Showing posts with label psychology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychology. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Purple Hibiscus, 2003


I found that I couldn't help but read this book through my psychologist glasses. The story is set in Nigeria and told by the adolescent daughter of a rich family, Kambili. Her lens is so very fitting for the narrative because it's somewhat limited in it's perspective. Throughout the story I found myself looking into her words and seeing beyond them and trying to figure out what an adult might say about the situation. But interestingly her limited perspective also kept me at times from seeing the obvious events right as they were happening. For example, it took me a little while to see the reality of the abuse that was occurring in their household. But once it was clear the signs seemed obvious and I felt a bit silly that I hadn't noticed it before. It is possible that the author intended for this to happen to the reader. Perhaps my experience mimics the narrator's own slow awakening and ability to verbalize what is going on around her.

Once the abuse became clear I found myself reading the narrater's emotions and reactions through my "educated about trauma but still affected by the details" eyes. It appears to me that the author got it right in terms of describing the daughter's conflicted emotions. Kambili loves her father desperately and is constantly trying to win his affection in some way but she is also driven by a paralyzing fear of what her father could do at any given moment. The control he has over her life is complete and full, in many ways he even rules her mind. As I read, I wondered about what causes someone to behave this way towards his own children. I also found myself wanting to grab the narrator and explain what was happening, to somehow help her see her worth and power. I think my reaction was in response to her own complete acceptance of the trauma she was enduring. This is where abuse really gets to me, because of course she was ruled by the tyranny of her father. She did not know anything else. She had never been taught to think for herself and her other parent, her mother, was also under her husband's complete control. He regularly used his wife as a punching bag for his frustrations.

The other things that were striking to me were the deep internalized issues around race and religion represented in the book. The father's character is so very complicated. So abusive to his family. A classic controlling male figure that tries to micromanage every aspect of his family's life. He's so abusive that you want to hate him. Some parts of me really did despise him. But as with all good human depictions, that just isn't the whole story. This man also gives generously and seems to genuinely care about his community. He publishes a newspaper that agitates against the ruling regime. He seems to sincerely believe in government reform and community justice. The paradox of the way he treats his family and the generosity towards the community is startling. Ultimately, I think his personal failings far outweighed his public goodness.

He also seems to be driven by a overly intense commitment to oppressive White imperialistic Christianity. His experience of being raised by White priests imprinted upon him a sense that faith should be harsh, cruel and unweilding. He also demonstrated some internalized racial oppression as evidenced by his continued hatred of things natively Nigerian. It appeared that becoming sanctified meant becoming as White as possible. Salvation seems to revolved around being perfect and presenting oneself as perfect. I found that I almost pitied him because of his childhood experiences living with these harsh catholic priests. I also found myself sad for the continued injustice perpetuated in the name of Jesus.

I wonder what the author will have to say about her depiction of Christianity throughout the novel? The father's faith lacks any true love and kindness of spirit while the Aunty and her family seem to embody a loving and kind faith. They practice the same Catholicism but with an open heart that does not create walls and instead builds connections. I wonder how the author considered this juxtaposition? The open and warm faith is primarily represented by Nigerians and the cold, harsh, angry faith seems to be primarily influenced by White priests and nuns.

Perhaps my favorite part of this book is watching the narrator begin to own her voice. She is almost mute throughout much of the book but through relationships with her aunt and cousins she comes alive. It is then that she is able to become more fully herself and even fall in love. The feminist in me simply loved seeing her take the control and power in her life back into her own hands.




Wednesday, September 28, 2011

gratitude and fear....

The other day I was walking to one of the classes I teach. As I was crossing the green tree-lined south-suburban campus a wave of gratitude just washed over me. I felt the cool fall breeze coupled with the warm sun and was thankful to be alive in that moment. I thought about the many amazing blessings that I have and how wonderful it is to be in this time of my life right now. I am genuinely thrilled with my daily life. Sometimes that happens to me, a moment where I'm just overcome briefly with gratefulness for my life. I wish I could live in that moment more often, so much more commonly I'm caught up in the racing emotions of live that distract me from focusing on the important, life-giving ones.

For example, the feeling of fear. In counseling I'd probably tell a client that feeling afraid is adaptive to a certain extent, it helps us to survive in our surroundings (particularly if there is something legitimately to be afraid of in our lives). But for me fear is complicated, not always helpful but not always unhelpful either. Like many people, I can get trapped in fear and paralyzed by it so I work hard to keep it at bay. Sometimes I'm more successful than other times. This week I heard on our block that several houses have gotten robbed. Now, on the one hand feeling afraid can be helpful when hearing this news, it causes me to make sure I'm aware of what's going on around me. It helps me to remember to set my house alarm when necessary and it keeps me focused on safety. But it can also be paralyzing, because for me the fear of getting broken into is an old one that taps into something from my early years. When we were discussing this the other night MSD asked why this fear gets to me when so many other things don't seem to stir up any worry on my part. I believe the way he put it was, "I'm not used to you being the one worried about something, that's usually my job..." So true, so true.

I tried to put into words my experience as a 6th grader whose house had just been robbed and explain the vulnerability that comes when you don't feel safe and secure anymore. What I realized is that when that fear of getting robbed comes up I go back to being that 11-year-old girl trying to hide her cd player in the covers of her bed to protect it. A little kid doing whatever she could to save her precious treasures. Even at the time I knew that my efforts were useless, if someone broke into our home they could easily find anything I hid. I couldn't stop it from happening, even if I tried my hardest.

And that's really it, there is nothing I can do to protect my life and keep bad things from happening. I can spend tons of energy worrying and trying to safeguard my belongings and loved ones but ultimately there is nothing I can do to stop evil from wrecking havoc in my life. Now I don't say all of that to be depressing, in fact I find it rather liberating. I can't save myself so I have to quit trying. Instead I want to live in moments of gratitude and thankfulness for the blessings in my days.

Easier said than done. There is a balance to be sought, an attempt to value this world and it's tremendous potential and recognize my own powerlessness in the midst of pain, hopelessness and despair. I am always working on creating that balance in a way that tips the scale towards greater hope in the things that last, such as relationships, love and kindness. Those are the moments I want more of in my life.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Working...


Not much to say tonight, I spent the weekend teaching graduate students. A good weekend that I think yielded growth for my students and myself. After an entire weekend of teaching I always feel EXHAUSTED on Sunday night. The introvert in me just wants to curl up in bed and read or watch mind-numbing TV. Tonight it was reading, I'll post some thoughts on the book I just finished soon. (It appears that my blog is turning into a perpetual 5th grade book report.)

Anyway teaching is a paradox for me. I always dread going to teach, I feel anxious and run through several scenarios of why I don't like teaching. I get stressed and find myself ruminating on lesson plans and worries about running out of things for my students to do in class. But then I get to class and I start talking with my students about the subject matter. And all my anxiety goes away, the dread is replaced by excitement and energy. I can honestly say that I enjoy the process of talking with my students and engaging around the topics. They ask questions and offer good discussion points and I find myself totally invested in the conversation. My mind is spinning in several directions as I also stay close to the conversation at hand. We go through lectures and do role plays. I feel intellectually alive and refreshed. It's just really good.

Then I head home and recount to MSD all the interesting things that students said (sometimes we also laugh about the somewhat crazy things that were said). We discuss teaching and get into it over classroom details (sometimes we have very different opinions about how to handle classroom instruction). But it always yields some good conversation. And then I am totally and completely exhausted. After some brief discussion I usually have to head to bed with a book because my brain is fried. For example, right now my head feels incredibly full and tight. I am overwhelmed at the thought of having a conversation about anything. Writing actually feels easy since there is no need to exchange ideas with anyone. I am so tired that trying to think of responses to someone's questions feels impossible.

All of this reminds me yet again that I am a complete introvert who needs time to recharge her batteries. I need time to sit and just let my mind rest since being with people taxes my resources. Thankfully after teaching all weekend I have a few days to recover before going into the office to do therapy. I plan to spend those days wisely and somewhat quietly.

And now a gratuitous picture of Nemo who I plan to spend most of my time with:

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Becoming a psychologist

On July 12, 2011 I finished a journey I started in April of 2003. This eight year commitment is so far the longest single commitment of my life. (Though I'll be married 7 years this year so that's getting close.) When I started this endeavor I was 21 years old and just about to graduate college. At that time I was eager to figure out what I was going to do with my life. I had been plotting, planning and praying that I would get into graduate school.
Then I did.
I thought getting in was a big deal. I remember getting the letter offering me a position in the doctoral program. I was so excited that I ran across the quad at IWU to find a few friends to announce the news. I was so excited to be an undergrad going right into a phd program.
Let's be real here, I had no idea what I was getting into. None.
I started graduate school in 2003 and somehow became a pyschologist by the time I graduated in 2009. Along the way I learned a lot about how to understand human behavior and emotions but mostly I learned about myself.
I grew up in grad school. Some people spend their twenties exploring the world, having kids and building their careers. I spent mine taking evening classes, having supervision sessions and teaching undergraduates. It was a lot of school. And there were plenty of times I wondered if I was spending my twenties in the right place.
When I finished each step of grad school I felt so accomplished. But before each step I also felt as though the process would never end. Particularly during the dissertation process I battled a feeling of despair that I would forever be in graduate school. From my anecdotal research this seems to be a fairly common feeling among doc students.
The day I defended my dissertation was a good one. My family attended and for the first time I was able to show them my grad school world in a really authentic way. They also got to hear the supportive and encouraging comments my faculty members offered. I simply remember feeling incredibly relieved after the defense was over. That feeling most characteristic of my experience throughout grad school!
The last leg of this journey was the part I blocked from my mind the longest. I always knew I would have to take a final licensing exam but I managed to put off thinking about for as long as possible. I got a job and even had a baby before I was finally recovered enough from grad school to think about taking the next step.
So I started studying and generally freaking out about the test. I took practice tests and tried to drill myself on random psychology facts. I really hate studying for multiple choice tests. I went through a cycle of emotions ranging from anger to hopelessness.
I was pretty convinced that I would fail the test the first time. But I went ahead and took it despite my doubts. After a grueling several hours I left the testing center feeling as though I had most certainly failed.
But I passed. And I'm told that my license is in the mail.
So there it is, eight years later and I'm finally a licensed clinical psychologist.
So now on to the next adventure!