(Re)traumatization during psychologist training

(The following piece contains thoughts that may be disturbing; more delicate readers are advised to close the page immediately… this is not the kind of consistently and precisely formulated, educational writing you may be used to—it belongs more to the category of creative writing from the blunt, not-for-print version.) 

So, anyway, I'll continue—for those whom I haven't managed to scare away yet…

Once upon a time, —or rather, in medias res:

– You wrote a long CV and cover letter.
– I like writing.

…

(I specialized in HR and management as an economist, and I occasionally work in career counseling as well—I do know how to write a CV and cover letter—but thank you for the 'constructive criticism' and for yet another attempt to destroy my self-esteem. Psychology is a double-edged sword: it can also be used to cause harm. Just how f@cked up is it that the very person who is supposed to teach how to help people using this method is the one causing harm with it. Shame, disgrace, nausea!)

Not long ago, the leadership and legal counsel of this same university had to read an almost 60-page long petition from me explaining why I was not comfortable with being humiliated to shit at the Behavior Analyst BA final examination by the dear professors, and why, after three years of hard work, despite my cumulative GPA of 4.3 and my workshop paper being graded excellent by my supervisor, they gave me a passing grade in my behavioral analyst diploma, purely out of malice: because I dared to say something that could not be said in Hungary at that time, something that did not conform to the image expected by the current political dictatorship. …

Is my CV and cover letter really that long? Or are they f@cking with me again?...)

…

– We understand.

Questions. Answers.

Silence.

A woman whose name I do not remember asks one final question—stepping outside the strict framework of the admissions questions:

– Do you have help?

I wasn't expecting this question. I wasn't used to anyone being interested in anything like this. I make myself aware that I am at an entrance exam. The possibility of my old dream coming true depends on every word I say – at least back then I still thought it could depend on that.:

– Ummm, yes. I'm in personal therapy. With X Y, a training therapist.

– She is a good professional. But that's not what I meant. In your private life. With the children. With the housework.

– I have a husband. He helps. No one else.

– We understand. Thank you. (Advices given that I should hire a housekeeper—I didn't ask for advice I this situation on this topic - and it wasn't within my budget. … Whatever… Six months later, I left the good professional training therapist, by the way—I won't name her, because she has personality rights—because, based on empirical experience, I concluded that her approach was not nearly as humane as the 17,000 HUF she charged me every week when my monthly income was 350,000 HUF, and she took absolutely no account of what I actually needed: during the period when rapport (trust) should have been established, she went abroad on holiday for two months, even though she should have known that this was a critical period and situation for me. At one of the therapy sessions before her vacation, her final sentence to me was: "Would you go after your mother? But you don't have to die to live!" That abandonment is a big theme for me, that I recently had suicidal thoughts—which was really scary for me—that my mom died in the summer, in June: an anniversary, no matter how you look at it. Things like this shouldn't happen in therapy: my therapist shouldn't retraumatize me so carelessly by also 'abandoning' me right when I needed someone, really needed someone to be there, to be available, someone I could trust… I understand that, in the meantime, what mattered to her was getting some rest because she works with so many idiots, but it would have been too early for me to leave this life during those two months, and I almost did.

…

But this wasn't important to her; she genuinely didn't care whether I was okay, alive, or dead. During her vacation I was doing very badly, and I was completely without help, alongside a full-time management job, three small children, and a covertly psychologically abusive husband, with no living relatives apart from my three children—everyone else could only help me from that "other side." After she had enjoyed her vacation, she announced that she was raising her fee to 20,000 HUF. I announced that I was leaving. This was one of the lessons about what I would never do as a professional in therapy: I would not disappear for two months when a client was at rock bottom without providing any means of contact or alternative options—such as a colleague who happened not to be on holiday and with whom I had an arrangement, crisis telephone numbers, etc.—that could help them survive while I was away on vacation.

…

Fortunately, I found a therapist who supported me on my journey with completely different values, at a realistic price, and with humanity.)

…

But now let me return to my oral admissions interview for the MA in psychology, where the above conversation took place:

Restless thoughts raced through my head: It's over. Is that it? Will they admit me? Or will they kick me again?

I don't know. I did everything I could – like always. I made super efforts to become a psychologist. We'll see whether they admit me, whether they see my efforts, whether they value me for what I am worth, or whether they will once again use their power to abuse me, to humiliate me, to hurt and harm me.

…

(Now, as I write these lines and think back to that period, I burst into tears. Even though years have passed, and I have since gone through more than 1,000 hours of personal experiential work in psychotherapy. Since then, I have obtained an MA-level psychology degree with an excellent grade—among many other qualifications. I took it to therapy, I worked on it in my own self-awareness work—but apparently, it still hurts. There is no point of resolution, no forgiveness. No justice.

…

My 11-year-old, youngest son asks:

"Mom, are you okay?" …

– Well, a lot of things are difficult right now. But yes, otherwise I'm okay. There's just been a lot of burden lately.

"Do you want a hug?"

– Yes, that would feel good right now.

"I love you very much!"—we say almost simultaneously, embracing each other.

…

Twelve years ago, the self-awareness question that once pushed me back toward the science of psychology was whether it was normal for my barely four-year-old daughter to "has accidents" every morning while watching me vomit. And whether it was normal for her to stick cherry pits up her barely two-year-old little brother's nose?—removing foreign objects from his nose with a manicure kit became a routine task at the time. … And she drooled and babbled like an infant. And: whether this was normal or not, what was I supposed to do about it while I was pregnant with a high-risk pregnancy, ten years after my mother's death, completely alone—apart from cleaning up the shit between two bouts of vomiting and worrying about whether I was going to miscarry…?

…

I listened to Vekerdy (a famous, Hungarian, humanistic child-psychologist), asked the health visitor and pediatrician, read professional books about the phenomenon of syncretism, but I didn't get an answer. …

Okay: that wasn't my only question. I have always been interested in how people work and why they work the way they do—but at that particular time, I really wanted to get a reassuring and meaningful answer to this question. I now know that she had regressed to an earlier developmental level because of the arrival of her little sibling. She sensed that I was pregnant before I even had a medical diagnosis—obviously she must have X-ray vision or something: I wasn't even nine weeks pregnant with my youngest child when she asked, "Mom, is there a baby in your tummy?"… And, as if she had been reading from a book, she told me the things I had said to her a year and a half earlier during my previous pregnancy about the whole "baby in the tummy" topic.)

…

June 2018. Károli Gáspár University of the Reformed Church—student-friendly, practice-oriented behavioral analyst training, final examination.:

The results will be announced soon. Will I get an excellent grade? My cumulative GPA is 4.3, looking at the average of the three years. I brought a workshop paper that had been graded excellent to the defense. Okay, I don't particularly like presenting, but I'm actually quite good at it based on formal feedbacks… 1,000 pages of elaborated exam topics—I don't know some of them that well, but I was lucky: I drew infancy. I know that. I'm interested in it. I just couldn't answer one stupid question: what was the relationship between Harlow and Maslow—but I was able to explain everything else well. … Maybe I'll get an excellent grade… It counts toward admission to the MA… It would be so good to go back to the Educational Authority's office next week with an excellent grade—that might finally convince them to approve my transition into the profession, and perhaps I could work as a school psychologist in the future, or something. They are developing the school psychologist network—it would be so good to work in that! … Or study Family Therapy. … I'm waiting excitedly, my heart is practically jumping out of my chest. … My turn comes: I hear my name (well, my married name—I've already gotten used to the fact that the lecturers never get as far as reading my maiden name, even though I like Szilvia much more. And Tünde, too. That reminds me of my grandfather; he used to call me, "my little Tündi, you are the meaning of my life, the light of my eyes, my happiness." … He would have been so proud of me if he had lived to see me earn my second degree... and if he could have held his great-great-grandchildren in his arms… but neither he nor my mom got to see that.):

– … Barnabás—grade two (on a scale from 1 to 5 where 2 means you nearly fail the exam). Your statistical hypothesis was not good enough. Never mind. Two.

I'm choking back tears. … But I won't give them the pleasure of seeing me cry. … F@ckers!

…

So, in this environment, I was desperately searching for the value system represented, for example, by Tamás Vekerdy or Carl Rogers!... (How did Vekerdy put it? The Hungarian educational system is pathologizing. Aaaand it really is! From the bottom to the top!)

…

I go home. That's where I cry it all out.

…

I should sit down and work. The EUTAF audit is coming. I don't want to leave the girls in the shit … But I can't! That's all I can think about. What f@cking assholes they are. That on Monday I go into Károli and the dear professors treat me like someone they dragged out of their asses, and on Tuesday I'm suddenly the respected 'Dear Mrs. Project Finance Director', and they suck up to me when they need my signature for a public procurement procedure to start, or when they want to hire someone for the project. … I am not capable of putting aside my children and working on financial and HR plans and reports at one AM so that some f@cking asshole can have a 'chair' under his ass! Is this psychologist training?! Come on! F@CK NO! Inhumanity.

…

Inflammation. Inflammation throughout my body. Surgeries. … I hand in my resignation.

After successfully completing the written admissions exam, with this experience behind me, I don't feel that I have the strength to go to the oral MA psychology admissions interview… I couldn't endure another humiliation. I really want to become a psychologist, but I can't do it. F@ck this! ("I apologize for the technical term," as one professor once said when he used a somewhat less salon-appropriate word during one of his lectures.)

…

Summer in Croatia with the children. I wonder if we will ever go on holiday together like this again, or if this will be the last time? I wonder how long my body and soul will be able to withstand the burdens? Not much longer—I felt.

…

The little-one, of course, keeps injuring himself everywhere he goes, but that's just how he is. Scatterbrained. The important thing is that he can walk. I was very frightened when, at one month old, the orthopedic specialist said that it wasn't certain he would ever be able to walk because his legs could not be brought together, and from then until he was one year old I had to do physiotherapy with him at every diaper change, plus weekly Dévény physiotherapy privately, at a very high cost. … It worked: he walks, runs, he's fast, he's clever. … The older ones (to the extent that they are older) are calmer. Fortunately. As one professor said in the developmental psychology lecture: the diagnostic category of the "two-person child." Well, yes! The motto being: I need eyes in the back of my head.

…

The filthy f@cking assholes. An all-male four-member examination committee fails me on infancy… Ridiculous! … They must know empirically what infancy means — how to tandem-breastfeed, or rather, how to f@cking mess with me. … They have reading experiences on the subject…

…

F@ck them!

…

September 2018:

Dental implant surgery with bone grafting—an hour and a half—live dissection. There wasn't enough calcium left in my body; the children had practically sucked it all out of me during the pregnancies and breastfeeding periods. That's how it is. It hurts. It hurts a lot! This too. I can barely eat even puréed food.

…

October 2018:

I promise myself that I'll give myself a few weeks now, that I won't look for a job for a little while—even though we desperately need the money for the three children. Hungary has had a dual-income family model for 30 years. Their father earns shit. He's not exactly a careerist type… What matters to him is not working overtime and having peace and quiet (I don't know how he can be peaceful when there isn't even enough money to buy clothes for the children… Never mind, I can't smile at a job interview anyway, nor can I speak. … Still, I come across an advertisement for a job I like: it's close to my home, and if necessary, if something goes wrong, I can rush home to the children—I think about them all day long. A senior HR and organizational development position. My favorite area within economics. … I write a cover letter. I like writing, after all, and I'm still capable of doing it—apart from my mild dysgraphia, which makes my spelling very poor, but at least writing doesn't hurt me, I can manage that. Just don't make me speak, because that still hurts terribly…). On the principle of "you only live once—might as well use up another box of matches!" I apply for it.

…

I have to go to Károli. They have received my appeal.

…

A committee of about 10 people is receiving…. What's going to happen here? Will they even finish me off? F@ck it! I'm fed up.

…

Some woman interrogates me—and eventually it turns out that she is Károli's lawyer, and that there are so many of us sitting there because, based on my letter, disciplinary proceedings should be initiated against the examiner who was the chair of the examination committee that day, and who gave a grade of one to the defense of my paper, despite the fact that his subordinate had graded the paper excellent…

I reassure them that it is not my intention to harm the man personally—it is not about one individual. At a systemic level, something like this should never be allowed to happen: three years of brutally hard work should not be disregarded and wiped out with a stroke of a pen based on ten minutes of judgment… And then there was the style of it, too. Never mind, let's just leave it, this really doesn't matter anymore. Everyone can relax; I'm letting the matter go here. I want a fair, realistic assessment, and humanity. There is none. If I cannot receive a BA degree with an evaluation proportionate to my actual professional knowledge, I don't care about anything else. I don't give a shit whether they initiate disciplinary proceedings against anyone. At the time, I was working on a higher-education project at the Educational Authority—I probably could have caused harm if that had been my goal, but it wasn't.

…

This seems to calm them down. The lawyer adds that if she were me, she would not have worded the letter that way.

She is not in my situation. She cannot possibly imagine what it is like to be in my position—let's leave it at that…

Thank you for your attention; I have better things to do…

I go home. Disappointed, again.

I feel sick of this whole thing. … I mean, not physically right now, like I did for months during my pregnancy—just metaphorically.

…

I got the HR job, which is close to my flat. … I still have a few surgeries ahead of me, but whatever, somehow it will work out. The important thing is to have a job, because I need the money for the children, and it is important that my workplace be close to them. Fifteen minutes and I'm home if necessary. (That's what I thought at the time—in retrospect, I know I could reach the trauma surgery department by taxi in 20 minutes too—but that's another story. It really was important to me to have a job and for it to be close to the children.)

…

My probationary period hasn't even ended yet—and I'm already obsessing again over the fact that somehow I really should finish my psychologist training. Ever since I was 14, nothing has interested me except things related to healthcare. I shouldn't let it go. I ask my boss whether he would approve my enrolling in psychologist training: either in the countryside, which would mean two days of in-person attendance every other week, or in Budapest, one day a week.

He approves—oh, how grateful I was!

…

There aren't many options: in Hungary, psychology can be studied at five universities. Part-time MA programs are only available outside Budapest. ELTE in Budapest is a full-time program, ruled out—too strict, too theoretical, not student-friendly (what must it be like to study at the country's strongest university if what I experienced at Károli counts as a student-friendly program?!...)—I wouldn't be able to manage it alongside three children and a full-time job. Debrecen–Szeged–Pécs: the countryside. Away from the children at night, traveling. Károli—full-time, the practical sessions can be compressed, and at least it's in Budapest. On the principle that fortune favors the brave, I submit my application here too… for the adult clinical and health psychology specialization— if you're going to go for it, go all the way. This way, if I get accepted, I can avoid the department where the BA final examination committee came from, and I won't have to travel to the countryside. I could say that I submitted my application here too with the serenity of someone who knows they have no chance.

…

A year later, I am sitting in a corner at Károli. I am surrounded by full-time students. Young, enthusiastic, energetic people. They are excitedly preparing—as it turns out—for their final exams. They are talking about how the examination system was changed recently, being introduced some kind of pre-final-exam presentation because once someone received a two grade in the final certificate, after much better, earlier averages, and to prevent something like that from happening again, they changed the system: to make the final exam fairer. a "mock-exam" was introduced. (…They didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about having to complete the additional preliminary presentation, understandably. Nor was that exactly what I was looking forward to…)

…

"You know, this research is draining meme!" one of my fellow students says after we become research partners for our MA thesis research. Our supervisor thought there was a lot in common between our topics, so it would be better if we continued administering the questionnaires together.

Well, yes, I think there was a common point: we had chosen the same supervisor—my focus was the labor market, hers was criminal psychology.

…

After the BA final exam, I decided that this time I wanted an excellent grade. I wasn't going to play the hero with my own topic, my own research, my own opinion (for example, about how devastating the compulsory start of kindergarten from the age of three actually is, in the way it was implemented—which had just been introduced in Hungary at the time despite severe deficiencies in human and physical infrastructure—and which certain lecturers in the developmental psychology department considered beneficial and positive, since it wasn't their own children who bore the brunt of it. … I had already experienced that if I said what I thought, I would be punished severely. It wasn't worth it. I would say it somewhere else, at another time. …

So I wrote emails to the leaders of the research projects already underway. Almost all of them who were working on a topic I found even a little interesting. I decided I would choose whoever responded to my inquiry the fastest and most helpfully. Dr. Sándor Rózsa became the "winner," and the topic was the validation of the Short Dark Tetrad—the questionnaire measuring the dark side of personality—into Hungarian. (Almost as interesting a topic as a longitudinal impact study, in light of real-world conditions, of the actual effects of introducing and implementing compulsory kindergarten from the age of three on children and families—oh, or is nobody studying that?!… Never mind…)

I also decided not to play the hero with my statistical knowledge—I had been told that I was unable to formulate a statistical hypothesis (in a study involving an in-depth interview with a sample of n=2, where statistical analysis wasn't even the point… never mind!), so let's just believe the humanities professors; surely they know all about mathematical statistical hypotheses … So, we know it doesn't matter anyway: I decided that during my MA I would no longer do the statistical calculations myself. I asked a PhD psychologist student for help with the statistics—obviously not for free. The PhD student complains about Sándor to me—at two AM, on Messenger—that the whole mathematical modeling story is a somewhat excessive expectation. (I agree: I think so too. I wouldn't measure and screen future practicing psychologists and psychotherapists based on their knowledge of mathematical statistics either—it is not the relevant competence for this profession…)

…

Mock-presentation in the large lecture hall, in the presence of Sándor and another lecturer. A result that is acceptable: I receive only one or two suggestions for modifications. But what is happening inside me: my hands and legs are trembling. An unbearable level of tension, tears choking me throughout! The infinitely humiliating, degrading, inhumane memories of the BA final exam come flooding back.

…

I ask my therapist to work on this with me. Psychodrama group—BA final exam scene. We get to the point in the enactment very quickly where we call my father in. The group leader plays the role, because it is difficult to portray a dead person. A difficult enactment, a powerful scene develops. We cry together.

…

F@ck!: there is an error in the statistical calculation in one place in my MA thesis. My supervisor is a mathematician by one of his professions, and one of the country's most prominent specialists in psychological test development; my basic profession is an MSc in business economics, but I hadn't gone deeply into it because I had been told that I wouldn't be able to do it at the level expected in a humanities program using statistical analysis software anyway—I paid a PhD student to do it, just to be on the safe side, because I now know that this is the usual practice, and it was a mistake to skip this step when preparing my BA thesis, and do the statistical analysis myself no matter how good I am in statistics… and he f@cks up the calculations despite being paid… aaaand the three of us fail to notice the error in time. Brilliant!

Now I'm going to defend an MA-level thesis with genuinely f@cked-up statistics. It makes me angry. And I'm afraid of what will happen if they gave me a hard time even when the statistical calculations were mathematically 100 % correct... What are they going to do with calculations that are actually wrong?...

Obviously, I corrected it when I noticed the error and prepared an explanation of the correction for the defense—but still!

…

The opponent graded my thesis a four. Never mind, that's what I managed to do; whatever happens, happens. One life, one death—I'll somehow get through the exam.

…

Final exam presentation. Examination committee. They ask questions: The presence of narcissism in the labor market. Subclinical sadism. What can I say about psychopathy? Etc. I answer.

…

It's over. I can almost hear the rocks rolling off my heart. No one wants to fail me this time. Even though the statistics really did turn out like shit this time. A surprising turn of events.

…

Bus stop. Lost in my thoughts. I feel terrible about the mistake (I have a conscience, I'm not a psychopath—and what kind of personality traits does a person who humiliates another human being have?!... and what business does such a person have teaching in psychologist training?!...); but I'm glad it's over. I still haven't really gotten yet: I DID IT! I became a psychologist: adult clinical and health psychology specialization. The hard-core specialization. The one I didn't even dare hope for after that particular BA final exam. WITH AN EXCELLENT GRADE.

…

Someone comes up to me at the bus stop. Congratulate me. I'm so surprised that I can barely speak. One of the members of the examination committee. He just wants to tell me that he wants to congratulate me on how well my defense went. The others were very capable and well-prepared too, but in my case, it was really evident that I had immersed myself deeply in the topic, as well as having practical knowledge and experience, and that the presentation was very good. … Well, I have met "a few" people with (subclinical?) sadistic, narcissistic, and psychopathic modes of functioning while working as an economist in state-affiliated, politically connected environments—that much is a fact: I have empirical experience with the subject, which, as a private individual, I am somewhat less happy about. Never mind.

…

This positive feedback surprised me, given what had happened before.

…

Beyond this case, there were two other situations during my five-year psychology training within official academic and state frameworks when I felt that I had experienced a quality that I would later want to incorporate into the quality of my own practical work as well: that quality is called humanity, by the way.

1.

We rarely had oral exams. One was in the course on psychotherapeutic methods and crisis intervention. I drew topic number one—and completely froze; nothing came to mind. After a few minutes I told the examiner that I was in approximately a state of debilitating anxiety: nothing was coming to mind, so let's leave it and I would come back for a retake. He asked me questions. Funnily enough, I could remember more from the other topics than from the one I had drawn—even though I had drawn the easiest topic. Then he also asked whether I was in personal therapy. I said that I had started seeing a woman for a few sessions, but somehow it didn't work with her, and I had recently switched therapists—after some hesitation. The new therapist seemed like a good professional for me so far. We talked about the differences between the two methods. Then he asked me what grade I wanted. I said I would be very happy with a two, but I knew that what I had managed to demonstrate of my knowledge that day wasn't worth even that.

He stated matter-of-factly that I had written the in-class test for a four. I said yes, written exams are always easier for me. But I've done better than this in oral exams before.

He thought about it:

– Would a grade three be okay for me?

Ohhh, very, very good—considering what I had actually performed like that day, of course it was good. I was happy.

I thanked him. For his humanity.

…

This humane approach was very appealing to me. I want to be like that too. That whatever the framework—an exam, a position of power—he did not forget that one human being is connecting with another human being. That he is a human being and I am a human being, and neither of us has the right to humiliate the other in their human dignity, regardless of the current context or role.

...

2.

And another strongly positive experience:

Positive suggestive communication class. Reading a short story aloud. The short story is about someone waiting for a cancer diagnosis. A good piece of writing. … It brings back my own memories. When I was waiting for the surgeon and the histology results, when my mother was ill. … I feel the tears choking me. I can't take it anymore; I leave the room. One of my fellow students comes after me. She hugs me. It feels so good not to be alone. I cry. I'm afraid that one day my own children will be waiting like this for a diagnosis of mine… Years of suppressed terror, deeply buried feelings and traumas break through to the surface….

I slowly calm down. My fellow student soothes me. She misses the group task too, just like I do. … I am grateful to her. I know that she understands. Aaaand being understood feels so good.

We go back.

The teacher says nothing. She doesn't scold me—as my children are scolded at elementary school if they have to go to the bathroom during class… Compared with what happens there, this really is student-friendly: I don't have to "shit myself" during class. (But that's another topic again.)

At the end of the class, she comes over to me and offers to give me a therapy session after she finishes her training soon. (Free of charge and selflessly. WOW!)

It feels good. I had hardly experienced anything like this before during the training. Impossible, irregular, unrealistic, stupid expectations, criticism of my original qualification, my religion, my worldview—yes. Humanity—only very rarely.

I thank her, then make a joke to brush the matter aside: I'll take the issue to my training therapist. He shouldn't be bored either!

She smiles. She asks me what affected me so deeply. I tell her.

She asks whether she may hug me.

Yes.

We hug each other. It feels very good. I am grateful. I calm down a little—and life goes on: tasks-deadlines-responsibilities.

…

Finally, the topic came up again in a psychodrama group. We invited my mother (we never talked as much or as honestly while she was alive as we have during the past ten years in all kinds of self-awareness groups). The group leader played the role—because playing a dead person is a difficult role, and he doesn't put that on students. We enacted my last conversation with my mother: in our imagination, we were quickly transported to the courtyard of the Miskolc surgical department. We enacted it as it happened. … And then we enacted how it would have been good if it had happened… We cry together. Again.

…

I look away from my laptop. It's late. I'm still crying. The lines are blurred. It feels good to let these tears out a little.

The crickets are chirping—or something. I hadn't even noticed until now. It has grown dark. I peek out onto the balcony where I'm sitting with my laptop: to the right, a few hundred meters away, there is a lake; apparently there are flamingos there. It would be nice to go and see them sometime. … To the left, the sea. As I was writing these lines and the painful memories surfaced and the tears came, I temporarily failed to notice how much beauty surrounded me. A familiar experience: I went through the last two years of my economics studies like this too after my mother died, and the five years of psychologist training as well…. and what is even more f@cked up is that among so many "helping professionals," it wasn't only me who failed to notice the beauty around me, but so many highly respected psychology professors didn't see me either—great respect to the small number of exceptions… (as I usually say: if the shoe doesn't fit, don't wear it—and if it does fit, perhaps you could finally put it on!... Whatever!...).

…

All of this in a student-friendly, practice-oriented psychology training that was advertised with the claim that there is no impersonality here: we address everyone by name, etc. …)

Never mind… It doesn't matter to them… Unfortunately…

Then their God, according to their religion, will forgive them. Forgiveness is not my strong suit—I'm just this very human: imperfect.

…

But I still love writing—and no one has therapized this out of me, nor my sarcastic sense of humor, during the thousand-and-some-hundred hours of self-awareness work in very expensive private training… fortunately. But then again, that was never my therapeutic goal.

…

Well, that's enough for today from Szilvike's Funhouse, and from my retraumatizing experiences during psychologist training. I know I am not the only one. Aaaand I'm glad it's over. I'm glad I left that country where even helping professionals are inhumane.

(I emphasize again: respect to the exceptions, enormous respect, because fortunately there are exceptions—they can generally be found in private, method-specific training… and outside the country's borders…)