"Dr. House" Was The Nicest Nickname I Could Think Of

Assholery, the likes of which is usually reserved for the operating rooms of brain surgeons or mob-movie characters played by Joe Pesci. Di-ick. That is my new practicum supervisor. Brilliant, excellent at what he does, feared by his peers and tolerated by his underlings... and regardless of how talented he is, absolutely NO ONE likes him.

He picks on people. There is one young lady on our student team, a really excellent neuropsychologist-to-be who ended up in our program (even though she didn't want to be) due to lack of placements for neuropsych students at our level in this city. She is a very young and shy person who defers to authority. She is highly anxious as she is not in her element. And every morning at our team meeting, Dr. House picks on her over and over again. He likes to begin team meetings by circulating stories from the tree newspapers he reads every day and commenting on them. One story last week had something to do with "California State University at Berkley." He says to Ms. Shy, "So, Ms. Shy, what state is California State University in?" Ms. Shy doesn't know how to respond... "Uh, what to you mean, what state is it in?" He just keeps repeating his question. She is visibly panicked and uncomfortable. She heard the question, but thinks that he must be trying to trick her. After 5 rounds of this, he switches to a caustic tone and asks another student. "It's in California." Uh-huh. Ms. Shy turns seven shades of red. He directs his next stoopid-gotcha question at her. Great, Dr. House. We're all really impressed that you know how to make nervous-and-very-talented young women nearly cry. [slow sarcastic clapping] We're all really impressed. BRA-VO.

He's done a few things that have got under my skin since we started on Sept. 6th. He's made bets on how far into an interview it would be before a mother started crying. He's made fun of the cities that clients are from. He's made rude remarks about Jehova's Witnesses. He's interrupted people and walked away from them while they were talking to him and in mid-sentence. He has suggested to me personally that I would be given more leeway than younger students and that I would not have to take 5pm clients because I was "over 30 and have a life." My response? "Well, thanks for being unfair in my favour, I guess." He holds court. Fine, but I already have a theatre degree.

But the other day, he became very angry with me because I adhered to a professional standard. Basically, if you were to read ever single book on therapy in the world, and talk to every therapist in the world, you wouldn't find a single one that says that it is a good idea to extend the therapy hour when a client is late. This is important for several reasons. 1. It's important to have boundaries with clients and to establish them early on (especially if you are a new therapist... like me). 2. Extending the therapy hour sends a message to the client that it is okay to be late and that the therapy is not important. 3. Extending the therapy hour has more to do with the therapist's feelings of discomfort and wanting to be seen as a "nice guy" than having the client's best interests at heart. 4. Helping the client to contain their anxiety/anger and make the best of the session is clinically more useful and ultimately more respectful of the client. BUT regardless of all these reasons and more, Dr. House insisted that I "should have known better." Really? Exactly how should I have known that you flout a clinically and theoretically important convention that is adhered to by 100% of therapist excluding you? And how was I to have known that exactly? Was it in one of the many administrative training manuals that you neglected to give me?

On top of this, Dr. House insisted that I had been "poisoned" by the professors at my University (which he added - "only work 6 months a year" and "don't care about anybody") and he declared that he needed to "turn you back into the human being I know you are."

Uh, hold the phone. Are you, Dr. House, giving me a lesson in compassionate humanity? Because if you are, we need to call those three newspapers that you read every day and message all the activist Internet sites that refer to you as a callous-jackass-lacking-in-empathy. Clearly they were wrong and the media should be alerted.

So he asked me to call the client and APOLOGIZE and offer her a more convenient and longer therapy session next week. I told him that I would be happy to offer the new appointment but that I would not apologize. I don't think I've done anything wrong and I'm not sorry. So appologizing would be lying to the client (something else that is contraindicated in therapy, go figure) and I don't beleive it would be helpful. The client ended up telling me on the phone that they couldn't have stayed even if I did offer a long time, and they refused the new time and the extended appointment. Dr. House says that I am "off the hook for now." Mm-hmm. Off the hook. Thank you, oh grand exalted master...

Ah, the humiliating world of graduate work. Anyone want to take bets as to how long into the school year before he swears at me?

And.... GO!

Let's bring you up to speed a little, shall we, Dear Reader?

The summer was rather a bust. I'm still PFS (pretty fucking sick), although we have managed to nail down part of the picture of what is wrong with me. I'm anaemic and they suspect a sub-clinical thyroid issue. I'm caught up in the endless debate of what constitues "sick" that goes on between medical science and the naturopathic community. I'm feeling a litte bit better since starting iron a few weeks ago, but a long way off from feeling even remotely well. The school year has started with a BIG BANG and I am scrambling up this steep hill called a "learning curve" at my intervention practicum. It will be intersting to talk about it with you, as I am studying under a prominent psychologist in a relatively rare area of specialization. This year's focus will be patients referred for GID - Gender Identity Disorder and I will be working under the supervision of someone that I will affectionately (for now) refer to as "Dr. House." Suffice it to say, he knows what he is doing, but appears to lack empathy and be a bit of a dick at times. Having said that, I do not feel the same sense of apprehension and intimidation that some of my colleagues feel. I know I will learn a lot from this experience, even if Dr. House does decide to let me jump into having clients without watching me in session. Right now I'm taking it as confidence in me because I have worked at the Org for so long and have some experience working in Brief Solution-Focused with transgendered youth on the telephone.

The Practicum Org is an enormous hospital, with many different departments. I have a special badge that identifies me as SANE and allows me free access to most areas, except the cafeteria kitchen, which is too bad because I'm hungry there most of the time. This is due to never having a break to eat, pee, check email, book a client, or have a modicum of privacy. Our student computer room is three long lines, troughs if you will, of closely packed-in computers and shared telephone extensions. Bathrooms are few and far between and require keys. Thankfully, I have the SANE badge, which comes with a special key that allows me access to toilets and play therapy rooms.

I also have a TAship, into to psych for freshmen. My co TAs seem competent and fair, so good luck there. And I don't appear to need to go to the class except for tests. I'm TAing with a woman who I TAed with in my first year of grad school, and it is pretty nice since we have a good understanding of how to work together and get along.

I have one class that I have to attend on Fridays from 10:30-2:30. More on that later. Right now I'm feeling very resentful about it because I got saddled with doing nearly 4 hours of photocopying for myself and the other three students. I didn't realize that I had to learn how to be a copy machine repair wizard as a condition of graduation. But now I know how to fix ANY paper jam and reload ink cartridges. And the people at administrative support know me by name and have classically conditioned stress responses whenever they hear it.

I am hopelessly behind on writing work I have to do for the two OTHER organizations that I consult for (see being sick all summer) and feeling quite stressed out about that. I'm sure if I could stay awake and cognitively functioning for more than two hours at a time, I could get more done. Also, if my SPSS licence hadn't expired... right now it is a convenient excuse to not have some analyses done for a report due in late October.

Other than that, I should be working on my proposal, putting time in at the Org, and thinking about my minor area paper. But I'm just too tired. Dr. Supervisor was really good to point out that I'm quite lucky to be in grad school and funded for three years because if I need to take 4 months off to recoup, I can. It's just that I don't want to. For some (stupid) reason, it feels like quitting, or not being as smart or strong as all the other kids. I don't want to miss anything. I don't want to straddle two cohorts. I want to be the superfit leader, the one charging ahead and breaking ground in my field, in my cohort, in my program. Like if people find out that I am sick, I fear that they will take some satisfaction from it. I don't know if that would happen, or if I am projecting that on to them (in which case, I'm a horrible fucking bitch), but I fear it. Like I have said before, I don't know who I am if I am not special. Maybe this will be when I finally find out. I hope that who I am has grace.

Appointment with the Naturopathic doctor tonight. I'll let you know if anything comes up.

Until next time,
Psyche

April, May and June passed with some ado. If I were my own Dear Reader, I would be tired of reading about how exhausted Psyche is. But here we are. It's go-time. I have to either void my bowels now or get off the proverbial pot. I'm beyond the phyiscal symptoms now and my brain is staging protests. Word retrieval was the first to go. I'm in some sort of permanent tip-of-the-tonge pergatory until the exhaustion finally passes. And unfortunately, I'm so run down that I'm starting to lose hope that it will. I'm worried that I'm never going to get better. That means no more pushing myself. I have to rest. Whatever that is.

I've tried it before. Whenever summer comes I recommit to doing nothing, or doing nothing but fun things. But I never seem to get it right, or say no with sufficient gusto. I get roped in. This year I have set things up as to not get roped in. People know that I am sick. I don't think that they take it seriously, but at least they know. When I say exhuastion, they reply with, "oh, you're just tired. I'm tired too..." No, collective-honey, EXHAUSTED. It's when you've been so stressed out for so long that your adrenals and thyroid stop working properly and you don't produce the hormones that tell your body that they fight-0r-flight event is over and you can calm down now. "Right, you're tired. I felt that way last week, all you need is a good sleep." Uh, no... I sleep for 12 hours and then don't feel refreshed. I need to completely reboot.

In the past 3 months, I've finished my semester, finished my 1st practicum, convocated, wrapped up some important projects, and bought a house. I also allowed the lines of communication between myself and my parents to be reopened. (Big reaction to buying a house, almost none to graduation.) I've also been trying to get pregnant for just over half a year. (Sigh, yes, I hear you on the inadvisability of getting pregnant while recovering from exhaustion, but once again, here we are.) My brother and his wife just announced that they are pregnant (well, mostly his wife) "by accident." It was only a year or two ago that he was telling me that he fantasizes about getting in his car and drivng away from eveything and not telling anyone where he is going and just starting over. That he doesn't want anymore kids because they are too hard and he doesn't have the patience for them. But hey... of course he's happy about it: every child is a miracle. HIs capacity for denial knows no bounds. And I'm discovering that my life's capacity for waving insult in my face knows none either.

But this isn't just a complaining post. A lot can happen in three months. I've been reminded that I have some pretty awesome friends and that Mr. Husband really does rock in more than the prescribed way. And now I have two months. TWO MONTHS to really hold myself to healthy selfishness. Two months to move into our new house. Two months to find that road back to recovery. Not to magically get better, but to get better habits.

Half An Hour

In half an hour, I have to give a presentation on CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy, NOT cock and ball torture -- thank you very much Mr. SGM!) to a group of my peers. It's a small group; 5 grad students and a professor. Since it is the last day of classes for us, at least 5 of these people will show up late, not come at all, or at the very least text each other on their Blackberries throughout. The last presentation of the year is always a tough spot to be in becuase everyone has basically tuned out. Those who do manage to show up, are late, distracted, and sometimes just plain fall asleep. This phenomenon is most likely when your class is at 8:30 in the morning. Heh heh heh... They don't know WHAT they are in for. I have mandatory class participation and a very Socratic style. Those in my cohort that have been to my presenations before know that I ask people directly for their opinion (although just opinions, never a "right" answer cause that would be mean!), to give examples, to talk about their own experienes clinically AND I've even been known to politely ask someone to put their Blackberry away. "Oh, Student X, that seems like a really important call you need to take. Do you want to excuse yourself so you can talk to them out in the hallway? I don't want you to miss it if it's important. We'll wait for you. We don't mind." Done in the right tone of voice, this strategy has the effect of letting the offender know you're calling them on their inconsiderate bullshit, while still appearing professional and even considerate in the eyes of your other classmates. Then, if you listen very closely, you can hear the muted pings of 5 other people turing off their cellphones under their coats. Sweetest sound... It's three classes back-to-back-to-back today 8:30-5:30, ending with the exam for the class I TA. Then I'm going to the library, because just because classes are over does NOT mean that I don't have 5 more assignments due next week. I am a GRAD student!

You're Not Paranoid If They Really Are Trying To Steal Your Brain

My balcony looks out towards the balconies of another appartment building opposite. One of the appartments in this building has all of it's windows covered in tin-foil. Rather, the windows from at least one room. It is ambiguous as to whether it is the windows for their entire appartment. I suppose it depends on if it is a bachelor-style appartment or larger.

It makes me want to take out our telescope and try to get a better look.

Psyche

Get Away -- Get A Good Job With More Pay

It occurs to me, once again, that I must be a bitch of a psychotherapy patient. Compared to my seasoned, white haired therapist; I know a LITTLE bit about psychology and the psychodynamic viewpoint. And I bring all of these great amounts of a little bit of knowledge into the therapy session like a child whose spine is curving under the weight of too many school books in her backpack. I want to understand, but I intellectualize too much to be emotionally present in the moment. After a lengthy session of discussing this and our recent interpersonal difficulties, I said outright, "I KNOW that I do this! I know I have this third eye looking down on us and editing my every move before I have a chance to make it so that I look smart, informed, and insightful!"

Dr. Therapist's sage-like response?

"Yeah, you should cut that out."

That is such a radical idea to me. To stop editing. To stop trying to impress. It is so radical, in fact, that I have been actively and consciously trying to do it for over 5 or 6 months now, and just realized that I'm not. I may have stopped trying to impress professors, stopped trying to manage my family of origin, stopped (at least a bit) trying to anticipate my partner's emotional responses; but I continue to try to control the therapy relationship like I'm Maria Callas' husband. You might get a great performance out of me, but ultimately I'm just going through the motions. No offence to Maria Callas, she was a passionate singer, but one has to wonder why the Caged Bird Sings.

After dissecting the issue until it fell apart, I felt better. And this week I am faced with the task of being genuinely in the moment and not over-thinking therapy. This is a challenge for someone who's background is in performance and in theatre training spent 3 months not speaking because they were learning how to read subtle-and-unconscious messages in body language. You see??? This is why I am attracted to the psychodynamic methods!

So without overthinking it too much, I think I will probably talk about having just been turned down for a research job this morning. They really wanted to hire me to work 36 hours a week for 4 months, and I can only give them 16. It's funny how I have lots of job opportunities right now for which I am now qualified, but can't take them due to time constraints. And at a time when I am wanting to leave The Org (before the layoffs). Taking a vacation is also a problem in this process. Many research assistant jobs are short-term and I have committed to going away for reading week, which is when these jobs need the applicant to be available to collect data. I need the money yet know I will sink further into twitchiness if I don't take a break in February.

Money. It's a gas...

I better get back to not overthinking it.

Mon-ey-ey-ey

Since the first time I heard it in my my brother's basement bedroom, I have absolutely adored the vocalist's solo in Pink Floyd's "Great Big Gig In The Sky." I also love the old geezer talking about how he's "not afraid of dying, any time will do -- why should I be afraid of it?" Then this scary pure yet somehow still rock as fuck voice kicks into pure ecstasy...

I'm not sure it would work with my classically trained voice, but then, I'm convinced Meat Loaf could have been an opera singer, so who knows? Really, the only souls who have heard it are my and my cats (my neighbour is deaf). No one has called the police yet, thinking it a domestic disturbance, but then I do live in __________________...

This morning I woke up, only barely because I only got about 3.5 hours of sleep. I took a sleeping pill at 10pm, then half an anti-anxiety med at midnight. 2:35 am was the last time I looked at the clock and then the next thing I knew, the local classic rock station reached deep into my dreams with one of the best guitar-and-cash-register solos ever recorded and it was 6:30. TIME TO GET UP. So I did, grudgingly. I did my best to cover the ravages of time with eye concealer and a cement trowel (later classmates would comment that the operation was NOT a success). Ran out the door. No food in the post-holiday house, so I stopped at a drive through. Got to school on time, a minor miracle, and low and wonder my parking pass wouldn't work. Scan, scan, beep, scan, beep, beep-beep, scan. Nothing. I pressed the "call for help" button. Ring, ring, ring, ring... beep! I got an answering machine. Really? An answering machine? There was a line up of cars (filled with tardy, angry undergrads) forming behind me and no way to turn around. My apologies and braced for hurled epiteths ("hey, aren't you in my section of intro to psyc? watch it buddy!) Eventually they wiggled back their daddies' cars enough for me to back out and look for a pay-as-you-go parking lot.

I paid $20 to park today at a school where I already OWN a fucking parking pass!

But that was okay, because I had my sausage-and-egg-a-muffin and Earl Grey tea. Oh, what's this? My Earl Grey tea is upside down in the back seat for some reason. I am not ashamed to say, Dear Reader, that I drank what was left in the cup, despite the lid having touched the floor on my car. I was THAT desperate for caffeine. I was late however, and did not have the gall to eat my (now cold) sausage sandwich in front of my two elderly-and-extremely-Jewish professors. But don't worry, I DID manage to spill the last of the Earl Grey on my brand-new (formerly) white sweater.

I met more minor disasters of the morning bravely. Like a young british soldier in 1917 who's been told that Field Marshal Haig wants to move his desk another 7 feet towards Berlin before tea time. I had suspected that my run of bad luck was mostly due to lack of sleep and mental unpreparedness to return to grad-skule life after too-little vacation. I hadn't seen my therapist since before my MIL died and breaking up with my own parents. There was a lot to talk about and surely all of this Cluseau-esque misfortune was the manifestation of not having had the chance to talk it all out with good-ol' Dr. Therapist. But I was so sleep deprived that by the time I got there, I was exhausted from making sure I didn't accidentally drive my car into a Boxing Week matress sale, I just didn't have any fight left in me. I started by talking about how tired I was and how my defenses were down. My bad day. My professors. The upcoming layoffs at the Org and how no one is doing their job --

And then he hits me with it. I'm not happy with our relationship, am I?