#as a psychologist I know the silent treatment is more harmful than helpful

[likeabxrdinflight]

I don't think Iroh makes the right call in refusing to speak to Zuko in early season three, though I do understand why he does it. But it's just not helpful. The silent treatment as a form of punishment doesn't work, it just fosters anxiety. It's a manipulation tactic. And we see the effects of it when Zuko eventually reunites with Iroh- he says he thought his uncle would be furious with him. Iroh says he never was, but how was Zuko to know that? If someone was broadly refusing to speak to me for several weeks I'd assume they were pissed too.

Given Zuko's age too, it just seems like a shitty thing to do. I get what Iroh was thinking- he wanted Zuko to figure it out on his own- but you could at least tell the kid that. If you're out of wisdom then set that boundary. But you don't give a teenager the silent treatment. You just don't.

[adventurousrecovery]

I Remember

As part of my struggle with EoE (Eosinophilic Esophagitis), I was referred to a specialist in Cincinnati. For the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, I was getting the help I needed. It was spoken that I would get a treatment team comprised of a psychologist, dietitian, gastroenterologist, etc. Everyone would be on my side. This was short-lived because insurance refused to cover the out-of-state treatment. I called my local GI and was referred elsewhere. I was not hopeful that they could provide the treatment I thought I’d receive in Cincinnati.

I got more than I expected.

I met with my Gi Specialist, who has experience in treating my allergy condition. I was put on an elimination diet based on what I felt to be my most significant allergens, wheat, dairy, and tree nuts. I would altogether remove those three categories for 1 week and introduce 1 at a time. I started with wheat (inability to swallow, chest pain, throat burning) and was confirmed to be allergic. Again, I removed that category and introduced dairy. I am also allergic to dairy (horrible skin rashes that test my insanity). I partially added tree nuts but was too scared to continue. Now, I simply avoid those things.

Upon finding out about my trauma history, my specialist referred me to a psychologist who specializes in treating patients dealing with complex medical issues. My psychologist would focus on my inability to swallow, connecting mind and body. Our second session was challenging because I felt I failed. She spent the majority of the time assessing my current obstacles and not so much my inability to swallow. I was confronted with this, and she made the decision to refer me to another facility. It was to cover her ass and make sure that my other issues were being addressed so that she could focus on what she does best. I wasn’t being abandoned. I was being helped.

I have now been referred to a facility for the treatment of an eating disorder. My team consists of a psychologist, a physician, and a dietician. My first appointment is with the psychologist, who will do an assessment. I assume the information gathered will determine the route my physician takes.

I’m scared because this is new. I feel as I did when I first tossed around the idea of sobriety. I could not fathom what would happen as I had never been there. Change is hard, especially when the future is unknown. Not to mention, admitting you have a problem. The difference is that I know I have a problem. I restrict, overexercise, and occasionally count calories. I compare my body to others. When I eat too much and feel full, my brain obsesses over the discomfort and how to alleviate it. Should I got for a run? Should I go to the gym? Should I skip meals to cancel it out? I translate full to being fat. When I get weighed, I don’t look at the scale. I only approach a scale on a day when I’m feeling good. I don’t even own one. I don’t like looking in the mirror and often do my make up in the dark (mainly to avoid seeing “imperfections”). I believe having allergies to most foods contributes to my ill thinking. Not to mention, my history of self-harm. If I feel my words are not enough, I will restrict to prove a point. It has been my experience that I am not taking seriously and cannot get the help I need if I simply state, “I am not okay.” However, when I look ill, one is more likely to help. I shouldn’t have to feel that way or go to such extremes.

My brain won’t shut up. I do eat, but not enough. On a good day, 1,500 calories. On a bad day, 500 calories. Considering I live an extremely active lifestyle, I am most likely in a calorie deficit. When in front of a mirror, I can recognize that I am sick, but as soon as I step away, it fades.

The picture below was taken on April 2nd. I am pushing 5′11″ and currently weigh 128.8 lb. I will not claim any specific eating disorder, as my reasons are complex and many. I feel self-diagnosing would hinder the treatment I am to receive. Over the years, my weight has fluctuated, with 126 being my lowest.

How did this develop?

My history of trauma contains incidences of having various things shoved in my mouth. My parents forced medication down my throat when I refused to take it. It deeply saddens me to think that someone would be so desperate to alter the behavior of their child and force medication down their throat. My dad once told my sister to remove her sock, so he could shove it in my mouth because I repetitively said, “No.” My sister and I shared a shower and were allowed some toys to play with. She peed in a toy kitchen dish and threw it in my mouth. My dad shoved a Snicker’s ice cream bar when I was crying too loud that he feared the neighbors would notice. I spat it out and cried louder. He dragged me to the bathroom and shut the door. I saw my reflection in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. That was not my life. He took a washcloth and shoved it in my mouth, placing his hand over it as he gripped me tight. “You’re gonna be quiet, right?!” I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t breathe. I nodded, and he let me go. I fell to the floor and gripped the bathroom rug at an attempt to self-soothe. I silently cried. On nights when I did not like what my mom had cooked, I did not get anything. If I didn’t finish my food, I was forced to sit at the table until it was gone, and that was hours. If I secretly threw my food away, it would be removed from the trash and put back on my plate. My perception of self was greatly distorted when my mom and older sister teased my twin for having reached 100 lb. She was in middle school. I did not want that to happen to me so I began to excessively workout. Add on top of this, my medical trauma and I have many contributors to disordered eating.

Currently, I have been sleeping through my alarms which has caused me to be late to work numerous times. It hurts to sit in one position for too long, as well as sleep. I have no energy to exercise nor fulfill basic tasks. I often have to lay down until I feel better to do those things. My clothes don’t fit and I have had to add notches to my belt. I am cold a majority of the time and can be found sitting in front of the space heater. I bruise like crazy and sometimes get dizzy. My body has nothing left, but I do the best I can with what I have. Finances aren’t great and this pandemic sucks. I still have an insane amount of hair and have not lost my period.

I am not too far gone and I can be saved. These difficult things I am currently facing, and about to face, are merely blessings in disguise. Help is on its way and I will be right here waiting eagerly to receive it.

[mikhaelkosanik]

Chapter 3 (google translate)

My office was located in the old part of the library. Many years ago this building was enough. Then Brumaltown was only restored after a wave of migration. But gradually the city grew, and a small house was not enough to store all the books. The authorities rebuilt a new public library in the city center, and dividing this into two parts, they gave it to private practices and the Grasse Foundation. While working, I occasionally saw Kathleen Grass, the youngest of Emma's children. She brought valuable documents to the archive and personally entered the materials into the file cabinet. Apart from her, no one could do this: Eliot and Emma died almost twenty years ago, and their eldest son Eugene was developing for the treatment of the virus. He was not up to the papers. As a result, Emma’s children shared responsibilities: the son was engaged in science, and the daughter in the fund of assistance and archives.

Kathleen was happy with everything: from childhood, she had seen what difficulties her mother had faced and what kind of ostracism she was subjected to. Science was not given to her either, and everyone noticed this: from parents who encouraged any undertakings of children, to teachers. And although the fund hired volunteers from time to time, they were not full-fledged assistants. Funding had severe restrictions: all donations went to meet the needs of patients and small salaries of those same volunteers. I knew this, because the Grasse Foundation collaborated with FVP and provided them with quarterly reports.

At first I was surprised that volunteers were paid money, but then I realized why: the fund worked not only in the states, but also around the world. His activities were equated with the Salvation Army or the Red Cross from the past. Because of this, few people went to such work, and there were always not enough hands. It was rumored that the fund even sometimes offered those works that were not directly related to risk as socially useful work. For example, all the same work in the archive. But recently, this has not helped.

The library was the best choice: it was hidden behind massive trees in the depths of the largest city park. Silence - and only rare visitors distracted from work, embarrassing applicants. Sometimes people came to me with such problems, which it’s a shame to admit even to ourselves, not like outsiders. Over the years, I have seen a lot. FVP did not like it, but everything tripled me. Without an eternal eye, working on your head was easier. And besides, part of the library was given to the archive, which also drove idle onlookers from this place, because they did not care about “some kind of documents there”.

When meeting, Kathleen gave me access, provided that I would check the operation of the equipment in the archive. She rarely came, busy with no less important matters, and it was extremely difficult to remotely check the archive. Looking for at least someone who will often visit this place, Miss Grasse asked for my help. The work is simple and easy - of course, I agreed.

Before, another employee worked with me, and we went upstairs one by one. But time passed, and Dale was promoted, moving to work in a private school for Eno. I was left alone among the books, dust and noise of the archive fans. This weighed, and at the same time saved: it was easier for me to experience my grief alone than in full view of others.

The caller came a little earlier and was waiting for me near the entrance. “This is good,” I said, recalling what other times there were clients.

More than once or twice, I came across those who called, begged for help, made an appointment, but never came. There were people who called three to four times, but found excuses not to visit a psychologist. So with all desire it was impossible to help.

“The costs of work,” I consoled myself, trying not to think about the bad. “I can't force them, after all!”

The current visitor nevertheless found the strength to come to the appointment, for which I was very grateful to him.

It turned out to be a tall, tight, though not complete, man in a strict business suit with a bright spot - a tie.

His stern facial expression with small wrinkles, barely noticeable on pale skin and cold evil eyes burned through me, hinting that the owner is not one of those people who blindly trust others.

“Eh, the consultation will be difficult,” I said immediately, hurrying up to the front door and standing next to the stranger.

The gestures of the applicant were smooth, but verified and very mean. I noticed this when the man turned to me. Like he was hiding something. This reminded me of the equilibrists in the circus - they just as carefully and smoothly moved, walking along a thin rope over the abyss gaping beneath them.

Approaching, I hastened to extend a hand to the expectant, noting the smell of cigars and "burnt" skin, mixed with subtle touches of cologne. My observation was confirmed: the stranger shook my hand tightly and gestured that it was worth continuing the conversation elsewhere.

Opening the door and minting a few steps on the bright tile, we went into the office near the entrance. Once there was a children's reading room. I really liked that from those times there were drawings on the walls and shelving with books. Many of them were written off, and I just took the books to myself, making excuses that I would read these tales to either my sister or my nephews.

We were greeted by a spacious room in blue and light yellow tones. I did not touch much, because it did not stop me from doing serious work. In addition, children's drawings and the situation itself sometimes said: for me there are no children's problems - there is a misunderstanding between children and adults.

When the visitor and I settled down in comfortable chairs left over from the past, he proceeded to the story.

“My name is Eric Coleman,” the man began, continuing to drill me with a heavy look from beneath his bright wide and straight eyebrows. - Your number was given at the hospital. It so happened that my daughter began to hurt herself.

- How long have you noticed this behavior? - the bright office tuned for a peaceful manner, and I hoped that I would be able to find out the details. I understood that, while working for the ZSC, I did not arouse the confidence of the newcomer, but still relied on his consciousness.

“Just yesterday,” Eric spoke calmly, his pose not expressing excitement, but I understood that this was not entirely true.

The one sitting opposite me seemed a strong-willed, decisive person, maybe even tough and straightforward. It shone through in his precise and dry manner of speech, in the article and direct posture. And although the man was large, which only added severity to his mind, he spoke surprisingly emotionless and calm. It’s just dry, as if stating the facts from some encyclopedia.

How many people will immediately tell a stranger, albeit very famous in narrow circles, that his child hurts himself and, perhaps, is trying to commit suicide? I also did not know such. Sometimes I spent a good half of the session on a banal clarification of the situation and its circumstances ... if not the entire session.

  “Don't think, my daughter doesn't want to die,” Mr. Coleman remarked, guessing what I was thinking. - She inflicts wounds horizontally. If these were suicide attempts, she would inflict them differently.

- Selfharm? I asked. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Most likely,” Eric answered my question. “I saw the veins being cut,” the man ran a finger along the sleeve, showing a vertical section.

Here I was already thinking: I had many patients who tried to commit suicide. Often, adoptive parents did not even know about the depression of their children, turning after one or two unsuccessful suicide attempts. I was definitely not the kind of person who should prove the lack of such a motive in behavior. I had a selfie in my practice, but for a long time. And he was connected with completely different circumstances.

Eric immediately made a reservation that this is not the case. But perhaps he simply did not know all the circumstances?

Maybe his daughter did not know how to inflict wounds in order to die? Or maybe she did it to check if she could bear the pain or not. A case came to mind: a boy inflicted wounds long enough to prepare for pain. But, without talking to the child himself, I could not draw any conclusions. Maybe a man is really right and the wounds are just self-harm, not talking about the desire to die? True, the latest version cannot be completely discounted. Statistics inexorably told me that even ordinary self-harm could ultimately lead to suicide attempts.

“You said you were a pink family?” - I remembered the detail of yesterday’s dialogue. It was awkward to be silent for a long time, considering options that might actually not exist at all.

I knew very well that “pink” families are called families where one of the spouses belonged to the eno. Officially, enos were considered hermaphrodites, which was indirectly confirmed by the structure of the genital organs. But only indirectly. Not all enos were born like that. In addition, a biological evaluation took place at birth. Therefore, the Garth test was created. It consisted of two parts: a biological assessment, which is given to all children at birth, and a psychological assessment, passed at eight and fifteen years. Often I saw very young children who did not even pass special tests, with a marker of the third sex - a pink choker on their neck. Why they put on this attribute so early was a mystery to me. Only the Garth test finally put an end to the question of the gender of the child. More precisely, even a fifteen-year-old teenager. This is the official age when every third-sex citizen received documents with a special note.

Over the years, I have seen a wide variety of enos, from gentle and sweet, when looking at which it is impossible to believe that they are biological men, to completely brutal and strong. After all, biology remained biology, and the psyche does not always affect the appearance as we would like. Within the norm, at least.

The formation of the “pink” marriage took place even if not before my eyes, but I found the forerunners of the current liberalization. And I'm ready to put my hand on the Bible, swearing that now everything is more or less good!

When the first outbreak of the virus broke out in 2034, almost every government threw itself into creating a cure. These attempts to cure the Mehoni virus led to the discovery of the Encantant. It began to be used after the first clinical tests on cell cultures. There was no time for more serious research.

A side effect of the drug and became irreversible changes in the psyche of some men. For a long time, it was believed that “Encantant” was a kind of chemical lobotomy that changes gender awareness and disables sexuality. That is how eno appeared.

The institute of the “pink” marriage and the “pink” family took shape finally not so long ago, about 60 years ago. A crisis in the economy, a crisis in politics, a lack of resources, a lack of women - all contributed to the forerunners of the “pink” marriage. Even the church did not condemn this, with the proviso that the guys do not sleep with each other. In addition, in those years there was a definite base, both cultural and scientific, allowing for relations between people of the "same" gender.

Healthy girls then massively campaigned to give birth to children. They tried to ban abortion, legally require the birth of children under a certain age. But all this was before the war. After that, another misfortune appeared - the reduction of the population. Almost all governments quickly realized that, if they continue to restrict women, the economic crisis will lead to the collapse of the remnants of the past, and the reduction in DBV will completely destroy the economy, returning the world to the agrarian-feudal system.

During the years of devastation, the third sex did not bother anyone, and the problems of eno remained in the shade for some time. Everyone tried to restore what was left of the once great country, split in two. Moreover, the migration of survivors from dead lands has become a huge problem - both for the states and for the S.I.C. Amid a similar problem, the enos seemed inconsequential and were ignored. As, in fact, what is happening in the shelters of St. Elena for patients with the virus. No, shelters appeared long before the first bombs fell on the world. That's just not easier from this. And then, after the story of Emma Grass, society had to put up with the fact that there are patients with a virus dangerous to humans and they also have their own rights. Because of this, the institution of the “pink” family was created. This is the price that the vast majority of countries were willing to pay for the peace of their citizens. At least that's what I knew. After all, sick children and women had to be put somewhere.

In addition to the third sex, who married a man, there were female “pink” families, where both partners had a virus note in their documents. But there were very few of them, and in my practice I did not happen to meet them. Eno alliances with women were not considered “pink” because of biology. Moreover, such marriages steadily made up for the shortage of the third sex, because Enos could only give birth to their own kind.

I doubt that female "pink" couples formed a relationship from a good life. More likely because of ostracism and loneliness. There was no question of love.

I already had a certain practice in working with “pinks”. It was necessary to work in such families not only with children due to a number of legislative aspects, but also the characteristics of the enos themselves. Almost all eno, both according to my data and statistics, had a soft psyche, a compliant character and a very strong parental instinct. Often they were brought up very strictly and in places harshly. The first years of the FVP required the education of eno children in closed schools. Due to the artificiality of the third sex, after coming of age, graduates of closed schools were transferred to the jurisdiction of the SSC. Then eno accounting was very tough, they were considered as a resource, and I even found those times ... Well, yes, there were enough problems in society, the economy was rising from its knees, and we had to look for ways of least resistance.

At that time, “pink” marriages were most often the second for male widowers, and eno spouses were considered by them as an option for a free nanny for children and a housemaid. A kind of bonus for good service to the homeland. After all, someone should lead a life, take care of children, especially after overpopulation has begun. Because of it, the number of officially permitted marriages was limited. These almost had nothing to do with love or sex. No one was embarrassed by the consumer attitude towards eno. Yes, and they themselves put up with this, just to survive: almost all the knowledge of the third sex was reduced to housekeeping and caring for children. Just 25 years ago, everything was just that. In those days, the “pink” couples tried not to advertise the relationship after the wedding. Yes, and the WCC did not strongly advocate the openness of these families. Well, yes, they once engaged in the selection of couples for eno: it is unprofitable to advertise problems in such families. So there was a cult of silence.

It might seem that no other options existed, but this is not entirely true. There were parents who wished their children happiness regardless of gender. Yes, society imposed severe restrictions on the behavior of eno, on their ability to learn, live and work independently. But loopholes were even then. My couple, for example. He received a very good education and after college got a job as a teacher. For those years, it was just “unheard-of arrogance” on the part of Eno.

Today, in 2133, everything was different, although the sediment from those troubled times was still felt. Almost every show or program said that “pink” families are one of the pillars of society. From screens, posters and newspaper pages, Protection of family values ​​seemed to shout out its slogan: “A strong family is the key to a happy future!” First of all, this concerned precisely the “pink” families and eno spouses. And it is not surprising that such families turned to me in the most difficult and neglected cases ...

According to my information, officially in Brumaltown there was only one “pink” family, which did not want to make contact. The same girls who were infected with the Mehoni virus. This created additional problems. Most likely, you will have to work not only with the girl, but also with one of her parents.

“Yes,” the interlocutor answered, a little confused. Bitterness froze in his eyes. Then the amber flame flashed, and Eric added:

“But,” having paused, “we are not quite so.”

It was very important. Of course, I probably could not know what was meant, but certain assumptions nevertheless appeared.

With the onset of the liberalization period, a sufficiently large percentage of enos did not want to formalize any kind of relationship. Yes, and to join them, too, did not dare. It was easier for them to live apart than to follow the stringent requirements of society. My former colleague Dale, who worked directly in the educational center, also complained about it, and the top of the FVP expressed their complaints about this - this was regularly reported in the news. If we count the number of eno, then we get quite decent numbers of single citizens: approximately every fifth state citizen and every twelfth citizen of S.I.C were alone. For other countries, I did not have statistics and could only refer to these summaries.

As a result, the Defense even had to make concessions and allow lonely eno adoption if they met the requirements of agencies. To be more precise, the latter, it seems, was influenced by the Grasse Foundation, which could not endlessly sponsor orphanages and orphanages, where, in one way or another, children with the Mekhoni virus got into.

I involuntarily breathed a sigh of relief: I will have to be very careful both in communicating with the Coleman family and with the Family Values ​​Protection authorities, which, upon completion of work, I will add this case to my report. I couldn’t conceal customer data. No ethics could cover this!

“Good,” I finally remarked, scrolling through the foregoing in my mind, “come with your whole family.” I’ll try to find out the reason for your situation. Eric thanked me and left the office without saying another word. After his visit, I involuntarily recalled what I had been trying to escape from for thirty years. Alas, I knew firsthand what the “pink” family is.

***

The next day, the Coleman failed to arrive. Eric called and dryly warned me that due to busyness, the meeting would have to be rescheduled. I agreed. In terms of speech, it looked like the first time Eric’s husband had called me. Understanding the state of the Colemans, I was very afraid of meeting with members of this family.

During the weekly break, I thought for a long time whether to take a new family or not. “Pink” families had their own specifics, because of which working with them was extremely costly in terms of resources. I was not sure that my reserves in this case could be enough. Neurotization in such pairs always exceeded the average, and it was simply not always possible to reduce it. And without it, the whole workflow would turn into hell. In addition, I myself once had a “pink” pair, because of which I could somehow project my experiences onto strangers, which could also affect my work. And the worst thing was that if I took on this case, I would have to lie to the Protection of family values. It would affect me too. After all, I worked for this organization.

I was persuaded by Eunice to tackle this, always getting in where I didn’t need and loving to put her two cents in any of my business. True, it was she who said that only I can understand such a family and help, having a certain experience behind me.

“You understand that someone else will calmly report about them to FVP?” Or somewhere else! Can you imagine what it feels like? - the last argument of the sister was a shot at the bull's-eye.

She knew that I could not talk about something if they did not directly ask me, even though I myself worked for the Defense of Family Values. Therefore, “pink” families turned to me in the hope that I would not say too much. At least that was before.

"Okay. If I can’t help, I’ll try to find another specialist who can be trusted, ”I reassured myself, as I did in situations with missing clients.

Eric did not deceive and really came on the day off with his family. That day, the door of my office swung open, loudly and unpleasantly banging against the wall. For the first time they burst into me like this, and I was even taken aback by such things, having remained standing by the table.

A guy of a dry physique flew into the office in a whirlwind. Dressed in a crumpled T-shirt, well-worn trousers and a battered leather jacket, the guest reminded me of a huge stray dog ​​from distant childhood: the same one, beaten by the life of a rogue.

The guy’s eyes smiled, as if to spite the whole world, sparkling with excitement. It reminded me even more of our shaggy friend with Eunice. He also brazenly smiled at his mouth, wagging his tail and edible bulls at the guys in the neighborhood. And only by the small gray lock in the visitor's long tousled hair did I realize that the stranger had long been not a teenager or even a youth.

Rushing across the entire hall, he flew up to me and, holding out his hand, he rumbled:

  - Hi. Are you dock?

I did not want to respond to such familiarity. I was just about to speak out, looking around at the sloven, as Eric entered behind him in a heavy, measured gait. Behind him peered apprehensively a little girl in a closed dress and with an elegant scarlet bow on her head.

“You ...?” I asked in surprise.

- Adrian Coleman. I called you, - still holding out his hand, laughed "rogue." “This is my ...”, hesitating and less confident, “my husband, Eric.”

Then, pointing to the still hiding girl, he said: “And this is our daughter Rina.” The girl only embarrassedly smiled and waved my hand, hiding again behind the adult. She seemed against the background of high enough strong parents quite tiny and reminded me of a beast of galago. Especially with large purple eyes, a small nose and a bow, one to one like huge triangular ears.

“Good afternoon,” Eric greeted dryly again, sitting down in a chair and showing with a gesture that his partner should do the same.

Adrian sighed theatrically, but still sat next to his spouse. Rina initially also sat next to her parents, but soon she became interested in the environment. We started a conversation, during which at first Adrian spoke more, chattering about all sorts of nonsense and nonsense. In contrast, it looked comical: a groovy jerk with smiling eyes to the whole world, like a dog’s eyes, and a gloomy phlegmatic man, boring others with a stern look. That's for sure - opposites attract.

And I realized what Eric meant by saying that they are unofficially a “pink” family. Colemans simply did not formalize the relationship! It’s good that I didn’t start the report. Now I was free to write in it about the conversion of a single father. Then I thanked the Lord that there was still a code of ethics for the psychologist and I could refer to it if someone tried to find something in my documents. And reports often turned out to be simple formalities for archives. Therefore, I breathed a sigh of relief: I did not want to set up my clients at all.

Coleman's daughter, Rina, turned out to be a silent, slightly aloof girl. She really looked depressed and painful: she covered her face with hair, hid her eyes, even if only for the first time. When parents talked about themselves, Rina separated from us adults, sitting back on the floor and hugging her knees. Talking with the Coleman, I remembered Eric's first visit. The man seemed a stern, domineering man with a heavy look. Straight and cold. This impression was complemented by the manner of speech, not a bit changed in the presence of the family, and the same strict, even prim style in clothes, and even dry, verified gestures, in which almost no emotions slipped.

The only thing that stood out against this background was a hairstyle similar to a yellow dandelion, and a more or less bright tie (albeit combined with the main suit). It seemed that Eric was a stern, imperious tyrant, accustomed to keeping both his partner and daughter under control. But I was wrong. All three spoke very openly and warmly, which was also evidenced by the fact that Adrian was chattering non-stop, and Rina, seeing a bookcase with books, asked me for permission and went to look for something interesting for herself. None of the fathers limited her to this. He didn’t even say a word. When the girl got up, I noted that her walk was a little uneven. This was not evident, but the girl limped on her left leg. “Leg injury?” I thought. “Athlete?”

The men themselves, though a little nervous, tried to be as honest as possible with themselves and me. And although only Adrian spoke, and Eric was silent, I saw that the men were in solidarity with each other. In the circumstances, lying did not make any sense. The mental state of the child depended on my work and both parents understood this.

Not finding anything interesting among the books, the girl painted the whole meeting something in her album. Adrian said that she often draws various sketches and gives to her friends. This hobby replaced another, and both fathers were glad that their child had found a new interesting activity for themselves.

“It was very difficult for us to find something like this,” Adrian smiled awkwardly with his hand behind his head. - Rin, almost no one wanted to take in circles and sections.

“She does not look like a conflict person,” I thought again, casting a cursory glance at the girl immersed in the drawing. “Asperger Syndrome?”

After a short presentation, we talked about their problem and a little more on abstract topics. I made sure that all three of those who came relaxed and realized that I could be trusted. The whole conversation, as I noted, rested on Adrian. He enthusiastically talked about his hobbies, his daughter and Erica, noting any trifle. He was probably nervous because I was connected with the FVP, and thus tried to cope with the jitters. At first, I could not understand which of the parents in this pair is Eno. No one had a hoop on his neck, appearance, too, as I said earlier, was not always an indicator. But still, I noticed that Adrian’s behavior is a little more characteristic of Eno than his husband’s behavior. In any case, it was he who spoke more often about Rina and with great warmth.

As the atmosphere in my office became more laid-back, I suggested the Coleman play a little. First I needed to establish the level of aggression of all family members. Aggression is not always directed outward, and I, as a psychologist, understood this very well. It can also be directed inward, in other words, towards itself. This is exactly what happened with Rina. Cuts could be a sign of auto-aggression. I wanted to understand if this is true. For identification, the Wagner test was useful to me. However, I immediately stipulated the principle: everyone takes a piece of paper and writes his answer in this charade. And then he hands it to me. In fact, this test is not carried out, but I was not sure that I would meet all the family members again. I needed to understand: could Rina adopt the level of aggression from one of the parents, was this level high or not.

Eric just rolled his eyes, Adrian nodded, and Rina folded her hands and put them to her cheek, like children do during sleep. I regarded gestures with signs of consent. He began to show one hand drawings in different poses one by one, asking the same question: “What does this hand do?” This was the test. Looking at images of hands in various poses, patients talked about their personal associations, albeit subconscious. They kind of projected their emotions onto drawings with hands. The drawings themselves depicted only hands in one or another pose, without any context or background. Nothing complicated. Simple work of associations. But only in this case the test took a lot of time.

I showed one card and waited until everyone wrote something on my sheet. A couple of times I saw Adrian peeking at Eric or Rina's sheet and indignantly resented that this answer was incorrect. Well, the answer itself was not voiced, limiting itself to exclamations: “Nonsense!”, “But she doesn’t do that!” Now I understand why Rina left the fathers a little distance. Another test I offered was for her. As if in jest.

“Rina, you're an artist,” I remarked. - There is such a test, Lusher test. Do you know him?

The girl shook her head.

“Choose the colors you like best right now,” I laid out a few cards on the floor. - You can choose them yourself and put them in order from the most attractive to the least. Just choose them precisely according to the “like” principle, and not according to the principles of combination, tradition and other things. Good?"

Rina nodded and enthusiastically began to choose the colors she liked.

This test took very little time. A minute later, in front of me was a table of the following order of colors: blue-green, black, brown, dark blue, violet, red and orange. It turned out that on the one hand, Rina was a very confident girl, but on the other, her aggression most likely had an internal motive. This was evidenced by the dark colors that followed the first blue-green. Another tick in the direction of depression.

Due to the speed of choice, I had no doubt that it was made exactly as I requested, without any association with fashion or any traditions. The only thing, I still had a little doubt about the black color. Rina herself was dressed in a black dress with white ruffles. But I still decided to accept these results. Nobody bothers me then to conduct this test again as a control check.

After the charade, I invited the Coleman to tell the story of their family. It would be nice to get an anamnesis, because I could not rule out a single variant of the occurrence of such a state of my young patient. At that moment, Rina looked at her fathers and pointed to her album. She did not utter ten phrases for the whole meeting, plunging into her drawings.

“Exactly,” cried Adrian, “forgot!” You have a lesson in the studio today! Sorry, petty! ” Rina shook her head - they say it’s fearless to be a little late - and, taking her father's hand, she went to the door.

- I trust Eric! He is our family's walking encyclopedia! Will tell you everything! - shouted Adrian, hiding from sight.

“As always ...” Eric sighed, sitting comfortably in his chair. - He likes to shift concerns to me.

“And in my opinion, he trusts you very much,” I remarked, sitting opposite my interlocutor. - Can you tell how Rina appeared in your life? It will be very important for me now to know how your daughter grew up. Perhaps the reasons for her behavior are in some event from the past.

Another sigh - and my interlocutor was immersed in the memories of almost thirteen years ago.

[esc0rtfribourg-blog]

Beliefs About Massage

sexe fribourg Massage is practiced as a very worthwhile in addition to healing modality with regard to several years in several ethnics all over the universe. Some people are unclear about massage although the particular obvious proliferation of price cut massage salons have manufactured massage ubiquitous and acquireable to everyone. It is my very own belief the fact that lack connected with equal hours inside schooling and various legal guidelines relating to massage have spurned a number of attitudes and misunderstandings with regards to massage therapy as the reliable practice. Below usually are some common beliefs about therapeutic massage that Let me clear up for all people.

sexe fribourg

Massage is undoubtedly an expensive extravagance service. After you say rub, the image that the majority of folks conjure up is any arena at a high end destination massage where men and women are waiting for the beck and call. This variety of ımages can produce most people feel that will rub down is not inside of their reach in financial terms. At this time there is a massage regarding every budget but take into account, you get what an individual spend on.

Massage therapists tend to be shady. Really unfortunate in which many people are accomplishing other things under typically the guise associated with massage. The item makes it infuriating as well as a bit insulting to the who are working tricky to promote good gains of legitimate massage and be grouped with those which are offering less in comparison with legitimate expert services under often the heading of therapeutic massage.

Therapeutic massage isn't a viable cure for pain and traumas. Europe and Canada get long recognized massage due to the therapeutic quality as some sort of strain reliever and intended for injury treatment method. All through the world, many places train a more protective approach to health-related.

Massage therapy is going to harmed. Rub should never injure. If it is uncomfortable, the actual therapist is either not necessarily paying attention or is actually not verifying in. Some sort of good massage specialist will be also a good communicator. Should a therapist is definitely not listening to anyone any time you mention that one thing hurts, then end the particular massage right away. A new massage therapy is never designed to to be painful. An easy soreness is acceptable although pain is not.

Rub down could tickle me. In the event a rub is tickling someone, typically the therapist is usually obviously not employing ample pressure. If you are usually at risk of being ticklish, make your psychologist know consequently they can apply some other quality of pressure.

If you consider that everyone likes tapotement, that you are kidding yourself. Really, for anyone who is using tapotement throughout every rub down you complete, it's time to break up it up. tapotement is definitely deafening and stimulating. More silent tactics are appreciated by means of people that need a therapeutic massage for comfort.

Governmental figures that were past due for you to regulating massage include brought about therapists in people regions to be taken significantly less really than other parts where massage has become a 2010 managed wellness practice for some time. With the United States you will still find a large hole in the hours regarding training and also license prerequisites. This is unhappy to get massage therapists when looking to move their license to a new one state.

All massage experienced counselors are generally vegetarian, into completely new age along with worship deposits! I always have fun if people ask me these tips. It's amazing how speedily persons make judgments about way of living preferences based with an occupation. There are various massage therapy therapists who are vegan, modern and believe with crystals that is cool. i highly recommend you don't assume every one of us are supposed to be to that club. Anyway, I do think this crystals usually are beautiful to help enjoy.

The rub pt will judge my figure. My spouse and i have yet to connect with a new massage therapist who all is judgmental on your own body. In the past I've been recently asked the troublesome concern, "How does my figure charge from a scale involving 1-10? " Seriously, My partner and i tell clients that Now i am looking for limited array of motion in addition to pay out in the body. This will commonly get these individuals off that theme. You actually can come up having your own wise result to that line connected with pondering!

So there you actually have it folks, many of the misconceptions about massage therapies being a profession and rub down therapists normally. I'm guaranteed you've heard other individuals. They have important to show often the world the professionals we are so we can certainly spread good messages in relation to massage therapy for a constructive addition to a wholesome lifestyle.

[eirianerisdar]

He shouldn’t be a doctor

So this morning, I had one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had in my six years of medical school, courtesy of the absolute worst doctor I’ve ever seen in my life - not knowledge-wise, or practical-wise, but the fact that this senior doctor is as of today the most horrible person I’ve ever met in medical care. Ever.

What makes it worse:

He is currently the consultant of palliative and end-of-life hospice care in one of the largest long-term care hospitals in our area.

Which means he’s in charge of patients that healthcare workers arguably need to put most care in helping: end-stage cancer patients.

But more on that later. Let’s get to how he showed how much of a jerk he was.

(As a note: I’m from Hong Kong. The public healthcare system here is almost 100% financed by the government, barring a few more-expensive things per department such as rarer targeted therapies.)

It started like this:

Twelve of us final-year medical students turned up at 11:30 on the dot for this doctor’s tutorial. He turned up, slammed his hands on the conference table, and barked at us to get around it.

There wasn’t enough space for twelve.

He didn’t care.

“I believe in humiliation therapy,” he told us. “I’m going to humiliate you in front of everyone. I’m going to get you to argue against one another until you know the stuff you’re supposed to know.”

Well, so he’s that sort of senior doctor, I thought.

Despite this, the tutorial started off okay. Until a classmate brought up the issue of financial burdens for cancer patients - how if patients came from wealthier backgrounds, they could expect to worry less about whether they could afford anything from non-subsidied medication to hiring extra carers at home. Something those with less wealth couldn’t afford.

The doctor was on him in a second. “Does that mean you think wealthier patients get better outcomes?” he sneered. “Do you think medical care is so bad here that wealthier people are happier than poorer people in the palliative ward?”

No, one of my groupmates (We’ll call her C) pointed out. We’re simply saying that despite the public medical system here being almost fully subsidised by the government, there are still a couple of rarer treatments in every department that are too expensive for the government to cover completely.  Wealthy patients don’t always have that worry at the back of their minds about whether their family can pay for any extra things that slip past the well-subsidised net, while those on government welfare do have that worry.

The doctor pointed at C and told the entire group that she thought that wealthy patients got better care (which she obviously wasn’t) and how it didn’t matter if a patient was on welfare. “I saw a patient who was rich and had family who didn’t care for him at all,” he said. “and other who was poor but had family who cared. Who do you think was happier?”

Well, yes. Family matters. But pray, dear doctor, what do you mean by the other things you said?

Sure. Money doesn’t bring happiness, or a family that supports you.

But money lets you get that PET scan at diagnosis while the patient who couldn’t could only get a government-covered high resolution CT scan, so you know you have stage 4 cancer a month earlier than they do, at which point they realise that the CT didn’t pick up a minuscule cancer they had spread to a distant organ; by this point, they’ve gone through surgery, but the cancer’s grown larger elsewhere already. At this point, the patient with money’s already started their second round of chemo. The cancer’s responding nicely.

Money lets you hire that private carer so your daughter doesn’t have to change jobs to take care of you at home.

Money lets you do that plethora of rarer gene studies to see if there’s a horrendously expensive form of medication that may work for you if you were lucky enough to have one of those genes.

Money lets you go on one last lovely holiday with your family to a country you always wanted to visit, and to live comfortably at hospice in your home.

If you don’t have any of that, there you are in your 60 square foot box of an apartment with a wife who is as old and as aged as you, as she’s trying to scrounge up a few extra hong kong dollars (less than 1USD) so you can have meat instead of tofu for dinner.

You can’t afford to buy your granddaughter a peach for her birthday; the last birthday of hers you’ll see.

And here we had a consultant for end-of-life care telling us we were all ignorant idiots, and that money didn’t matter in end-of-life care.

My classmate, C, the girl who so bravely stood up to him and pointed out the illogicalities of his argument, started to cry.

She later told me she thought of something that happened to someone close to her, and couldn’t stop the tears.

The consultant looked at her and said, “Aww, now I’ve made you cry! It hurts me more than you to see you like this.”

Utter. Foul. Vermin.

The doctor told a male groupmate of mine to pretend to counsel someone. We’ll call this classmate F.

F got halfway through the sentence and started to tear up.

He usually doesn’t speak of it much, but we know that someone close to him in his family’s got a long term illness of some sort.

He fell silent, sniffing.

At this point I started crying.

Not because this doctor hurt me.

But because here were two of my friends, both deeply, personally hurt by this doctor, and I wanted to rise up and yell at him, to ask him what sort of person he thought he was to think he had to right to hurt his juniors like this, but I couldn’t say anything.

Because he’s one of the examiners for our exam this coming Wednesday.

Because he’s a consultant.

Because he wouldn’t let us speak.

Because he was still smiling as he said, “Ah, I have hope. You have more heart in you than I thought you did. This generation tends not to care as much.”

Why, I thought, as I continued to cry. We have more heart in any one of us than you. I’m crying because I empathise with my friends, who you have hurt. Every one of us in this room is seething. But we are cutting our losses and keeping our mouths shut.

“Aren’t I nice? I’m not a mean doctor,” he told us. “I know a guy who told his students that if they didn’t know this-and-this material, they weren’t worthy to be a doctor and should jump off a building. I don’t do that. And anyway, I know that guy, and he actually is very nice. He just had a bad childhood so he was used to hearing and dishing out words like that.”

No, doctor. (I won’t call you a good doctor because you shouldn’t be a doctor at all) Your friend not a “nice guy”. No person, traumatised or not, should ever tell anyone else to end their own life. Just as you, who we are supposed to look up to, should have more empathy in you than the narcissistic, self-important, heartless man you are.

He spent the next hour and a half waxing poetic about his own values, how patients loved his department so much, and (upon shutting off the fan that had been causing my crying classmate, C, to shiver for an hour and a half without him noticing) how that showed how NICE of a person he was.

I didn’t stop tearing up throughout the whole thing.

And the icing on the cake?

At the end, he looked first at C, then at F, then at me, and said, “I haven’t been mean, right? I haven’t been unkind to you two especially.”

And, as we looked into his smiling eyes, we did the only thing we could do, for our grades, our continued mental health, to avoid a battle that could harm our careers. We nodded, and said, “No. You haven’t.”

He smiled a self-satisfied smile. “Students always thank me afterwards,” he said.

Then he let us go.

C and I hugged in the lift lobby.

Let me tell you a little something extra.

I woke up at 5 am on the morning of this tutorial. My period had come. I was in unusual, excruciating pain. I spent an hour hissing in pain until I stepped up my own pain meds and fell asleep again still at a just-reduced pain scale of 5/10 (it had been 8/10).

And then I got up and went to the tutorial anyway.

And met him.

For you, the reader, I’m sorry for this lengthy rant. But if you’re a medical student, or any healthcare worker in the medical field at all, remember this man.

This man is scum.

But you know who isn’t? You. His department is still rated excellently by all the patients who pass through it at the end of their earthly lives. But it remains rated so because the nurses, the junior doctors, the clerks and the psychologists and the clergy and the other spiritual/religious workers and the medical social workers and the people in charge of cleaning the ward itself care for the patients far, far more than he does.

If there’s anything this man taught me - it is to remember that kindness is not about yourself.

It is about the other person. That’s what medicine was always about.

[lifeisstrangeshortstuff]

React: Your First Psychologist’s Appointment

Hello babes, it’s been a while <3 I was referred to a psychologist a month or two ago and I just had some thoughts on it. I haven’t been here for a while due to personal and school related issues, thank you for being so patient <3 Just saying, if there’s something that has been troubling you for a period of time and gets in the way of you functioning normally, I recommend you see a counsellor, or ask to see a psychologist just in case. It’s better to kick up a little fuss and find out there’s nothing to worry about, than to keep silent and let a serious problem fester.

Warning: Quick mentions of Kate’s suicide attempt.

Max Caulfield

Is supportive of you going, since she knows the kind of harm that could be done if a person suffers in silence, and is glad that you’re doing something about it. She’s a quiet companion, and no one leads the conversation on the way, both of you comfortable without talking, or a few dorky comments thrown here and there. She’ll probably wait for you during your appointment, zoning out and contemplating the recent events. I think there’s a sigh of relief because she doesn’t want to have to think about what would happen if she had to talk you down, like Kate. Not that a psychologist is the cure for what you’re going through, but she hopes it’s the start of your recovery. When you finally come down, there’s a nervous little smile and she walks a little closer to you, not minding if you want to talk about your session or something else. She’s just glad you’re next to her.

Chloe Price

Not super fond of shrinks and people who analyse feelings for a living, she grumbles a bit about it but it’s your decision and she’ll support you no matter what. She also knows you’ve been through a tough time lately, and even if she doesn’t know if it’ll help, she hopes it will. She’ll accompany you to the place, but she won’t stick around while you’re at the appointment - she doesn’t want questions or to feel super uncomfortable, figuring she could spend her time better, while you’re busy than just waiting. She might be a couple minutes late, but she’ll definitely be back to pick you up, wrap an arm around you and press a kiss to your forehead, asking you how it was and offering to go to her mom’s diner to talk it over if you need it. Even if she doesn’t know if psychologists help, she swears that she’ll make sure you don’t have to go through this shit by yourself.

Warren Graham

I don’t think Warren completely empathises with needing to see a professional about your issues, but he’s no less supportive. I think a little part of him will be disappointed that he’s not ‘enough’ to confide in, but after some research and discussion, he’ll learn that a professional is completely different to a friend’s listening ear and the disappointment will fade. When he drops you off at the appointment, he initially sits down, a bit awkward, not quite sure what to do. Eventually, he’ll just explore the area, and if he sees anything nice, will probably ask you if you want to go there when your appointment is finished. Would ask if you want to talk about it but accept it if you don’t want to talk, instead, holding your hand and asking you where you’d like to go.

Kate Marsh

Of course she’d accompany you, especially if you ask. If you seem nervous, she’d try to calm your nerves and gently remind you that it’s a start of recovery - even if this one doesn’t work out for you, you’re at least looking for help, which is good. She would’ve probably been to a psychologist after her suicide attempt, and knows that it can be nerve-wracking. She’d offer to accompany you in the office as moral support, but would never dream of imposing if you’d rather not. While you’re at the appointment, she’ll sit quietly in the waiting room with a small sketchbook and pencil in hand, patient. When you’re finished, she’ll slip her hand in yours and thank your psychologist and/or the receptionist before heading out, asking you how you felt. If you didn’t seem to feel super comfortable with your psychologist, she’ll gently remind you that you can always change the psychologist, if you’re not comfortable. Either way, she’ll be there to listen if you want to talk.

Victoria Chase

Even though she loves you dearly, she’s glad that you don’t have to depend on her to save you or anything - Nathan’s friendship is/was tough to handle, especially when he didn’t seem to be able to completely open up to anyone. She’s somewhat doubtful about the psychologist because Nathan’s doesn’t seem to work, but if it seems like you’re willing to give it a try, she’ll support you. She doesn’t really want to be seen going to the psychologist because she’s self-conscious, but if you want her to go she’ll swallow her pride and do it anyway. She won’t linger in the office but picks you up outside. If you don’t need her to come with you, she’ll insist on planning to meet up with you after the appointment to talk if you need to or just hang out.

Nathan Prescott

Man, does he get unnerved by psychologists. He goes to one for his own issues, but they’re not helping because his father is restricting his treatment and he can’t open up about what’s happening with Jefferson. He doesn’t think it’ll work, but he keeps that to himself. Instead, he’ll accompany you to the office and doesn’t really say much, which is unnatural for you. He’s itching to come with you during your appointment but knows that can’t happen, and instead sits in the waiting room for an hour, tense. He’s going to glare at anyone who tries to converse with him, teeth gritted. As soon as you get out, he’s almost leaping from his seat, eager to get out. He’d try to figure out how you’re feeling - if you look happy, the tension melts a little, but if you look upset then he’s even more frustrated. He’ll ask you how it was on the way back, if you found it useful, all that stuff. If you found it good, it’ll make him contemplate about his own experiences with mental health professionals.

Mark Jefferson

He’d do anything to prevent this from happening. If you’re in a real relationship with him, there’s no way he’s a healthy partner. If anything, he’d be abusive, switching between charming and passive-aggressive at the drop of a hat. If a psychologist found out, you’d be advised to leave, or worse, his behaviour might be used as evidence against him. He’s spent a lot of time on moulding you to be his perfect partner, he’s not going to give you up so quickly. He can’t publicly tell you not to go, but he’ll try to make you nervous and avoid going. If you keep insisting, he’ll either break up with you beforehand or if he can’t bear to lose you… well, his plans for capturing your beauty will have to come sooner than expected.

[lordofthebigtimesupernatural]

Prompt: could you write about how and when Keith was first diagnosed with autism?

Hello there! This prompt was hard in which I wanted it to be perfect. This prompt is probably one of the biggest ones for this AU in dealing with Keith. I hope to have done it justice despite working on it many times. Thanks for the great prompt nonny and I hope you enjoy!

x.V.x

              Keith was a happy young kid.

              At least, Shiro was pretty sure that Keith was a happy kid. Sometimes it was hard to tell, and other times Shiro could read the happy smile off Keith like a book. However, he’d never given much thought to some of the differences in Keith’s personality to other kids his age.

              Like how it had taken Keith four years to say one word. Or how he avoided direct contact since the day that Shiro had brought him home. There were also times where Keith didn’t know what to do with his hands and would sometimes tug on his hair when he was upset or wave them around when he was excited.

              Bad jokes weren’t allowed in Shiro’s house, especially after the incident where Shiro’s father accidentally made Keith believe that Shiro wasn’t coming home anymore. Most jokes had to be explained to Keith, along with directly telling him when a person was angry or upset or happy.

              Still, it never bothered Shiro, until a doctor’s visit.

              It was a standard check-up for the four-year-old at Keith’s standard pediatrician. He’d cried and practically screamed during his shot. He’d thrown a fit when the doctor tried to look in his ears and throat. He’d laughed when the doctor booped his nose and knees. Overall, there was nothing out of the ordinary, other than Keith actually speaking this time.

              Towards the end of the appointment, while Keith was picking out which Band-Aid he wanted for his arm, the doctor had pulled Shiro aside.

              “I hear Keith is finally speaking.” She smiled, causing Shiro to grin.

              “Yeah! He started a couple months back after I got back from a…trip. Since then he’s been saying more and more words every day. It’s not a lot yet but it’s something!” Shiro stated happily, glancing in the room and waving at Keith. Keith beamed while the nurse put the Band-Aid on his arm before being distracted by more Band-Aids.

              “That’s excellent Shiro! I was a bit concerned he would remain non-verbal for many more years but this is a tremendous step for him.” The doctor replied. Shiro blinked, confused by her choice of words, but found himself nodding along. It really was tremendous and Shiro was extremely proud of his little boy.

              “Ah, yeah. Why would you be concerned?” Shiro finally asked, lowering his voice. He didn’t want Keith to hear any of this discussion, in case it took an unexpected turn.

              “Mostly because I’ve seen many cases similar to Keith where children haven’t become verbal until much later in life. It’s not a bad thing but it can hinder things such as learning and going to school at the appropriate age.” The doctor explained softly. Shiro swallowed. “However, if Keith’s speech continues to improve then I see no need for you to stall his learning experience at school next year.”

              “Dr. Karen,” Shiro hesitated as he bit his lip. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

              The doctor was quiet for a minute, hands in her pocket, before sighing. “Shiro, have you ever heard of the term, autism? Or the autism spectrum?” She asked, eyes lingering on Keith. Shiro stared at his son, chest suddenly feeling heavy before nodding slowly.

              “I’ve heard the word, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.” Shiro admitted softly.

              “Medically speaking, autism is a variable developmental disorder that is characterized by impairment of the ability to form normal social relationships, and the impairment to communicate with others, and is often associated by repetitive behavior patterns.” Dr. Karen explained quietly. Shiro felt his head spinning at all of the medical terminologies in her explanation and he was beginning to feel a bit dumbed down, only for the doctor to smile at him.

              “Autism is not an illness or a “condition” as some people may call it,” Dr. Karen stated firmly. “There’s no reason to explain how and why it happens. It’s not usually genetic or caused in any way. Autism really is a disorder that can affect a person’s development in social means and communication. It varies by person or child. Some autistic children can communicate, as you and I would and appear to easily make an abundance of social relationships. Others find it extremely difficult to understand social behaviors or express themselves properly. Neither is better than the other and by no means does it make your child more “normal.”” She continued, while Shiro remained staring at his son.

              “Do you believe Keith to be autistic?” Shiro finally asked.

              Dr. Karen smiled softly. “Unfortunately, I am not trained to properly diagnose Keith. I can only say that I see similar traits in Keith with other children that we have diagnosed, but for a proper diagnosis I can refer you to one of our child psychologists and doctors at the children’s hospital.”

              Shiro licked his lips. “Would Keith really need a diagnosis? If he’s doing so well?”

              “Shiro,” Dr. Karen began. “I know you’re not this type of parent and it’s going to take time, but leaving a child undiagnosed can be harmful later in life. With a proper diagnosis, we can start to help Keith where he needs it and it can become helpful during Keith’s academic career should he need help or any adjustments at his schools. For example, Keith’s speech is improving but he can also receive help to further improve his speech or provide alternatives for Keith to communicate should he feel that he can’t express himself verbally. This isn’t only to help Keith, but also for you as his parent. Keith is already processing things differently and that’s perfectly fine, however, you might not be used to it and could find yourself unable to help Keith when he needs you.”

              Now Shiro was really feeling overwhelmed. Not because of Keith’s possible diagnosis but rather at the idea of not being able to help his son. Shiro never wanted to feel helpless when it came to his son. He always wanted to make sure Keith had everything he needed to succeed and that included having Shiro’s help 100% of the time.

              “I know this might be a lot to take in, but first and foremost there is nothing wrong with your son.”

              “Of course not! Keith is perfect.” Shiro argued instantly, forgetting his insecurities. Dr. Karen couldn’t help but smile proudly at Shiro. Keith was in perfect hands with Shiro.

              “Alright, let’s schedule an appointment for Keith…”

x.V.x

              “Was the doctor fun?” Shiro asked as he was finally allowed back into the rooms where Keith was. He was amazed by all of the games, puzzles, and equipment that was back here. It didn’t look much like a scary doctor office and Shiro was already feeling better about his decision to come.

              “Yeah. Dr. Leo nice. We play puzzles and there was an obstacle course and I draw pictures when he asked me stuff.” Keith nodded absently as he continued drawing. He was kneeling at a table with the man, Dr. Leo, sitting beside him. Shiro could already see several pages of notes all over his notepad and he desperately tried not to peek at them like a cheating school kid. Taking a deep breath, Shiro knelt down beside Keith and opposite of Dr. Leo.

              “Hello there, I’m Dr. Leo as you’re well aware.” The doctor reached over to shake his hand.

              “Takashi Shirogane but everyone calls me Shiro.” Shiro greeted with a soft smile. The doctor beamed at him and nodded.

              “Alright, so I’m going to just go over my notes with you right now. Keith should stay so he can hear too and understand what’s being said.” Dr. Leo nodded towards Keith who was still drawing. Shiro bit his lip, worried that Keith wasn’t going to listen. Typically, when drawing Keith didn’t listen to anyone but Shiro, and even then, sometimes he ignored Shiro.

              “Alright now Keith, it’s time to stop drawing and look up at your dad and I as we talk.” Dr. Leo smiled over at Keith. However, Keith made no effort that he had heard Dr. Leo and continued to draw. Shiro swallowed.

              However, Dr. Leo never stopped smiling and didn’t get frustrated with Keith as Shiro had feared. Instead, he began to put away the crayons spread all over the table and the other stacks of paper. Keith continued to draw all throughout this before putting down his crayon. Quickly, Dr. Leo put that one away when Keith reached across the table only for his hand to grab at nothing. Blinking with a frown, he looked up from his drawing to see the crayons were all gone.

              “Hey Keith, remember what we talked about when someone is talking to you?” Dr. Leo said gently. Keith blinked, looking away and huffed. “We look at people when they’re talking and when they ask you to do something we do it? Right?”

              Keith continued to huff for another five minutes before he gently pushed his drawing towards Dr. Leo and the rest of the paper. He turned to look at his dad and Shiro was shocked.

              “Great job Keith! That was perfect!” Dr. Leo praised, nodding at Shiro to do the same.

              “Yeah, sweetheart! You did great!” Shiro quietly cheered, earning a grin from Keith. Slowly, Keith crawled over into Shiro’s lap turning to face Dr. Leo, but his eyes wandered around the room.

              “Thank you, Keith.” Dr. Leo said before turning his attention to Shiro. “Now, Shiro, I want you to understand that we are not here to talk about curing or treatments but we are here to talk about Keith’s future and what this means for you and him especially.”

              Silently, Shiro nodded.

              “Alright, Keith?” Shiro looked down to see Keith’s eyes flicker towards Dr. Leo and staying focused on him for a couple of seconds before looking away. Every few seconds he would look back at Dr. Leo before looking away. “Do you understand what the word autistic means?”

              Quietly, Keith shook his head against Shiro’s chest several more times than necessary.

              “Autism is a medical term for a developmental disorder. That means that some people have trouble learning and expressing certain things. Do you understand that?” Dr. Leo began slowly. Keith blinked at the ceiling before nodding.

              “Um, hard to speak sometimes? Or get jokes?” Keith mumbled quietly. Dr. Leo smiled brightly and nodded.

              “For some autistic people that is very true! Do you have trouble speaking sometimes or getting jokes?”

              Keith merely nodded without an explanation.

              “Not every person that is autistic has these troubles and sometimes they have other troubles that your dad or I don’t have. However, this simply means that we all process thoughts and ideas differently.”

              “Is it bad?” Keith whispered, causing Shiro’s heart to break in his chest. Gently he pulled Keith up into a hug and shook his head.

              “Oh sweetheart, no. There is nothing bad about being autistic! It’s a part of who you are. You think about things differently than I do, and sometimes it’s harder for you to understand but that is never bad!” Keith blinked owlishly up at Shiro finally looking him in the eyes and Shiro smiled.

              “Your dad is right Keith.” Dr. Leo began.

              “Daddy.” Keith interrupted. “It’s daddy.”

              Dr. Leo smiled when many others would have gotten mad at the interruption. “Your daddy is right. There is nothing bad about being autistic. However, it does mean that you might have to do certain things in order to help yourself. Such as speaking. You say that it’s hard for you to speak; do you feel like not speaking at all sometimes?”

              Quietly Keith nodded.

              “And even though you know the right words and what to say, you still don’t want to speak?”

              Again Keith nodded.

              “That’s perfectly fine Keith! There are other ways to speak without having to say anything out loud.” Dr. Leo explained. Keith’s eyes darted over to him before looking away again. “Have you ever heard of sign language?”

              Slowly, Keith shook his head.

              “Sign language is a way to talk using your hands! See you move your hands into a specific pattern or shape in order to say a word or a letter. We understand what you are trying to say as you move your hands into different shapes and that is how you communicate without having to speak at all!” Dr. Leo said happily, while Keith perked up in Shiro’s lap. “Sign language would be excellent for you and your daddy to learn.”

              “You could teach me?” Shiro asked softly.

              “Of course!”

              Keith was staring up at his dad once more with bright eyes and Shiro couldn’t help but melt under his son’s gaze.

              “I’d really like that. And anything else you can help me in order to help Keith.” Shiro said with appreciation. Keith nodded absentmindedly in his lap and gave Shiro several pats on the cheek, signifying his joy. Dr. Leo smiled at the sight and nodded.

              “Of course. Now Keith,” Dr. Leo said before pausing until Keith had looked at him for another second. “You are autistic and there is nothing wrong with that.”

              “Nothing at all sweetheart. You are always my little star.” Shiro added with a grin.

              “I,” Keith began hesitantly. “I am autistic. And,” He licked his lips before running his hand up and down Shiro’s shirt. “And there’s no bad.”    

              “No bad ever,” Shiro replied. Keith nodded more firmly this time.

              “Excellent!” Dr. Leo clapped and Shiro chuckled when Keith frowned in disappointment at the man’s excitement. “Now Shiro, Keith’s biggest struggles seem to be in understand social clues and comprehending social…”

              As Shiro looked down at Keith, he found that nothing about his love had changed for Keith. Keith was his son and he always would be. And Shiro was going to be there for Keith for the rest of his life.          

              No matter what.

[mayacook95]

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[pamphletstoinspire]

Angry with God

My older sister Patricia died of spina bifida before I was born. My younger sister Linda died of spina bifida when I was 3. Given that I was raised in a traditional, stoic, Irish-Catholic family, my sisters and their deaths were never talked about. In fact, I didn’t even know they existed until I was 5 and found their names in our family Bible. “Who are these people?” I asked my mother.

“They are your sisters”—that was all she said.

As I grew, I thought about them a lot. Eventually, I began to ask my mother why God did this to our family. She said simply that some crosses were heavier to carry than others. Somehow that answer and the related resignation didn’t work for me. And so I began to become angry. Specifically, I began to become angry with God.

For most of my youth, I felt this anger was wrong, sinful. Yet it didn’t go away. I encountered more and more suffering that did not make sense. A friend lost both his parents by the eighth grade. A very good priest dropped dead of a heart attack. The brother of a friend died in Vietnam.

As I began my work as a psychologist, I would touch on spiritual matters with my clients. I found that I was not alone in my anger. Worse, I met people whose explanations for tragedy were heartbreaking.

One woman, for example, believed that her prayers for a dying daughter did not work because her prayers were “not worthy of God’s attention.” Even my own father, as he dealt with a series of strokes, told me they were “punishment for my sins.” As I heard such struggles, I felt more and more that, because of anger, I was bound to grow away from my faith. Then I read the Book of Job.

Job: Not Merely Silent Suffering

Given that the Catholicism of my youth did not include a great deal of biblical study, I knew very little about Job other than the phrase “the patience of Job.” When I read this marvelous book, I realized among other things that Job was hardly patient. In fact, like me, he was angry!

The story of Job begins with a bet. Satan is arguing with God, saying that faith is easy when everything is going well in one’s life, but that people tend to lose that faith when times are tough. He then brings up Job, pointing out that Job has great faith but is also very comfortable and successful. But suppose, suggests Satan, that Job falls on hard times: Will he then be so faithful? God gives Satan permission to take away everything of Job’s but not to harm him. Satan does this, but Job holds on to his faith. So Satan ups the ante by asking God to let him harm Job directly.

And so Job ends up homeless, penniless, and afflicted with horrible skin diseases. He begins to seek an explanation from God. In fact, Job demands an explanation!

Job’s friends show up and offer standard explanations for his troubles. “You must have sinned,” suggests one. “You haven’t prayed hard enough,” says another. And yet Job continues his outcry, ultimately demanding that God show up and explain himself.

And God shows up! Granted, God tends to put Job in his place and never really answers Job’s “Why?” question. But the important points are that God shows up and that he never punishes Job for his outcry.

But Why, Lord?

I think the Book of Job is there to encourage us to embrace our outcries, not suppress them; and to struggle with the “Why?” question, not dismiss it. And so, somewhat timidly, I began to allow myself that anger.

It soon became clear to me that I needed to explore my anger at several levels. The most immediate level was the “Why?” question that was a large part of my youth. As I began to read, I found out that the “Why?” question has in fact given rise to a specific area of theological study called theodicy. Specifically, theodicy examines the issue of how an all-good, all-loving God can permit evil.

As I explored my anger, I came across the book May I Hate God? by Pierre Wolff. Despite its provocative title, this is a very gentle-spirited book that reminds us that God is a loving parent; and that loving parents, upon learning that their child is angry with them, want to hear about the anger—not necessarily condone it, but hear about it. This opened up to me the awareness that, when I am angry with God, my tendency is to express that anger in the same way I do at a human level. I shut down and use the “silent treatment.”

Novelist Joseph Heller put it another way in his novel God Knows. King David is reflecting on whether he is angry with God and concludes, “I’m not angry with God. We’re just not speaking to one another.” So it was with me and the God of my understanding.

In any case, Wolff’s book helped me to accept my anger. But I still struggled with the “Why?” question. Other thinkers offered helpful insights. Viktor Frankl did not answer this question, but he observed that, while we don’t always have a choice over what happens to us, we always have a choice regarding how we face it. Similarly, Rabbi Harold Kushner, in his well-regarded When Bad Things Happen to Good People, offered what for me was a novel idea—that perhaps God wasn’t responsible for some of the bad things that happened to us.

At first, Kushner’s notion was comforting. Maybe God wasn’t behind my sisters’ illnesses or children with cancer or senseless random shootings. Maybe those things just happened. Somehow that thought made me fear God less. Yet the thought that perhaps God wasn’t behind all bad things that happened created another question articulated by Annie Dillard, who wrote in For the Time Being, “If God does not cause everything that happens, does God cause anything that happens? Is God completely out of the loop?”

My anger at God brought me to wrestle with some important issues. It challenged me to reexamine my image of God. Did I see God as punitive, misreading the Old Testament? Did I see him as loving, as in many New Testament stories? Did I see him as uninvolved, caring for the big picture and leaving the details to us, as the Oh, God! films suggest?

My anger also brought me face-to-face with my struggles about prayer. Does God answer prayers? Clearly not all prayers. It’s been said that there are many unanswered prayers at deathbeds. If God doesn’t answer all prayers, to follow Dillard, does he answer any prayers?

These struggles have been productive, prodding me toward a more mature understanding of God, as well as a more clear appreciation for prayer. But I still come face-to-face with my anger.

A Personal Encounter with God

Over the past few years, I have read the entire Bible three times. It has been a truly enlightening experience. I saw clearly that Job wasn’t the only one to argue with God. Abraham did it; Moses did it; even Jesus did it! I was in good company.

I saw, too, that David’s Psalms were at times outcries. Within the poetry, one can hear the oppressed poet yelling out to God, “Do something!”

I’ve learned from my many clients who sit and try to understand tragedies in their lives. In asking these great teachers, “Are you angry with God?” I’ve heard many instructive answers. One woman wrestling with a lifethreatening illness said, “Of course I’m angry with God! But he’s God. He can take it!” Another very spiritual young woman observed, “No, I’m not angry. But I sure would like to have a peek at his operations manual.”

Harold Kushner recently published a piece on the Book of Job titled The Book of Job: When Bad Things Happened to a Good Person. It is a literate and scholarly book that offered me a new note of comfort. Kushner suggests that Job is comforted and consoled not so much by God’s explanation but by the encounter itself. Job deeply experienced God’s presence and took comfort in that meaningful experience. I found a note of personal truth in this thought. I realized that, yes, I’ve had meaningful encounters with God in nature or in the world of great art or in the sound of my grandchildren’s laughter.

But I realized that I have also encountered God in my anger in a way that has been profound. As I voice that anger, I feel God in a manner as profound as, albeit different from, my experience of God in nature.

The story of this journey of anger has a more recent turn to it, one with which I am still dealing. I recently saw an episode of The West Wing, a program from the early 2000s starring Martin Sheen as a fictional president. Prior to this episode, the president had lost a much-loved secretary in a senseless car accident. After the funeral, he stands alone in the National Cathedral and unleashes an anger that shocked me. As an example, his character refers to God as a “vengeful thug.”

I felt I’d long validated the importance of anger in my relationship with God, yet I found myself uncomfortable with the intensity of President Bartlett’s anger. But, upon reflection, I understood it. My anger is more than annoyance or disappointment—at times it is rage. Yet, out of fear, I withhold that rage and instead, like David in Heller’s novel, stop talking to my God or at least temper my feelings. Yet, when I allow myself to approach that rage, I find God waiting for me.

And so I come face-to-face with the God of my understanding. Is that God a vengeful parent who will not tolerate my anger and will punish me for speaking up? Such was the God of my youth. Or is the God of my understanding a loving God willing to wrestle with me, willing to accept my vented rage in the name of open, ongoing dialogue and genuine encounter? And do I have the courage to fully embrace this understanding of God and remain in dialogue in the midst of my rage?

The great Jewish scholar Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote, “God stands in a passionate relationship with Man.” Anyone who has lived in a longterm, passionate relationship learns that passion is a package deal. You can’t have the joy and ecstasy unless you also accept and embrace the anger and alienation. I’ve dealt with several couples who say they don’t fight. But they are in my office because their relationship is stagnant. Without the struggle, there is no passionate intimacy.

The Path of Relationship

I realize at this point that, for me to have a joyful, peaceful, vibrant relationship with the God of my understanding, I must also embrace the rage. Not just annoyance, but rage!

And so, as I struggle, I return to reflect on my mother’s faith in the face of tragedy. I see that her faith was not some passive, shoulder-shrugging, “Oh well, it could be worse” type of faith. Throughout her life, she believed not only in the power of prayer but also in the persistence of that prayer. Like the woman in the parable seeking justice, she would not quietly plead or go away. Rather, she would “storm heaven with prayers.” Nor did she let tragic loss engender cynicism: on her deathbed and with absolute certainty and joyful anticipation, she said, “I’m going to see my girls.”

And yet I know my path is one of wrestling and arguing. It occurs to me that perhaps within the mystical body of Christ, we both play a part. People like my mother indeed inspire me to not lose hope and to continue to believe that understanding God’s mysterious way is possible.

But perhaps people like me—the questioners, the wrestlers—help others not to lapse into passive, depressed resignation. Perhaps in encouraging others to “fight back,” we help them experience real encounters with God. Perhaps we wrestlers help others to hope that our pain and anguish do matter. And perhaps together we can link arms and sing those words of Job offered not as an answer but in hopeful expectation: “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!”

Richard B. Patterson, Phd, is a clinical psychologist and freelance writer from El Paso, Texas.

[tortuga-aak]

I wrote a book on workplace harassment — here's what I learned from interviewing more than 50 women

Andy Kropa/Invision/AP

A Yale trauma psychologist wants to broaden the current conversation about harassment to include incivility and bullying.

She has interviewed more than 50 women across racial and socioeconomic lines about their experiences.

In the interviews, the women she talked to were often profoundly affected.

  Since allegations of former Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein’s abhorrent treatment of women have come to public light, we once again have an opportunity to talk about sexual harassment.

These negative experiences are prevalent, pervasive and problematic for women in the workplace.

And such ill treatment not only has a toxic impact on the female recipient, but has reverberating dysfunctional effects for employment settings as well.

The past year we’ve also seen an increase in prominent women, including Gretchen Carlson and Megyn Kelly, coming forward to publicly speak about their experiences of harassment in the workplace.

We’ve witnessed the fall from grace of big names, including Roger Ailes, Bill O’Reilly and Bill Cosby, and companies, including Uber. Rather than showing isolated incidents, these examples reflect workplace abuses that affect the everyday woman.

In a summary of workplace bullying, using 66 independent samples totaling together nearly 80,000 male and female employees, the effects were extensive and potentially long-lasting and included depression, anxiety and substance misuse.

But workplace mistreatment of women is not just a woman problem. It’s an institutional and societal one.

As a trauma psychologist and a working woman, I’ve been deeply impacted by all of this news.

But I’d also like to encourage us to broaden the conversation to include incivility, bullying and general harassment of women in the workplace as well as what we can do to prevent the behavior and the results of it.

Using the trauma lens to see effects

Six months ago, I decided I’d use my expertise in trauma psychology to try to write a book for a public audience on incivility, bullying and harassment of women in the workplace.

I wanted to tell people about the psychological research on trauma, share in-depth interviews with real-world women, and weave in my own broad clinical and personal experiences in the workplace.

I wanted to take readers on a journey through the world of women’s exposure to a range of negative interpersonal experiences on the job, from instances of rude or discourteous acts to physical and sexual assault.

I wanted to document the potentially harmful physical and psychological health effects of these experiences, and the impacts on day-to-day functioning as well as career advancement. I thought this might help move the dialogue forward and present tangible solutions to more effective coping with these issues.

When I told a handful of friends I was writing this book, they told a few friends.

And women started coming out of the shadows. One woman I interviewed sent an email to her scientific colleagues, and geologists, oceanographers and meteorologists from all over the U.S. began emailing me and pouring out their experiences over the phone.

One woman sent me a bunch of her documents for a Title IX sexual harassment complaint, and I almost openly wept with her over the phone.

More than 15 years after the event, she was still deeply rattled. She was heartbroken, not for herself, but because she was unable to come forward until now.

She sobbed as she expressed her regret in not being able to “save others.” Straight from the heart and using a split-second clinical judgment, I told her she was a hero, and that regardless of the outcome of her legal complaint, she took the hardest path with honor, dignity, and tremendous courage.

So far, I’ve interviewed over 50 women from various socioeconomic backgrounds and races and ethnicities.

These include women from white-collar occupations, such as a former Wall Street lawyer, orthopedic and breast cancer surgeons, primary care physicians, pediatricians, university professors, geologists, oceanographers, mechanical engineers and financial analysts as well as women from blue-collar occupations, such as secretaries, housekeepers, construction workers, firefighters and emergency medical technicians.

Quite a number of these women were ethnic or racial minorities, and I’m trying to faithfully show how they often experience a double or triple whammy piece of the misogyny pie.

These women shared their experiences of being condescended to, patronized, badgered, intimidated, not listened to, judged prematurely and harshly, treated rudely or propositioned. I’ve been documenting how these women struggled to make sense of these events, what they did to cope, and what they wished they had done differently.

Many told me of decreased morale and job satisfaction, of their stomach churning as they prepared to enter their place of employment. Many liked their jobs and didn’t want to lose them. They were afraid if they came forward, they might be labeled a troublemaker or fired.

And why wouldn’t they be afraid when women are routinely disbelieved and commonly blamed? We generally do not complain or report offenses.

We receive whatever incivility, bullying or harassment comes along. We ask ourselves: “What are my choices? Do I comply or resist? Do I report or be silent? Do I submit or risk being ostracized, demoted, fired or worse?”

And then too often we tell ourselves, “It is what it is.”

More stories pouring in

The stories continue to come in. Women I interviewed gave me the names of friends and family members who also had stories and had suffered consequences. One woman contacted her cousin, who had experienced bullying and obstruction in the whitewater rafting industry and since started her own company, teaching women to enjoy and master rafting.

Even the medical transcriptionist from the company I hired to turn the audio files from my phone interviews into text contacted me. She said, “I hope it’s not inappropriate for me to reach out, but have I got stories for you!”

Women have few to no places to go to talk about these experiences. And they want reality checks and validation that they are not imagining these experiences.

They need to know that they are not being overly sensitive, and that anyone with an ounce of integrity and a warm heart would be equally bothered by what they have gone through.

If now is not the time to have this conversation, I don’t know when is. Many women are rising up, whether through the Women’s March or other venues, to say, “This is so not OK.” And women are recently posting messages on social media with the hashtag #Metoo.

Moving forward

How I wish women could see themselves in the stories of other women, and experience an increase in empathy for themselves and others. I wish I could tell women to trust their instincts and accurately recognize, label and recover from workplace misogyny.

We must put in place workplace policies and procedures to lessen the occurrence of such treatment for women. The organizational or legislative actions taken thus far have been far from sufficient and will take years and a tremendous amount of effort and resources to achieve.

So what can we do today? If we want to address incivility, bullying and harassment of women in the workplace, we must join together to prevent it from happening, call it out when it occurs and create a safe environment in which to heal.

Workplace mistreatment of women is not only a great wrong; it makes us sick and is a waste of our valuable individual and collective talent.

Joan Cook is Associate Professor of Psychiatry at Yale University.

NOW WATCH: A legal loophole prevents most workplace sexual-harassment cases from seeing the light of day — here's how to close it

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How I discovered a wellspring of sexual harassment complaints

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Gretchen Carlson at an event Oct. 17, 2017 to promote a book she has written on how harassed women can empower themselves. AP Photo/Andy Krapo

Since allegations of former Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein’s abhorrent treatment of women have come to public light, we once again have an opportunity to talk about sexual harassment. These negative experiences are prevalent, pervasive and problematic for women in the workplace. And such ill treatment not only has a toxic impact on the female recipient, but has reverberating dysfunctional effects for employment settings as well.

The past year we’ve also seen an increase in prominent women, including Gretchen Carlson and Megyn Kelly, coming forward to publicly speak about their experiences of harassment in the workplace. We’ve witnessed the fall from grace of big names, including Roger Ailes, Bill O’Reilly and Bill Cosby, and companies, including Uber. Rather than showing isolated incidents, these examples reflect workplace abuses that affect the everyday woman.

In a summary of workplace bullying, using 66 independent samples totaling together nearly 80,000 male and female employees, the effects were extensive and potentially long-lasting and included depression, anxiety and substance misuse. But workplace mistreatment of women is not just a woman problem. It’s an institutional and societal one.

As a trauma psychologist and a working woman, I’ve been deeply impacted by all of this news. But I’d also like to encourage us to broaden the conversation to include incivility, bullying and general harassment of women in the workplace as well as what we can do to prevent the behavior and the results of it.

Using the trauma lens to see effects

Six months ago, I decided I’d use my expertise in trauma psychology to try to write a book for a public audience on incivility, bullying and harassment of women in the workplace. I wanted to tell people about the psychological research on trauma, share in-depth interviews with real-world women, and weave in my own broad clinical and personal experiences in the workplace.

I wanted to take readers on a journey through the world of women’s exposure to a range of negative interpersonal experiences on the job, from instances of rude or discourteous acts to physical and sexual assault. I wanted to document the potentially harmful physical and psychological health effects of these experiences, and the impacts on day-to-day functioning as well as career advancement. I thought this might help move the dialogue forward and present tangible solutions to more effective coping with these issues.

When I told a handful of friends I was writing this book, they told a few friends. And women started coming out of the shadows. One woman I interviewed sent an email to her scientific colleagues, and geologists, oceanographers and meteorologists from all over the U.S. began emailing me and pouring out their experiences over the phone. One woman sent me a bunch of her documents for a Title IX sexual harassment complaint, and I almost openly wept with her over the phone.

Bullying harms a woman’s health, just as harassment does. J Walters/Shutterstock.com

More than 15 years after the event, she was still deeply rattled. She was heartbroken, not for herself, but because she was unable to come forward until now. She sobbed as she expressed her regret in not being able to “save others.” Straight from the heart and using a split-second clinical judgment, I told her she was a hero, and that regardless of the outcome of her legal complaint, she took the hardest path with honor, dignity, and tremendous courage.

So far, I’ve interviewed over 50 women from various socioeconomic backgrounds and races and ethnicities. These include women from white-collar occupations, such as a former Wall Street lawyer, orthopedic and breast cancer surgeons, primary care physicians, pediatricians, university professors, geologists, oceanographers, mechanical engineers and financial analysts as well as women from blue-collar occupations, such as secretaries, housekeepers, construction workers, firefighters and emergency medical technicians.

Quite a number of these women were ethnic or racial minorities, and I’m trying to faithfully show how they often experience a double or triple whammy piece of the misogyny pie.

These women shared their experiences of being condescended to, patronized, badgered, intimidated, not listened to, judged prematurely and harshly, treated rudely or propositioned. I’ve been documenting how these women struggled to make sense of these events, what they did to cope, and what they wished they had done differently.

Many told me of decreased morale and job satisfaction, of their stomach churning as they prepared to enter their place of employment. Many liked their jobs and didn’t want to lose them. They were afraid if they came forward, they might be labeled a troublemaker or fired. And why wouldn’t they be afraid when women are routinely disbelieved and commonly blamed? We generally do not complain or report offenses. We receive whatever incivility, bullying or harassment comes along. We ask ourselves: “What are my choices? Do I comply or resist? Do I report or be silent? Do I submit or risk being ostracized, demoted, fired or worse?”

And then too often we tell ourselves, “It is what it is.”

More stories pouring in

The stories continue to come in. Women I interviewed gave me the names of friends and family members who also had stories and had suffered consequences. One woman contacted her cousin, who had experienced bullying and obstruction in the whitewater rafting industry and since started her own company, teaching women to enjoy and master rafting. Even the medical transcriptionist from the company I hired to turn the audio files from my phone interviews into text contacted me. She said, “I hope it’s not inappropriate for me to reach out, but have I got stories for you!”

Women have few to no places to go to talk about these experiences. And they want reality checks and validation that they are not imagining these experiences. They need to know that they are not being overly sensitive, and that anyone with an ounce of integrity and a warm heart would be equally bothered by what they have gone through.

If now is not the time to have this conversation, I don’t know when is. Many women are rising up, whether through the Women’s March or other venues, to say, “This is so not OK.” And women are recently posting messages on social media with the hashtag #Metoo.

Moving forward

How I wish women could see themselves in the stories of other women, and experience an increase in empathy for themselves and others. I wish I could tell women to trust their instincts and accurately recognize, label and recover from workplace misogyny.

We must put in place workplace policies and procedures to lessen the occurrence of such treatment for women. The organizational or legislative actions taken thus far have been far from sufficient and will take years and a tremendous amount of effort and resources to achieve.

So what can we do today? If we want to address incivility, bullying and harassment of women in the workplace, we must join together to prevent it from happening, call it out when it occurs and create a safe environment in which to heal. Workplace mistreatment of women is not only a great wrong; it makes us sick and is a waste of our valuable individual and collective talent.

Joan Cook receives funding from the National Institute of Mental Health and the Patient-Centered Outcomes Research Institute.