were really like. In another course, my only feedback came in this form:



"Very good paper. A."



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I had to stop writing before I was actually finished that post and now we're a good week in to August and it doesn't have the same oomf as when I wrote it on July 31st. I have a meeting with my supervisor today and don't want to go. It feels like detention somehow, only I go alone and not with a cadre of 1980s teen archetypes. My prof is no evil Mr. Vernon, but just as clueless at times. Not their fault, it 's a generational thing. And this not-quite-a-summer has infected me with a sort of teenish agnst -- a feeling of not-quite-fulfilled-and-i-want-something-but-don't-know-what feeling. So yeah, I don't want to go... I want my breakfast club and I'm not getting it there.

If John Hughes were still alive I'd want him to make a new movie for all of us grown up teens as we ride gen X into our middle age. And I hope he'd remember that some of us are still in school, some of us didn't have a good prom, and some of us had grandmothers who felt us up on our birthdays. But I guess that's what Avenue Q was for.

Time to download a few soundtracks and make one last push for the summer that never was but might still be.

The Root Of The Problem OR Stealing Nerves In The Mines Of Moria

Today I had my very first root canal. I asked for some of the infected nerve goop that they endontist pulled out to put in my baby book, but he seemed to think I was only asking because I was in a Vallium-induced haze. How wrong he was, how wrong he was.

I have a RATIONAL fear of the dentist. Despite my own dentist being a hug-giving, tiny sweetheart, she is a dirty, dirty LIAR. She filled my first cavity for me when I was in my late 20s, and promised me that I wouldn't feel a thing. Then this wonderful sweetheart of a darling dentist shoved a mining instument into my face and clipped a nerve. Human reflexes dictated that I jump off of the chair and knock over a small tray of flouride. Her sweet Iranian accent broke the tension when she said, "Okay, Psyche... you take a short break and I go get you the Vallium..." We ended up finishing the procedure the next day with additional, extra-strength Vallium.

Naturally, I was out of my mind terrified when she told me that the intense throbbing in my jaw and inability to tolerate heat, cold, sweet, air or even my own saliva on my molar was due to an infected root. Crud. I visited the endonist (who charmingly looked like Carrol Spinney) and he offered me the choice between being awake with no nitrous oxide or being asleep at twice the cost. Since my insurance will only cover the cost of one non-morpheoused tooth, I had to deal. I had to take the pass through the mountains and go with him into the Mines of Moria.

I told him that I as a flight risk and the Spinney look-alike assured me he would give me the max amount of happy pills allowed. I arrived dutifully 45 minutes early and swallowed the blue pill. By the time my procedure began, I was still as nervous as a bag of cats, and he had his hand so far down my throat that he could have put green fuzzy pants on me and called me Oscar. The pills really only kicked in about halfway through, at which point I could have fallen asleep. Then they finished, I went home, and did fall asleep.

The legend goes that the dwarves dug too deep and unleashed an incredible evil... a Balrog that even the orcs and goblins that frequented the deep caves feared. The denist I had previously must have also dug too deeplly to fill my cavity and unleased a terrible evil as well. OR maybe I was the one who dug too deeply because I ate too many raisins and didn't floss well enough. [Side note, no one taught me to floss until I was 28.]

When I awoke, I was slightly dazed and wearing white robes. I can't feel a thing in that tooth. I was given more painkillers, but feel a complete lack of need to use them. So yeah, much less climactic that Return of the King, but there you go.

OMG, don't get me started on Return of the King... but that's another post. Point is, mission accomplished. Well, until I have to go in to get a the crown placed on my tooth. That is, if my tooth will finally accept its destiny and reforge the sword that slew the hand of Sauron 3000 years ago...

What Is Meant By "Anal" OR Vomiting For Revenge

So, aside from when I was in the throws of a wildly serious ED and not eating enough to actually need to poop, there are basically two times when I have felt like I desperately needed to take a dump and couldn't.
(Wow, Psyche, you silver-tongued devil, you...)

The first was on a weekend road trip with my mom. I spent 72 straight hours with her, mostly alone in a car. We left after work at 8am (yes, AM) and I missed my usual morning BM. This was the most misguided "fun" road trip ever, as was evidenced by my anal sphincter attempting to make diamonds in my rectum for the entire weekend. I didn't go for three days when I was with her, plus about 24 hours before, so about 96 hours total. When I dropped off at my appartment and my mom took over the drivers seat at 7:30am, I watched her pull away from the building, turn the corner and disappear behind an office building.

And then I publicly shit myself.

Okay, I'm kidding, I didn't actually lose control of my bowels. But I did feel things relax down there at an alarming rate. So much so that I ran up the stairs rather than waiting for the morning rush hour elevator, for fear that I would not make it to the toilet on time. Be advised, running up 3 flights of stairs carrying a weekender suitcase, a travel pillow, a purse and trying to fend off a shit cramp is not a well-thought-out scheme. I made it in time, but just barely.

The second time I desperately felt like I needed to go but couldn't was yesterday, my first day back to work after my self-imposed commital to Psyche sanitorium. I am a pretty regular gal, and that day it was just a no-go. It was a little over 55 hours when things losened up very suddenly WHILE I WAS DOING THERAPY WITH A CLIENT on the phone.

Now, I can easily wax psychological about why I can't poop around my mom. I was toilet trained before I was a year old. Too young. A lot of pressure there to do things at mom's command, and as an infant, if one is toilet trained too early, the pleasure centre in the brain can get a little weird around mommy, holding it in, delaying pleasure and all that kind of stupid stuff. If a parent is too controlling, the individual is at risk for either becoming incredibly controlling themselves OR rebelling outrageously and doing the extreme opposite: whatever they feel like whenever they want. As you can tell, I turned out a bit on the anal side, which is why whenever I see my mom my asshole slams shut like there is a herd of Jehova's Witnesses coming up the path.

So what was up with work yesterday and today? And why did I uh, loosen up, around 3pm, just before I took a meal break?

Yes, the org where I work has a slightly Orwellian vibe to it. It is, at times, oppressively parental. Ha, when I first started there, a manager actually commented that I went to the bathroom a "little too much." Uh, you know what? If you never know if your next client is going to be a prank or a two hour suicide call, you go almost every chance you get! I invited this (male) manager to feel free to come into the washroom with me if they wanted to verify if I was peeing OR never mention it again. [He and I actually get along great these days!] Anyway, my every moment at work is clocked... there are codes for almost everything and status reports at the end of the month. Hence my irritation because therapy should not be treated as a call-centre framework. Still... the intense control at the org about things that just don't matter (compared to the issues we discuss with young people - today I had two 45 minute convos with abuse survivors and an hour long psychodynamic session with someone who was sorting out why she let's friends take advantage of her) is very oppressive and I think my brain has crossed wires thinking that holding it in is some small act of rebellion.

When in fact, shitting myself so that I had to go home early would have worked WAY better.

Sigh... unfortunately, I made it on time and without cutting the call short. Sigh... I can see the poster for the support group now, "Excreting Bodily Substances for Revenge and Personal Gain - Public Humilation or Personal Liberation?"

It occurs to me (and has more times than I care to admit) that although I haven't had symptoms for almost 7 years, that I can probably still throw up pretty much on cue and unaided. Sometimes I fantasize about puking on someone I don't like by "accident" you know? Because I must be "sick." Bonus: I would also get to go home.

Clearly I am VERY comfortable with what Jung would call "The Shadow." Very VERY comfortable.