"Many a Bulb will rise / Hidden away cunningly / From sagacious eyes. ~ E. Dickinson
Date: Monday, 10th April
Rating: PG to PG-13 for psychological disorders and ruminations
((repost after accidental deletion))
It was a boy today. And so very young.
When they brought the child to my office, I was surprised. They usually set me to work on incarcerated criminals or maladaptive members of society, all decidedly adult. I do not, typically, analyze and guide children through the mazes of the mind. One would hope that I would not need to do so.
It was his age that struck me first. Dysfunctions seem to be manifesting themselves at earlier and earlier rates, and all at epidemic proportions. And, of course, I studied the eerily accurate predictions of dysfunction in children during my graduate work. All extraordinary, of course…but that does not change the fact that they are children.
Another of the particularly heinous aspects of the world in which I reside is the complete and utter lack of any extensive research on psychological topics. Odd, how the Muggle World’s focus on biochemical events, genetics, and other tangible things that they can comprehend have catapulted their basic physical sciences ahead of ours. We are struck dumb and motionless when our wands and our cauldrons cannot cure every malady. Our magical abilities have made us complacent and blind to the treatments being developed even now by Muggle doctors. Truly baffling.
In any event, they brought the boy-Evan-in to meet with me this morning. He sat with some measure of excitement on the traditional couch I brought in when I took this position. Actually, the piece of furniture is one of the few Freudian implements I judge useful in a therapeutic setting. The settee is angled away from me to allow the patients a modicum of privacy and sanctuary from any probing eyes, and to sweep away a few of the hesitations and inhibitions they might have about bringing forth thoughts. Evan, however, preferred to peer at me over the arm of the piece of furniture, leaving nothing but a pair of dark eyes and a shock of burgundy hair visible from my side of the room.
His symptoms were varied; after Evan related his age to me by means of holding up a full five digits on his left hand and one on his right, he was willing enough to talk. His thoughts seemed disorganized occasionally, and even when I attempted to objectively clarify his ideas, there were some distinct trains of consciousness onto which he could not manage to hold. There was the slightest of giggles when he told me that his grandmother had died two weeks ago.
This inappropriate emotion-a hallmark of the universally-feared and massively over-diagnosed schizophrenia-was not nearly as unsettling as his general lack of feeling. Evan told me of killing bugs and small animals with neither remorse nor with glee. He claimed to have thought about slaughtering his mate with a kitchen knife, and obviously did not feel one way or another about the hypothetical action. He said to me,
“I kill ants every day. Why shouldn’t I kill Bobby? Does it matter if I kill him?”
Amid the boy's speech patterns, jumping from topic to topic, the dysfunction was obvious-a rare event. Still, the utter lack of emotion characterizing this condition never fails to astound me. I have obviously done naturalistic observations of children suffering from antisocial disorder, but I had never encountered a case such as this first hand, in which I was the primary analyst. Even now, as I consult my reference tomes, I see that this dysfunction has been identified in children as young as three. Perhaps my shock is without merit. Perhaps, if enough care is given to Evan, he could redirect his cool and suspect adventurousness to more positive pursuits. It has been done before.
But that sort of suggestion is not what these people will pay heed to. After reading my official report, they will register the boy, no doubt, and blame his parents for an unavoidably genetic mishap. It frightens me when I see the witch hunts unfolding in my own immediate environment. The fear breeds tyrrany. Who will be included next? When will the measures become more severe? How far has it gone already?
I met an old acquaintance most unexpectedly last week, and I feel strangely compelled to consider his offhand query about whether I owned my own store. Perhaps I ought to look more seriously into private practice, if only to separate myself from this increasingly and unsettlingly intrusive institution.
I am beginning to lose focus; I cannot even communicate my thoughts to myself in this state…all of these wasted lives irk me as much as the Ministry’s squandered resources.
This does not bode well. Something must be done, if I may resort to further aphorisms.
And yet...all I can think on is that troubled boy, staring at me without any emotion whatsoever from over the arm of a beige couch.
Rating: PG to PG-13 for psychological disorders and ruminations
((repost after accidental deletion))
It was a boy today. And so very young.
When they brought the child to my office, I was surprised. They usually set me to work on incarcerated criminals or maladaptive members of society, all decidedly adult. I do not, typically, analyze and guide children through the mazes of the mind. One would hope that I would not need to do so.
It was his age that struck me first. Dysfunctions seem to be manifesting themselves at earlier and earlier rates, and all at epidemic proportions. And, of course, I studied the eerily accurate predictions of dysfunction in children during my graduate work. All extraordinary, of course…but that does not change the fact that they are children.
Another of the particularly heinous aspects of the world in which I reside is the complete and utter lack of any extensive research on psychological topics. Odd, how the Muggle World’s focus on biochemical events, genetics, and other tangible things that they can comprehend have catapulted their basic physical sciences ahead of ours. We are struck dumb and motionless when our wands and our cauldrons cannot cure every malady. Our magical abilities have made us complacent and blind to the treatments being developed even now by Muggle doctors. Truly baffling.
In any event, they brought the boy-Evan-in to meet with me this morning. He sat with some measure of excitement on the traditional couch I brought in when I took this position. Actually, the piece of furniture is one of the few Freudian implements I judge useful in a therapeutic setting. The settee is angled away from me to allow the patients a modicum of privacy and sanctuary from any probing eyes, and to sweep away a few of the hesitations and inhibitions they might have about bringing forth thoughts. Evan, however, preferred to peer at me over the arm of the piece of furniture, leaving nothing but a pair of dark eyes and a shock of burgundy hair visible from my side of the room.
His symptoms were varied; after Evan related his age to me by means of holding up a full five digits on his left hand and one on his right, he was willing enough to talk. His thoughts seemed disorganized occasionally, and even when I attempted to objectively clarify his ideas, there were some distinct trains of consciousness onto which he could not manage to hold. There was the slightest of giggles when he told me that his grandmother had died two weeks ago.
This inappropriate emotion-a hallmark of the universally-feared and massively over-diagnosed schizophrenia-was not nearly as unsettling as his general lack of feeling. Evan told me of killing bugs and small animals with neither remorse nor with glee. He claimed to have thought about slaughtering his mate with a kitchen knife, and obviously did not feel one way or another about the hypothetical action. He said to me,
“I kill ants every day. Why shouldn’t I kill Bobby? Does it matter if I kill him?”
Amid the boy's speech patterns, jumping from topic to topic, the dysfunction was obvious-a rare event. Still, the utter lack of emotion characterizing this condition never fails to astound me. I have obviously done naturalistic observations of children suffering from antisocial disorder, but I had never encountered a case such as this first hand, in which I was the primary analyst. Even now, as I consult my reference tomes, I see that this dysfunction has been identified in children as young as three. Perhaps my shock is without merit. Perhaps, if enough care is given to Evan, he could redirect his cool and suspect adventurousness to more positive pursuits. It has been done before.
But that sort of suggestion is not what these people will pay heed to. After reading my official report, they will register the boy, no doubt, and blame his parents for an unavoidably genetic mishap. It frightens me when I see the witch hunts unfolding in my own immediate environment. The fear breeds tyrrany. Who will be included next? When will the measures become more severe? How far has it gone already?
I met an old acquaintance most unexpectedly last week, and I feel strangely compelled to consider his offhand query about whether I owned my own store. Perhaps I ought to look more seriously into private practice, if only to separate myself from this increasingly and unsettlingly intrusive institution.
I am beginning to lose focus; I cannot even communicate my thoughts to myself in this state…all of these wasted lives irk me as much as the Ministry’s squandered resources.
This does not bode well. Something must be done, if I may resort to further aphorisms.
And yet...all I can think on is that troubled boy, staring at me without any emotion whatsoever from over the arm of a beige couch.