The Last Plane Is Out For The Winter...

Do you remember the scene in The Thing (uh... let's go with the John Carpenter version -- they're both good, but c'mon, Wilfred Brimley!!!) where the final plane leaves and the researchers are left alone for the winter (technically summer in Antarctica) and our heroes are plunged into months of darkness?

Well, that's not how I feel.

HA! Gotcha... bear with me, Dear Reader, we'll get there.

I just finished my semester. I attended my last class on Tuesday and got stood up by my last undergrad during my last office hour right after. Fuckers. I composed this beautiful email to them saying that my TA hours were over for the semester and wishing them all the best of their exams and for a happy season. Sure nuff', 3 hours later, I've got 20 emails from them. I'm crappin you negative! And they were all exactly the same: "I know that the midterm was 2 months ago and you've given me about 80 chances to correct any problems or grade errors, but can you change my midterm grade because one question you marked wrong I actually got right."

Uh, kid? Do you really expect me to take your word for this when your final is only 3 days away and it's obvious that you are only shitting yourself because you just read the chapter on ANOVA this morning and you have no fucking idea what to do? Seriously, I got about 10 emails today asking me how to do a question they got wrong from their first assignment, and about 30 asking what a t table is. What it IS!!! Not WHERE it is but WHAT.... These are students who expect to pass stats in 3 days. Honest to dog, I hope that they shit themselves to death. Seriously to death.

Okay, I don't mean that. But I do hope that Frau Professor DOES. It would make me totally happy if on her way to the exam, when she parked her car, a whole flock of birds shit all over her car, and her... and just kept shitting until she was drenched it bird crap, then panicked, and shit herself until she DIED. Oh, and if the bird crap went in her mouth, all the better.

So the classes are done. A plane leaves.
The TA hours are done. A plane leaves.
I brought my books home.
I cancelled going to some wrap up things that I just couldn't make myself go to because my brain just refused (get up, Psyche... get up, you have to go to your clinic observation... you have to go... -- Nope. Brain shut off... the last plane has left for the season.)
And the planes all spin their propellers, and take off, and fly away into the low, low, burnt amber sun. And as the last plane reaches the horizon, the sun dips bellow and both are gone.

It's not actually the responsibilities that have left as the cold dead winter sets in. Rather, as the longest night approaches, it is my brain that has left. Flown away. Gone for a period of total darkness. It refuses to work. It has gone limp like a non-violent tree-hugging protester. Well, brain, congratulations on your incarceration. I hope you get out before the new semester starts.

And I hope I survive, although I am pretty sure I will. Keep in mind that the entire cast of characters from The Thing was made up of males. I think I'm more like Sigourney Weaver in Alien/Aliens. I survive it, along with the cat. Like I survive every semester, enter a lengthy period of sleep (with cat), after which I waken to find more face-hugging soul-suckers begging to burst out of my chest. When I return to school, I feel like Ripley entering that Alien nursery. The slow dawning realization of the amount of terrifying work I have to do. The feeling that any single one of these projects could burn me into oblivion.

It's interesting, the way The Thing and the Alien movies are similar but different. One is a testement to motherhood in every disgusting, biological, sweet, desperate, how do I choose a carreer or a child?, return to domesticity -- while the other is a bunch of guys sinking deeper into paranoia then destroying themselves and everything they've worked for. Well, I guess both films embrace the descent into parnoia due to a small group of isolated people being beset upon by a horrible alien. Blood and acid figure prominently. So on. So forth.

Are you still reading? Do you want to make a double bill now? Fuck, I do! Watching these two movies together is the exact opposite of doing grad school. And like I said earlier, the last plane is out. I can't do anything other than mindless stupid bullshit and enjoy.

And that's what happened when I left. I was exhausted all day until I boarded the bus and left school behind. I was on the last plane? and it was like falling awake. I felt more like myself than I have all semester.

Tucked into my bed, with my cat. With a girl with a headless doll. Happy to sleep until the next crisis. Until the sun comes up. And hoping I don't find an exploded icy crater full of frozen corpses - although if you've ever been to my university, it's not too far from the mark.

Honk Shu Honk Shu

Psyche sleep now. Or soon. Psyche sleep soon.
The last assignment was handed in on Tuesday. I'm cancelling tomorrow's office hours because undergrads are liars and don't come to your office hour appointment when they say that they will. And I just have one last little piece of stupidity to hand in tomorrow. I have to give a little 20 minute presentation on how I've developed professionally this semester.
Seriously, Professors... fuck OFF. I'm not a 20 year old whose never had a job before. It's just stoopid busy work, like when you were in grade 1 and on Valentines Day you all had to build a construction paper mailbox to put the valentines IN. Just a waste of 20 minutes so your teacher could write cheques for her utility bills. I don't think that these profs who "co taught" this course planned a single class. They did subtley insult each other's opinions from time to time, which was interesting.
Anyway, I'm obviously grouchy and tired (and hungry?) and not drunk so I'm just sounding off.
It's my blog, I'll do what I want.
I'm just so looking forward to it being OVER for a little while so I can get a little break. I'm just hoping that my proposal does NOT clear ethics right away. I need the break before data collection. I need the time to sit and vegitate. I need to get my brocolli on!!! (Notice how I picked the least falic vegetable possible so as not to mislead you?)
Seriously... I'm sooo tired.
Time for some chocolate Jesus.

The Big Gaping Hole In My Face Has A Big Gaping Hole In It

I just had "crown lengthening surgery" yesterday. Yeah, my endontist works on a saturday... and is from Transylvania apparently ("hey don't make an appointment for Oct. 31, that's our national holiday and I can't be trusted!" wacka wacka)...
It was weird and I was very nevous going in. It's not that I actually THINK I'll be in any pain or that ANYTHING bad could possibly happen. My brain is just fine with the entire thing. It's my cortisol levels that over react and go through the roof causing my body to tremble and me to cry for no reason. So when Dr. Vlad asked me, "What's the matter?" All I could do was sob and say, "Nothing! You're a very nice nice doctor!" Ungh... this is me after a dose of lorazepam. Whoever I inherited my central nervous system from should rot in hell for this.
Then instead of recuperating and spending the day watching old reruns of monster movies and Road to Avonlea, I spent 8 hours scoring and preparing a WISC/WIAT. Today I will write it up, probably while at work, while I also prepare a powerpoint presentation of my proposed reserach that I forgot I have to do on Monday.
I am really glad that my face doesn't hurt because apparently this kind of procedure can leave a person swollen up for days and in a lot of pain. But I seem to be doing just fine, as long as I keep to soft foods (Fillet Mignon Smoothies?). But I still have a ton of work to do and feel stressed out of my gourd.
Oh well. Nothing I can do.

Help Yourself

There is a sign outside on of the classrooms here that simply reads: HELP YOURSELF. Now usually, there is a pile of outdated textbooks and journals there. But today there is nothing. Just the sign.

I feel like it is speaking directly to me. Like that road sign in that Steve Martin movie...

Help yourself, Psyche.

Sigh... I'm such a mess. I lost my wallet last night for the second time this year. It's been like I've just been itching to lose it. I take it out of my coat when I use the bathroom so that I can leave my coat in a waiting room or classroom and not worry about the wallet getting stolen. But then I forget to bring the wallet with me out of the bathroom. So far I caught myself and went running back to find my wallet about 3 or 4 times in a week. And yesterday, my luck ran out.

No wallet.

No bankcard.

No ID.

No school ID.

No money.

No husband (he was away at a business event).

And a big presentation in less than half an hour and no way to print out my slides or notes, or the two page hand out I'm supposed to give to the class. So I'm praying for charity. I just don't need this right now.

I'm also fighting a sore throat/cold. I can't get it until Monday though as I have a scheduled assessment in the community to do a cognitive battery (sounds meaner than it is) with a child. I booked mine early so I wouldn't get caught up in trying to schedule around other people needing the tests and camera... so there is NO WAY I am rescheduling this. I don't care if I'm so sick that my arm falls off, I'm doing it!

So no sickies. Pray that someone turns in my wallet today. And hell, just pray for Psyche. She can analyze herself to pieces but she needs to learn to HELP herself.

When You Are This Tired

I don't think I was this tired and in pain when I was working nights at the org. NOTHING could have prepared me for the sheer mindfucking fatigue I am experiencing right now. And the funny thing is, I don't actually think I am THAT busy.

But so much is happening, and has happend, Dear Reader, since I spoke to you last. Omg, how ARE you? How could I have been so selfish?

I am no longer self-conscious about drinking in the middle of the day. Don't get me wrong, it is a strain on my pocketbook. But red wine and I have becomeREALLY good friends ever since shit started breaking crazy in this hood.

Good news? Sure... After only 3 months of asking incessantly for a key to a GD office, I was given a key. The office is full of 8 year old exams and I think I saw a Phyllis Diller's skeleton cracking jokes when I walked in (HAAA!). But there is a desk and a chalkboard. There's a telephone too, but there is no dial tone. It is in the extreme netherregions of the third floor carry-a-flashlight-or-you'll-be-raped hallway. But it is mine (for a month). So I couldn't be happier.

The other week I told my supervisor that I felt disrespected by the department and cried. She actually apologized and got that key (see above).

I have been passed on to the final round of a rather prestigious scholarship. Then asked to apply to ANOTHER scholarship. It's funny that when the head of the department emailed me with one line, "Psyche, call me immediately," I just assumed that I was either in touble or my advisor had died. Who knew that she thinks I'm a genious? Who knew that the department would actually express pride when someone does something well?

GAWD. I'm tired, and I feel fucked in the head. My therapist says that my intense murderous rage fantasies are entirely normal given my situation.

Oh, goody.

Gotta stop. My whole left arm is tingling. Back to the wrist brace.

Oh, and if you are someone who wears UGGS and can't pick up your fucking feet when you walk... watch your back, motherfucker, because my murderous rage fantasies involve you.

You and people who whistle on the subways.
Bitches.

FUCK! I hate this wrist cast!

I can't type a bloody thing with it ion!!!!

Hurts

I Mean, Yes, It Hurst

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I Mean, Yes, It Hurst

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I Mean, Yes, It Hurst

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Yes, It Hurstj

Yes, It Hurstj

Yes, It Hurstj

Yes, It Hurstj

Back From Craptown

Fucking... DUDE...

Jesus fucking crap on a cracker I seriously can't believe what school is fucking doing to me. I can't even find the time to bring you up to date. Must do so slowly, like coming up from deep sea diving... Otherwise you'll all have popped blood vessels (if you're lucky).

But seriously... fucking carpal tunnel goddamned motherfucking syndrome with a side of thoracic outlet syndrome, but insurance is all used up and just JESUS ALAH BUDAH you guys!

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.

A Post From Convalescence Camp

Hi Everybody. My name is Psyche and I'm a perfectionist workaholic.

["Hi Psyche!"]

I'm writing to you, dear readers, from a miniature mental institution for one that I have staged in my appartment. I am recovering from bona fide exhaustion. Looks like I am not Wonder Woman after all.

I've been at my job at the org for over 5 years now, most of that full time nights and evenings... I heard a lot of trauma in that time, but it took the end of my first year in grad skule to actually put me over the edge into full-blown burnout/compassion fatigue. Basically, I handed in my last assignment at 11:50 on June 5, after finishing a full time week at my professor's conference. I took a few days of vacay out of province (during which I didn't sleep much for some reason) and then returned immediately to full time + work at the org. Early mornings... 7:45am starts on the phones catching the beginnings of summer prank time with kids-at-home-instead-of-school-needing-help season. Two weeks into this I got a call from a girl who just found out 15 minutes earlier that her mom had breast cancer, had lost her best friend to suicide two months prior AND has had 5 other relatives dies in the past 12 calendar months... oh, did I mention that her father was also a convicted pedophile?

It was the breast cancer that put me over the edge. I started to cry on the phone (thank CHRIST for the mute button) while she told me about discovering her mom's diagnosis. Breast cancer freaks the fuck out of me. EVERY single woman on my mom's side has had breast cancer EXCEPT my mom and I. Aunts, grandmothers, great aunts... great grandmother... ALL OF THEM. I get pissed at my mom for not doing regular checks or wearing sunscreen (she is fair and lots of freckles) and Mummer just tells me that she's "decided" she's "not going to get cancer." Uh, Mummer? I don't think it works that way...

Anyhow... I needed to debrief, maybe even go home after that call. I asked for debriefing but couldn't get it because the supervisor was in supervision. Great. Talking about it with a colleague didn't do the trick. That was it for me. I stared at a computer monitor for the rest of the week, hoping no one would notice I wasn't really working. FUCK! It makes no SENSE to treat a counselling service like a fucking call centre!!! Do you know that I have an actual QUOTA to make with at least the web counselling that I do? Seriously! I am expected to answer a call to counselling on the Internet every 40 minutes. These motherfuckers are an average of 500 words long (sometimes they are 3000 words long!). When I told my journalist husband about this, he plotzed, or would have if he was Jewish. He works for a daily and says that 500 words for print take about 4 hours/half a working day. And, he pointed out, no one he writes for is in danger of committing suicide. Jebus...

I got lost there for a sec, what was my point? Right... I'm burned out. So I'm off this week. And yeah, even though I work for a mental health institution, I don't dare tell them that I am burned out, because they have a track record of acting inappropriately about this stuff. Our old CEO was actually heard saying something close to (sorry, not a direct quote), "So what if the counsellors burn out? We can always hire more counsellors." Nice eh? There was a woman at my workplace that was suffering from post partum depression with a note from her doctor requesting a change from nights to days for a few weeks while she recovered, and management refused to let her counsel period and tried to bully her into quitting. Yeah... I know...

Mental health organizations tend to attract the mentally ill. And yes, I have already thought about what that might say about me.

What was my point in all this?

Right. The point is that I'm taking a week off to recoup. I admit to being a silly dork for not thinking I needed any vacay after hell-year at dipshit campus. Clearly, I neeed a month. But a week is what I'm getting because my GP is on mat leave and the sub doesn't know enough about the hell I've endured at the org to truly get where I am coming from -- although I shouldn't sell her short, I don't know if she would support me in taking more time or not.

But you know... what gets me is how much I just panic when I'm not being perfect. Not being able to handle this... having something inside of me insist on a mental/emotional vito of my workaholic plans sends me into a state of panic. I think that grad school might be really an unhealthy place to be. You're expected to be on call, constantly availalble to professorial whims... doing a FUCKLOAD of work all the time, always expected to be brilliant, insightful, cutting edge... and if you're not... well, you're just an average schmo. Like that is going to get you a high-paying job at the end of this hell.

Okay okay okay... in my mental institution, there is rum... Heyyyyy... the doctor said I needed to take some time for myself and just relax for a bit... so this rum is doctor's orders.

I am patentedly BAD at taking time for myself.

I don't really know what else to say. I'm dreading my meeting with my supervisor to get my course schedule approved for next year. Fuck. Grad skule is supposed to be this mentoring experience and yet, nothing is formalized... there is no template for what you are supposed to do... for example, I have a course entiteled "practical research" that I have done absolutely NOTHING for (that's another post) and suddenly this "A" just appeared on my transcript... because I'm certain my advisor is just too busy to discuss it with me. Seriously... how did I get an A when I did NOTHING???? (And not for lack of trying, like I said, this is another whole post.) Isn't there someone somewhere that I should have to answer to?

Oh, and get this... my therapist (whom I also must conceal I am seeing because of a weird bias in my department... apparently on paper we are pro therpist but in practise it is a mark against you if you see one) says that he has 10 patients from my univerisity to every other patient he has! OMFG!!! Is that not incredible???

Okay, clearly I am too hopped up on rum to go on. Will update again shortly!

As Experienced Sleep Decreases, My Wit, Intelligence and Attractiveness Surely Increase

Last night I couldn't sleep. Most likely this was because I knew I had to get up at 6 in order to get to my 7:45 am shift at the Org on time. But also, and much more likely due to the fact that I spent the last hour of my shift the day before doing counselling with a homicidal youth.

Yeah... my job entails that I do that sometimes.

Homicidal. As in, with plans and means to torture and kill specific individuals in their community.

It was really interesting and disturbing. I mean, it is pretty unusual for a homicidal youth to seek-help. The fear of judgment alone is enough to keep the young person quiet. And likely there is an abuse history as long as your arm... no real models of typical development, tons of anger that is misdirected at innocents who are perceived as rejecting the young person. Yes, I'm talking the sort of person who discloses that they are considering a massive Columbine-style retribution for perceived wrongs. Anger is meant for the parents? But ends up being directed at others. I have spoken to homicidal youth before, and according to my supervisors handled it quite well. But nothing prepared me for yesterday's counselling session.

Now, I'm not a psychologist (yet). I'm not qualified to make a diagnosis. But from what I can put together, this kid did NOT quite make the criteria for conduct disorder. Despite the behavioural qualifications being met (desire to harm, hisotry of harming others, setting cats on fire, poisoning a younger sibling with antifreeze, detailed plans to torture and kill individuals that had been followed in the middle of the night) --- this "kid" seemed to be missing a key problematic component.

Feeling.

You see, the main reason why we are terrified of psychopaths (an adult diagnosis of characteristics that blossom out of conduct disorder which is an under-18 diagnosis) is that they lack empathy.

"Typical" people, when sensing distress in others, pick up on their corporeal cues. They see distress in another person's face or voice and their little mirror-neurons fire like crazy. They percieve distress and experience EMPATHY -- a vicarious experiencing of that person's distress that manifests itself in physical cues such as quickened pulse, galvanic skin response, rapid breathing, and a mirroring of the other person's corporeal cues.

Empathy. Feeling. They FEEL the other person's distress, and then, they help, or at the very least STOP hurting them.

Psychopaths don't. Conduct disordered kids largely don't as well.

But this kid. Despite claiming not to feel guilt or remorse was writing to a crisis help line type service. They claimed to be scared that they would act on these impulses... were aware that they were really angry at abusive and neglectful parents.

They were seeking HELP.

Uh-huh.

Brutal for me. They were quite expicit that they were an accomplished con-artist. Extohled their own talents of charm and manipulation. I was freaked out. Was I being conned? I don't know. But I suspect that if they were seeking help, that they were feeling SOMETHING. Maybe not empathy exactly... but something. And I wanted to explore that. Because IF this kids was being genuine with me... my god... what a blessing this was. That they WANTED to get support. That there is hope to avoid future suffering for potential victims... but even moreso, to avoid future suffering for them as well.

Was my life just touched by a potential future psychopath on the brink? Did I give them even 1% possible hope for a life free from revenge and anger?

My god, I hope so.

I am so incredibly humbled by this experience. So incredibly tired. And yet, I can only imagine the hell that this child has been through and the intense suffering that is being defended against. If I believed in "God" I would pray. But I don't. So I will just put it out there. We never know when our judgement or lack thereof may be pivotal in someone's life. Yes, I know I am in the business of non-judgementalness. But wow, this was possibly the most humbling experience of my life since the school shooting call.

I'll tell you about that sometime. But for now. It's sleep. I've just finished my first draft of a developmental framework for self-efficacy and help-seeking on a national child helpline. A circle is complete and I must rest before the next one.

N***, wherever you are. Please know that I meant every word. I want you to be okay. Not becuase I don't want you to hurt anyone else. But because I think that YOU are worthy, loveable and deserving of care. I'm sorry you've been let down and I believe that you can get over this an lead a life not ruled by revenge and anger. I want that for you. I hope you want it too.

Deep breaths, okay? Let us both sleep well tonight.

Isn't It Weird?

I haven't been this tired since I started my own theatre company in high-school, wrote and directed plays, put whole shows together, rented halls, and had a nightly audience. Right now, I would say that I am so tired...

"How tired are you?"

I am so tired that I could throw up into my own mouth and not have enough energy to spit it out.

And now that I've grossed you out, on to the post.

My computer died. I think I mentioned that little gadget is no more, shuffed off this mortal coil and gone to join the choir invisible. The hole she has left in my life, and the rocks that now live in my lower back, are immense. I'm back to using littleboy... my old laptop. My old, 7 1/2 lb plus cord laptop. If I were a mom, I'd be asking myself how on earth I ever pushed this thing out. Do you see? Can you tell how tired I am considering the "natural" birth of a laptop?

What I am trying to get to here is that I've successfully conquered two hurdles put in front of me since losing gadget. A major presentation and a ginormous stats assignment. Hee hee. I like calling them "STATSASS#." Statsass4 is out of the way... I don't know if my explanation of why error terms are different for different F tests in a mixed design ANOVA made any sense, but it's done. What I'm saying is it is DONE and we don't have to discuss it anymore! And I can't anyway, because the explanation was in a file on my stoopid newer old laptop.

I'm coping with the missing data, but moreso, I just miss gadget. She was too beautiful for this world... so light and bright blue... a 6 hour battery in such a small frame. She fit in my PURSE dammit! And now al I have is this lunking, bulky first born dragging me down and sending me to the chiropractor twice a week. I need a gym membership just so my laptop doesn't throw out my back from carrying it in my knapsack.

Sigh...

This isn't my best writing.

Did I mention how tired I was? Oh, right, the vomit joke. Sorry about that.

RIP Little Gadget

My computer is dead. My poor sweet little acer aspire one is no more. She wouldn't turn on the other day. I used all my powers, then all my nerdly husband's powers, but we couldn't get a heartbeat. Gadget's guts contained many things... including the non-backed up copy of a paper that is due on Tuesday.

Well, it was backed up, but last week's version of it.

Also, all my emails, email addresses, countless files of school work, academic googogs, photos, a proposal... my entire life outside of the bedroom essentially. When it happened, an me facing a deadline (or seven), I panicked. I felt like Dr. McCoy when he and Kirk beamed aboard the Klingon ship to try to save General Kang. There I was, straddling the laptop version of a tiny little Klingon and the best hope for galactic peace in my lifetime... pounding on it's chest. The only thing missing was the globules of pepto-bismol pink blood and Christoper Plummer yelling at me. I kept pounding on it daying, "C'mon dammit, breathe!" But nothing.

"Dammit Jim, I'm a grad student, not a computer engineer."

So I called Nerds On Site. They sent a fifth-level half orc mage with a million experience and two charisma to my appartment. He wasn't pretty to look at but he knew his shit.

Gadget could either be sent to the manufacturer and returned in working order with an 80% chance of having all my files in tact OR we could crack open her still warm corpse and retrieve my data in time to hand in assignments.

"I'll get the sledgehammer."

Sigh... Here's the thing. I DO run backups. But they had been buggy for a couple of weeks and I was too busy to work out the kinks on my desktop. I learned the hard way. MAKE BACKUPS A PRIORITY PEOPLE.

Let's see, so that's $550 for the laptop, + $120 for the awesome 6 hour battery (which totally delivered, btw), another$280 for three hours of the nerd's time = $1050 + tax for me to have a laptop for 7 months.

I know that they won't do anything for me, and I will probably get laughed at, possibly before I hang up the phone. But I still might call acer and yell at them anyway. I need to mourn. But there is no time.

Gadget, you may be dead... but this desktop has essentially mind-melded with you. If I've learned anything from Star Trek is that rebooting the series is always possible. And your consciousness can live on indefinitely in the hard-drive/brain of another computer until Kristy Alley goes to rehab and the genesis project is released.

Say it with me: "KAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHNNNNNN!!!!"

Not Just A River In Egypt

I TA. I don't know if my theoretical editor who doesn't actually exist would approve of me using TA as a verb. But there it is. I do a lot of TA duties, so in my opinion, I TA. And I TA hard for one really difficult prof.

Professor Happycat.

In these past few months, I have witnessed this prof commit the following offenses. Consider it a kind of professorial rap sheet.

Refer to students in their class as "really good looking"
Suggest that because they are "really good looking" that they shouldn't be trying to "manipulate the disabilities centre" with a bogus diagnosis.
Dispute said "bogus diagnosis" in spite of a written Attending Physician's Statement
Refer to another TA as being a really good example of someone with a high IQ but a really low emotional IQ because they attended a conference to present a paper instead of coming to their class. IN FRONT OF AN ENTIRE LECUTRE HALL.
Lose the entire set of the class' midterms.
Blame this loss on a TA from another course, claiming that this TA must have taken them out of my mail cubby-hole. NB. My cubby couldn't be farther from this person's cubby and I have never even met them in person.
Upon being confronted about lying... denied and denied and denied until it became apparent that there was proof and that students were starting to complain about their behaviour.
Ask a TA to keep their bad behaviour between the two of them.
Throw up their hands and say it doesn't matter because they are resigning anyway.

Do I believe that they will resign?

That's a negatory, little buddy. This cat may not have any claws to speak of, but that was no purr neither. That was a low growl and I know to stay out of the way of a cornered kitty, regarless of their tenure status.

I've learned a little bit about bullying since the "unpleasantness" at the Org. I recognize someone tying to play a subordinate who has caught them with their metaphorical pants down. But this is the thing I just don't get. If you've been caught. If someone comes to you and says, "I have proof, I have 6 witnesses all willing to testify..." WHY oh WHY does the person just keep denying that they did it? And how on EARTH do they not learn from experience???

Seriously. There is a handful of students who heard you refer to another student by first and last name, mention a serious mental health diagnosis, and then say point-blank that they should not be accomodated in spite of a physician's note. And your response is that all the "beautiful people" are "ganging up on you?"

Tip #1, Buddy, seriously. STOP doing the harassing things that you are already accused of doing IF you want people to beleive that you never did them.

DEE-NI-AL. Even my cats know to bat their eyes, slick down their whiskers and look extra-cute when I catch sitting in next to a pile of poo on top of the coffee table. Or run.

The only thing that my naturally psychoanalytic little frontal lobe can come up with is that this prof WANTS to get fired. Who knows? Maybe they have a partner who is pressuring them to stay at a job they really hate? Maybe they can't pay the bills without the Sacajeweahs this gig brings in? But this is one prof who has been reusing the same exam and midterm since 2002 despite the class average consistently falling below 50%. This is not the behaviour of someone who wants to keep their job.

So how do you TA for someone like that?

You keep detailed notes and a sense of humour like a stoned teenager.

You do YOUR work. Which includes reporting inappropriate behaviour. You don't do THEIR work. And you attempt to professionally call them on blatent dumbassedness that will make your life harder if it goes unchecked.

And you insist that another TA that you have never met and whose last name couldn't be further from yours in the alphabetical listing of cubby holes did not root through your cubby and find an envelope with the same professor's name on it and take it without asking.

Oh, and drink. You should probably drink some alcohol...

The Interpretation of Grad Student Dreams

[Exterior. Morning. Psyche waits with her packpack by the side of the road. It's raining.]



[A car pulls up beside Psyche and she gets in, glad to be out of the rain.]



[Interior car. Psyche looks across at the wise and gentle face of her thesis supervisor, framed by granny glasses and soft white hair done up in a bun.]



Psyche: Good morning Dr. Supervisor! Thanks so much for picking me...



[Close up. Dr. Supervisor's hair falls out of the bun and loosens into a nest of maggoty snakes. Fires comes out of her eyesockets and melts part of her face and she turns towards Psyche.]



[The sound of the car doors locking can be heard with a thunderous echo.]



Dr. Supervisor: How dare you. I've had enough of your words and behaviour you stupid BITCH! Who do you think you are to say something like that about me to a prospective student?! I'm going to KI--



Psyche: (Calmly, without missing a beat.) It was no dare. I have every right to my opinion and to speak what I believe is the truth. We have a confidential process for prospective students to ask questions for a reason. I was polite and professional but honest. Why are you pumping the poor thing for confidential information anyway?



... and then I woke up.



... and alsmost peed my bed.



I'm having anxiety dreams about power stuggles, that's for sure. It doesn't take a narcissistic man with a cigar to tell you that the power dymanic in academic relationships is making me a *teensy* bit antsy these days. Hey, at least in the dream I was able to stand up for myself. In the goings on the led up to the dream (which is in no way a refection of literal reality), I was led to tears by something that could have been easily resolved with a few words months prior. Sigh... I would love to tell you about it all. But I am still slightly cognizant of the fact that no matter how anonymous one tries to be on the Internet, there is also a chance of having one's cover blown. If you know me, feel free to email and I'll go over it, but I've probably already made your ears bleed about it.



Yeah, it really amazes me how people in such authority, who actually STUDY things like authority and relationships and developmental processes and therapy, can be so totally blind to their own power dynamics. Or rather, perhaps, are VERY aware of them and play dumb. There should be a prep course in grad school entitled "How to deal with the bizzare and at times harrassingly illegal things that some prof is going to put you through in the next 7-10 years of your life: A primer on getting shit done while keeping the person you know as you alive." Maybe I'll propose one someday while I'm applying for tenure.



Okay okay okay... basically... there is a prof that I work with who makes VERY inappropriate comments during class, before class and after class. Things like, "Oh, Psyche, a student is going to approach you with a note from the disabilities centre regarding the midterm. Yeah, Mr. Firstname Lastname, you'll recognize him, he's REALLY GOOD LOOKING tall guy, really smart. He doesn't need to be accomodated for his MENTAL HEALTH ISSUE I'M SURE HE'D LIKE TO KEEP PRIVATE. He can write the exam with everyone else, so don't accomodate him. That's what these *disabilities* people do. They're just kids working in that office, they have no idea, and he's just manipulating them to get extra time." Yeah, this prof says stuff like that in full earshot of other students. Also, if a student comes in late, he stops the lecture and says that this is an excellent example of a person with a high IQ but "very low emotional intelligence." Oy. Don't even get me started on the inappropriate comments he made in class about Isreal and Hamas. If I were to write them down, your brain would cry.



I have another prof who teaches a course for which there is a dire necessity to use powerpoint/projector, blackboard... He mumbles, talks fast and we can't see a bloody thing on the very complicated and ephemeral slides (he's a bit clicker happy), so taking notes without a printout is impossible. You would have to have the arm of The Flash, the eyes of Superman, a pen from the BatBelt, and Stephen Hawking's brian in a jar to do so successfully. He posts the slides for us on his course website. Trouble is... he changes the bloody things an hour before the class. Sometimes minutes before the class he adds whole sections and topics, charts and diagrams, designs a whole new system! When we ask him to slow down because we are lost, he says, "What's the matter? You HAVE the slides!" We say, "not these ones."



A power struggle ensues over us wanting him to update the slides the night before so we can't print them out OR slow the f*ck down so that we can take notes. He is stubborn to Obsessive-compuslive standards. He can't slow down cause there isn't time (doensn't matter if we don't learn anything) and refuses to update on the night before because he has "time pressures."



Uh, dude? You've taught this class, like FIVE times already. This is the first time ANY of us have taken it. Pull yourself together, man!



Keep in mind, I'm just giving you the highlights, okay?

The Strike Is Long Over, And Yet...

OMG... this semester is just turning my into a foulmouthed lout, the type of which would make a horney sailor played by Eddie Murphy blush. I've always been a bit of a swearer, but it wasn't until recently that I realized just how much I swear.
Basically, I live in an appartment and my bedroom and living room windows overlook the entrance to the building. The very BUSY and LOUD entrance to my building. Since I have moved to this neighbourhood, I have had to leave the comfort of my toasty beddy-bye on about 5 occaissions in order to go downstairs and ask someone doing a Night At The Roxbury impression to turn the base in their car stereo down at 2 AM.

ON A WEEKNIGHT.

I don't get out of the bed on a weekend. Too scary. Wanna know why? Because when you do that, you see that the person in question is doing something like masturbating while waiting for their date, or is just openly drinking in the car and then you have to take the liscence plate and call the police and avoid the pointy racial/sexist epithets being hurled at you. Epithets if you're lucky.

When we put in the air conditioner, this problem will by and large disappear and I will sleep once more. But, with the coming spring weather, a new loudmouth problem has emerged: 7 and 8 year olds who use the F-word more than a faultering Yuk Yuks MC.

At first I thought, who is the effeminate and verbally abusive dad yelling at children as a they come off of the school bus? But upon further inspection, I realized that there was no dad out there. No dad, no mom, no auntie Sveta or uncle Uri. But there was a horde of unsupervised urchins on the front lawn and patio, cursing the sh*t out of one another. I heard variations on the F-bomb that George Carlin hadn't even thought of. Through the mirale of hyphenation, these kids proved to me that there are now 47 words you can't say on television. Although, apparently, it is okay to scream them at the top of their lungs into my home office during business hours.

Jeeeeeezz.

Yeah, so this has been going on EVERY school day from the time the bus arrives, around 3:30, until the sun goes down - weather permitting. And we're less than one block to a giant park. AND there is a sign in the front of the building prohibiting children from playing on the patio. (But it's not in Russian, so...?) So, one day, I go out onto the balcony and say something like, "Hey guys! Do you think you could watch the language? I don't have a problem with you playin out here, be as loud as you like. But I'm getting tired of hearing the F-word every three seconds." And they stop. And just stare at me up on the 4th floor. Like I am some sort of abomination. Like a cat that grew wings and started whistling atonally. Or a baby who started projectile vomiting the host in mass. About 20 seconds go by. No one moves. No one speaks. I'm thinking, shouldn't they be cussing me out? "Guys? Do you think you could stop yelling swear words out here? I'd appreciate it." They don't say yes or no. One kid (the leader?) does a head bobble that I need a bunch of trained behaviourist observers with high inter-rater reliablity to tell me if it is a nod or a shake. They go back to playing. I go back inside.

I JUST sit down.... "F**************************CK SAM!!! YOU'RE SUCH A F*************CKING FAT *SS!"

Clearly I need to find out who the mothers are of these little Artful Dodgers and find a way to appeal to, and failing that, punish her for this. Why? Well, upon consulting the draft that I was working on, I found that it had a few f*cks and fat-*sses in it -- you know like when someone is talking while you write and you end up writing down snippets of what they said in your output?

Note to self: proof read EVERYTHING written between 3:30 and sundown TWICE.

The Endless Review Process

Welcome to the humiliating world of academic writing, Psyche. Being ahead of the curve is not always so great. As a result of being on the publishing track for your Honours Thesis, you don't know any of the 'unspoken rules' of academic publishing, including: dealing with order of authorship, reporting effect sizes and confidence intervals according to APA guidelines, or dealing with a work study student who may have corrupted your entire data file.

Oh, or the delicate emotions involved in CO-authoring.

I want to be clear. I did the bulk of the work on this paper to get it ready for publication, but there is NO way I would have been able to get it in shape or respond to the demand for revisions without help from three other people: a PhD in my lab, my supervisor, and another person who attached to my lab who guided my rewrite of the lit review. I certainly could not have got it done on time. The other side of the coin though, is that I also would not have suffered from sheer blinding panic where some invisible enemy puts my lungs in a giant vice grip and squeezes for an entire week.

Basically, I got the paper accepted to a journal with major revisions and had two weeks to get things done. Having never done this before, I assumed that a two week deadline was a HARD two week deadline. My supervisor was away on vacay... I had NO idea how to deal with some of the reviewer comments... mind boggling... Sure enough... I panically (wrd?) sent out assertive emails that didn't go over too well with the powers that be... stepped on some toes... you know, all the graceless stuff we tend to do without realizing it while stressed out.

I'm so thankful that there is another person in my lab that I could go to when the stats hit the fan and basically be guided through the delicate emotional rats' nest I had got myself into. You know who you are!!! THANK YOU!

So anyway, this brings me to my point. It AMAZES me how many people in this field really need help negotiating relationships. I've always been pretty good with people being direct with me. "Hey Psyche, I don't like what you just did!" "Okay, let's sit down and talk about it." No problem. When I do start to see problems is when people try to avoid problems/conflict, or try to sugar coat it or tip toe around it. Too many questions are left in my mind. Having already worked as a therapist for 5 years, I have something of an idea of how to word things carefully, how to say what I mean, how to use "I" statements and not accuse. Even so, many people can feel threatened by an assertive communiction style, even when worded "perfectly." There is a lot of sensitivity in this field, apparently.

It gets me thinking about how we are all really defending against something most of the time. Like we are all walking around in transference. It amazes me how many people in psychology don't seem AWARE, not just of their transference - but the fact that they are capable of EXPERIENCING TRANSFERENCE.

It's also interesting that there seems to be a bit of an attitude in this program that one should not be in therapy. Like you have PROBLEM if you go to counselling. It really surprised me. I couldn't imagine not being in therapy and being a therapist. I can't imagine becoming a therapist without having been in therapy. How does one do a good job if they've never experienced it from the other side? How can one deal with one's countertransference without a safe and experienced person in the biz to debrief it with? That's not stuff you want to bring home to your partner or family.

I know it's not like this at every school. But it seems to be the case here. Maybe due to the non-psychodynamic outlook. Psychodynamic theory seems to be quite focused on this kind of experiential learning and support. I really like that style. So it will be interesting. I don't have any kind of practicum or anything this year, and when I do, it will be first with assessments, so not counselling of any kind. Still I wonder what kind of opportunities I will find for that kind of therapy experience? Perhaps I'm lucky that I've already worked at the ORG for so long and had some experience and even freedom to experiment with certain therapeutic techniques (narrative, writing, solution-focused etc...)

I'm also very excited that I am finally getting paid for my TAship this month. It's all going to go on the credit card, but still...

Going Back And Forth

The coincidence that I am TAing for an $Eduational $Psych class while being educated in the same department is not lost on me. I now need to complain about the professor that I hated, then loved, now hate again.

This dude can NOT read an email. Lordy no.

I write to him asking for instructions for how to get a print job done for my students' information sheet. I wait. No answer. I email again saying that I am leaving for work and will not have access to the Internet so he will have to send the print job to his secretary on his own because he has not approved what I have written.

An hour later he writes back to say not to worry, it is on his secretary's computer now.

An hour after that, he writes back to say that I should send it to his secretary.

What part of "I don't have Internet access" or "You need to send this yourself" don't you understand?

Also last night, I have a telephone convo with the other TA who is very upset with how rude this prof was to her because she has another class right before his and can't come to his office a half hour early to pick up his teaching materials. I've already had to let go of my coveted friday morning therapy appointment for this guy. Not liking his 'tude.

But he was so awesomely nice in person... could he just be the worlds worst emailer?

I hope so. Because the other option is largely taken with douchebaggery.

Making A Case For "Retards"

The Almighty has finally smiled upon me as I realize that the Prof for my TAing course is pretty keen, laid back, funny and not interested in me doing a ton of work for him. Jesus, Allah, Budda, I love you all. It went really well today and I think I am going to enjoy working and performing with this prof, Professor Happycat, since his last name is the same as my, constantly purring feline's.

Today he made reference to "Seymour Butts," "Hitlerism," used the phrase, "Freud's little fascist, Jung," and made a case for retards.

Huh?

Well, we are all familiar with the colloquialization of the word "retard" to that of an insult. It is, or at least was not, politically correct to use this term by the time I finished high-school. You know, just like the terms "fag," and "faggot." It's not okay to use these words as an insult or put-down to someone. I talk about this with kids who bully all of the time at the org. I mean, how would they like it if suddenly everyone started to use their name as the new slang insult? "Oh, my god, he's such a DAVID!" Or, "Stop Douging my fries, get your own!" Or even, "Did you see how short her skirt was? What a Yoshi!" You get the point. And sometimes the kid who bullies does too.

So sure enough, when the prof of EDUCATIONAL PSYCH started talking about how we don't want people who are retarded in the military, a few people gave the knee-jerk-i'm-in-university-so-i-know-better disgusted face. And the prof was awesome. "C'mon, don't give me that. It's a diagnostic term in the DSM people, look it up. I'm not insulting the military, I just don't want it full of retarded people."

Bless him.

It's weird for me. I have never felt comfortable with using the terms "fag" or "dyke" or using the phrase, "that's so gay." Probably because I did once with a girlfriend and got tsked within an inch of my life. But I've always been fine with "that's so retarded."

A double standard? Why do I feel comfortable with something that is clearly inappropriate??

[I want to be clear here, I'm questioning WHY I FEEL okay with something that I know is not polite or respectful behaviour. The following does not EXCUSE my habit... I'm trying to understand it first so that I can proceed accordingly.]

I don't know... I mean, homosexuality has not been in the DSM since the second edition? I *think* the third was released in 1980 (but don't quote me on that, and hey, screw you, you're on a computer -- you can look it up as easy as I can and I'm mid-thought right now). So that's like, almost 30 years. Many homosexuals have "reclaimed" these words and under certain circumstances it is fine to say them, provided you know the people you are with and feel confident that THEY are not offended by them. I mean, clearly it's not dinnertime with your new thesis advisor language, but hopefully you understand what I mean. And still, when theonion.com put on their list of top ten resume verbs: "faggoted-up" - I went beet-red and coughed like a polite englishman. But I can say "retarded" till the cows come home, and don't feel any shame or guilt. And that, knowing several retarded children and their parents. Why is that? What is going on with me that I feel bad with one and not the other?

So... back in the classroom now... Prof. Happycat is going on and on and on about all these different tests for retardation and schools and the military and special funding and that we'd better get used to saying the word retarded in his class and that it really means late, a late learner, someone who is literaly delayed in their learning. He turns to mek I'm attempting to synchronize the video/projector/slides/camera/volume all layed out like the lighting board for a Pink Floyd concert, and says, "Oh, are you having trouble?" And I naturally reply, "Yeah, I'm a little retarded."

And I've won them over.

Interesting...

Next week, we're looking at the WISC IV. Looking forward to it and DYING for him to ask me my IQ. Here's a hint: I belonged to Mensa. Here's another: I could qualify for the Triple 9 Society. Huh, and despite that, I couldn't work the freakin' VCR. Just goes to show, intelligence isn't everything.

Maybe that's it. Maybe it is everything in the case for "retards." Maybe the issue is that retardation is so the opposite of me that I'm afraid of it. Maybe I'm afraid that this can happen... using the word colloquially is a way of distancing myself from the whole idea and my discomfort of it. A defense mechanism? It makes sense in terms of what we know about kids who bully... a reaction formation of sorts. I could go into all kinds of psychological reasons why I feel stupid and inadequate sometimes... I could talk about being called stupid as a kid... I can even discuss the fact that despite being identified as gifted, I had horrible social problems as a child and was ostricized (sp?) in a similar way that children who are actually clinically retarded might be by those who are developing typically.

I'm writing this because after the first draft of this post, a friend challenged me on this and I think I have a responsibility to go beyond the first draft of my thoughts. What really does lie behind this for me and why the difference in feeling for me behind these two words? It's not like my life hasn't been touched by both conditions. What does one do when they know intellectually that their behaviour is not appropriate but they are, for some reason, missing the manifest physical cues that tell them so? Or is there something else going on, in that maybe I don't want to take a hard look at this issue because it is really very threatening to me?

And is it safe to talk about anywhere other than the therapy room? (Jeez, I hope so...)

After having meditated on this for a few hours, one thing does stand out to me. I realize that my child-bearing years have peaked and I'm now on a downward slope. I know I would like to have a child but am not sure if it is in the cards. When I think about my friends who have children and see the wide variety of experiences that they have between them, I do feel afraid. I have seen many instances where my friends have had to rethink, reevaluate, and after a long period of mourning, redefine what their parenting experience will be like -- because they have a child or children with special needs. And while I have lots of these children in my life (both personally and professionally), they are not MY CHILD. I know that parents, whether they intend to or not, inadvertantly have "personal hopes" for what their child will "be like." Good parents work through them and try their best not to put their dreams onto their children. It's hard... it can be a challenge for parents to even become aware of when and how they are doing this. So much of it has to be brought into consciousness before the mamoth task of changing parental behaviour can even begin. I've worked with children and teens on this issue, I've worked with parents on this issue - in the counselling environment.

But it has never even approached being personal, until recently. I have never had to stare this particular challenge in the face. And honestly, really absolutely honestly? I don't know that I would have the fortitude, the strength, the resiliance that I have seen an encouraged in others - clients and friends. And I think, that as I approach possible baby-making decisions, THAT scares the bejeezus out of me.

Psyche

For Tomorrow We TA

I already am having TA issues, and the class hasn't even met yet. My prof wants me to come early to help him carry his instruments to the classroom. Normal request, but I have my therapy appointment down town right before this class. I can make it... I have an hour from end of therapy til class starts... but figured I would be a few minutes graced with leeway.

Not so apparently.

I'm not about to tell him that the reason I can't come early is for therapy. My prized friday morning therapy time slot. But what other excuse can I make that will pacify him?

Oh, and he already has me buying bristol board for him. I have a feeling I am about to become an executive assistant type of TA. We shall see?

Oh, and his surname is one of my cats' names. Too funny.

Yeah, but already irked. I never took this course ($educational $psych) in undergrad so I don't even know what to expect really. He will apparently have a textbook waiting for me. Time to earn my money, boys and girls!

I suppose I should also mention the killer stats exam I had on Wednesday? Now, I LOVE math, I even love stats. I get sexually excited about the visual display of quantitative information. And yet, this prof has managed to suck the love of $univariate $stats from me almost completely. The exam was scheduled for 3 hours. No one finished it. Most of us concurred that 5 or 6 hours would have been more suitable. BRUTAL. Killer. In the middle of it he wildly digressed about backgammon and parchesi - assuming that we would all know how to play so that we could compute the probabilities of winning in certain circumstances. Tell me again, how is that related to statistics for the behavioural sciences????

We needed group therapy and several pints before any of us could form coherent sentences.

The problem is that he is a nice, kind, nerdy and pleasant man... and I'm certain a talented reseracher. It's just that, like many profs, he SUCKS as a teacher, but moreso. This is beyond sucking. This is major Hooverism. I worked for half an hour on a question (oh, the exam was worth 170 marks and he did half marks) when I noticed that he had not reported the data in cumulative percentages (as was indicated in the question itself). At that point I seriously wondered what would happen if I just started crying, sobbing and got up and left the room.

Would he even get the idea? I doubted it and held back the hypothetical tears. Fantasies of traumatizing the man still linger. Maybe another day... maybe another day.

I still have to write two more assignments, another exam and a minor paper for Professor Oblivious.

Wish me luck.
How dare ANYONE threaten my love of numbers???

Feminist Full Rollers

Going bowling today. Ten pin bowling. To raise money for the City's Rape Crisis Centre. I have never been ten pin bowling before... and last week my four-year-old nephew whooped me at 5 pin.

I'm going with a feminist graduate group that I'm just getting to know. It's a bit weird, not because I don't know if I'm a feminist or not - I definitely am... but from what I can piece together from the web group and the emails, it can be a bit... uh... intensely combative. And that's something I don't enjoy.

So we'll see how it goes...

I guess the thing I might be struggling with most about grad school is actually not the school part.

The Tuts Leading The Tuttees

I'm tutoring a young lady in statistics. This has many complications, considering that I love math and have always done well in stats myself, but am currently struggling in my own graduate stats course due to professorial incompetence in teaching.

So, I'm going back to the basics. Old text, looking up how to actually run all the analyses and the building blocks of Z distributions and sampling distributions of the mean. I want to do right by the poor girl and would hte myself if I were to lead her astray.

She also paid me to look over a research design assignment for her. Yay! $$$$$$$$$

I like tutoring and so far her feedback has been that I am very helpful and encouraging and a "real positive influence in [her] life right now.] Awwwwwwww... pretty sweet huh? It's like school and counselling at summer camp all rolled into one!!

Okay, back to the books.

Psyche

Schblool

Heading back to classes next week.

I don't know how to feel...

Relief... anger... worry... relief... whoops I already said that.

I'll check in later. But right now, I think I need an impromptu therapy session.

Back To Blurk Blegislation

Back to work legislation looms over us this weekend and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I wonder this afternoon, sitting at blurk at the org... back at work after a week's worth of flu. The Legislature is meeting today... I assume that the NDP will fight it, not wanting to set a dangerous precident for employers to just ignore unions and the bargaining process.

But I also just want to go back to school -- omg... this lethargy has seeped into my muscles and bones and I fear wht little discipline I had has been sweat out in nervousness, anticipation and flu-fever. I want my schedule back. I want to sit and discuss things with like-minded intellectuals. I want to WORK.

Oh, I also want to get paid.

So, as I sit at the brink, I'm not sure how to feel. I guess I'll just keep checking the message boards and news and wait for the various powers-that-be to sort it out. I guess what I dislike most about all of this is not having ANY power to affect it. The waiting is the hardest part.

I have been making better use of my time this week. Yes, the week that I was most sick! I've finished the first edit of my "Biology of Psychopathy" paper, I've completed the preliminary draft of my biology take-home test, and I've made considerable headway on the environmental scan. Oh, and I got to do a peer-review for a journal. That was trippy. I don't believe that as a first year Masters student that I am a "peer" of an established research professor. But due to the amount of times this author referenced themselves, that's what I assume the author of the paper I reviewed is. How do you tell the Emporer about their "new clothes?" Ungh... an exercise in tact to comment that while the paper is excellently written and the analyses flawless, that I just don't think that this article will be of great interest to your readers... Thank goodness the peer-review process is confidential.

Yikes! And who knows how brutal they'll be with MY modest little paper?

Blurk, blesearch and blickness... stay tuned for more.

Time Keeps On Slippin'

And so the strike lingers on. Like a party guest that doesn't see you putting your pajamas on as a signal that they should go home, it just keeps on keepin' on. A mediator, one of the best I'm told, has been dispatched to the scene. The media keep on sensationalizing what is really astonishingly boring and childish.

But it's okay.

There is a silver lining after all.

That is that I've been repeated hit in the back of the head with one shovel of a headcold and taking considerable time to recover. Today marks my first full day out of bed since Sunday. I'm only on the couch... but it's not my bed so I'm excited. Hork Honk hork honk honk...

I'm sharing the couch with my wonderful partner who is "working" from home today. He's getting a lot of reading done... and by reading, I suppose I mean he's turned on the closed captioning on some MST3K reruns. I am attempting to get some work done on a referencing project, but my prof's admin assistant isn't responding to my requests for some word documents. Oh, well. Watcha gonna do?

The lesson of this stike for me is this: don't fret over that which you have no control over. So I'm not fretting. I'm deliberating deciding to have faith that everything is going to work out okay. It's necessary because - well, I was sick this week and I missed the deadline to pick up shifts at the org. I take it as a sign... if I had taken the shifts and then we went back to school, I'd be in a tight spot having to work and be in class at the same time. So please, please... let the negotiator work his or her magic.

In psych news:

I get to peer review a journal article submitted for publication. It's my first time doing this. And it's intimidating. It's also a bit of a conflict of interest seeing as I have also submitted to this publication and there is a competition for the publication spots. They have all the people who submitted evaluating each others' papers. Isn't that a bit weird? I mean... I want to be chosen over the person I'm evaluating (who I can tell is a prof because they site themselves as "Author" several times), so I'm inclined to give them a bad peer review. But then I'm only a first year's masters student -- uh, this paper is a bit beyond my purvue to criticize in an in depth manner.

Fortunately, I'm not a hose-beast and will do my honest best.

Now if only the union and admin would do the same thing.

Lazy Days Of Winter

There is really no end in sight for this strike. The two sides have been bargaining, which is more than they did in December, but things really aren't getting anywhere. The administration is attemping to force a ratification vote... but get this... not until Jan 19/20. That is 8/9 days away. 8/9 days that could be spent BARGAINING. I do not anticipate going back to school anytime soon.



On top of that, my wonderful employer, the ORG, has messed up the casual shift list. I applied for 7 shifts and got 4. That's a problem because the shifts that I was denied were given to relief workers. That's not supposed to happen. First of all, I have seniority. Second of all, I have status over them as a part-timer. It's supposed to go PT, FT, then any remaining shifts to the relief pool.



This took weeks to sort out, and now I'm being denied the shifts because they've already been given out. Old feelings of being fucked up the ass by an incompetent management team dance in my head. It's not as nice as sugarplum visions, believe me.



I'm also just experiencing that pressure of having much less money than the very little money I'm used to having. Please, let this strike end soon. I'm hungry for education. I'm lazy and directionless. I apparently will just waste my time if left to my own devices.

And then that got me thinking... You know, I wasn't always like this. I used to relish having nothing to do so that I could spend time and energy on the million of alt. projects I had on the go. I would write, I would create, I would study what interested me. These days, I sleep and sit around feeling insecure for various reasons. But here I am with over two months of strike under my belt, most of which I have not been picketing for, and what do I have to show for it? Am I more relaxed? Caught up on my work? My reading? Do I have a cleaner appartment? Better relationships with my friends, family or partner? Have I exercised more?

Nope.

I've read one book.

I've baked a lot.

I've helped put my chiropractor's kid through university.

But I haven't really DONE anything with my time.

Which begs the question: What would I LIKE to do with this time?

I have time and I have things that I wish I had time to do. But do I do them? Nuh-uh.

Apathy.

Dude...

Apathy...

I haven't even done things that I need to get done. Why am I telling you this? I don't expect you, or anyone to rescue me. But maybe that is what I WANT? Maybe? Is it possible that although I REALIZE that is not going to happen, I still HOPE for it? And to a point that I allow myself to sabotage my goals?

I suppose it is...