Well I’m not a psychologist. But what confused and bewitched me for the longest time, and harmed my IMpersonal mind was not realizing that psychology, in this day and age, is a language of sensitivity. This is quite an interest point to discover, since if one speaks the language of psychology (specifically I mean that taught in the Freudian school onward, and in the psychotherapeutic context), one is speaking with the sensitivity of a small child, whether or not one really feels that way.
There is a problem here because this form of contemporary psychology has entered the humanities, too, to the degree that Freud has permeated its fabric. My background in education and training was up to PhD level in the humanities, hence, one may say that in a sense I was well and truly brainwashed. Thus one is educated to speak a language that in turn connotes to others that one is tangled up in threads of hyper-sensitivity. But what if this is false? What if it becomes an overlay that prevents one from telling the real narrative?
Specifically, and some might say “ironically”, what the therapeutic language does is to prevent one from conveying ANY of the meaning of one’s real world problems. They simply do not make sense, or will not be believed. One’s own language, which implies a reference to childhood experience, or to mere “subjectivities” mitigates against it.
The consequence of using the language provided by the therapists and Freudian psychologists is that as the real life problems mount, which includes the problem of communication, one has absolutely no means to set things back on course. I’ve had extremely Pinteresque interactions with psychologists, which go absolutely nowhere, because they have ignored more remarks that the issues I am speaking about having absolutely nothing to do with sensitivity — my own, or that of those around me. The therapeutic language itself mitigates against speaking about any aspect of reality.
I had a year’s worth of therapy in one instance, during which time I tried to cope with an extreme level of inflammation in my body, which had been caused by vast hormonal fluctuations. Eventually, during this time and later, I figured out the problem, gave a name to it — systemic inflammation — and found lifestyle adaptations to resolve it. But the problem itself was not something we could talk about, since it had no bearing on the language of sensitivity, so my indifference and frustration mounted.
But the most Pintaresque thing of all was when she made up her mind to ask the patient directly: “Why will nobody help you?” At this point I had a feeling like when the screws ask you, in a prison drama, who it was that beat you up. You realize that all answers would incriminate only yourself. I kept mum.
I haven’t been in prison, but the sense that whatever I had to say at that point would only expedite the imposition of another false narrative was something I felt palpably.
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