Home Birth

Well, my son has finally arrived. At 11:02 pm, my wife gave birth to a 7 lb., 7 oz., 20¾ in. baby boy by the name of Evan James Martin. In following with Martin and Lewis tradition, we decided to name him after people in our family – Evan is my middle name, my uncle’s middle name, Hayley’s great-uncle’s name, and James is my father’s name, as well as Hayley’s great grandfather and uncle’s name. Needless to say, this boy has some good, solid lineage in him just in the name.

 As far as the birthing process goes, I want you all (four of you) to be open minded about the entire process as I describe it to you; women have been giving birth to babies at home for thousands of years, with minimal complications, and our race has progressed just fine without birthing in hospitals. Our decision to birth at home (naturally) stemmed out of Hayley’s mother’s experience, as well as mine. Hayley was the first of her siblings born at home, and I was the first of mine to be born without drugs. I had to be convinced at first, because being a dumb guy, was led to believe that birth is something you go to the hospital for. So, after praying and researching, we felt that a home birth would be the best decision. Think of the upsides: the comfort of familiarity, the same sight and sounds you experience day in and day out, no pushy nurses or doctors (who you hardly ever see), the freedom to move around and get the baby to initiate, etc. There are so many perks, it can’t be contained in a blog. Anyway…

 Hayley called me at work at about 2:45 as I was wrapping up a group; she informed me that her contractions had begun in earnest 15 minutes prior, and that she wanted me to come home. Naturally, I obliged, and raced home to be with her in her moments of pain and struggle. At 3:30, her contractions increased to 45-60 seconds with 5 to 7 minute intervals. In case you don’t know anything about labor and contractions, this isn’t too bad, and it means that progression is being made. Most women count labor from the very first contraction, which can be anywhere from 20-40 seconds, and is usually only 8 to 10 minutes apart. Hayley’s body was clearly taking over, as her uterus was working with vigor and determination.

 

 Hayley decided that around 4pm, I should call our midwife and inform her of what was going on. She showed up at about 4:30, and Hayley’s mom, Elaine, who we wanted to have at the birth due to her experience and willingness to help, showed up at the airport at about 6:30. By this time, contractions were intense, and it became apparent that Hayley’s mood revealing her journey into transition, which is the movement out of simply dilating into the beginning of the pushing stage. This is big news, because what happens is there is a lot of self-doubt in moments like these: women feel like they aren’t making progress, and that things would be better if they would simply get some drugs in their system. My role as Hayley’s coach becomes significant at a point like this; she needed to be reminded of how well she had been doing, of the hard work and effort that had gone into her task. This was difficult for me as well, because when you see this woman who, for nine months, is gung-ho about doing something this way, and then she sways, it’s hard to remain firm myself. What about all the conversations we had? I ask myself. That’s why a midwife, a birth attendant, a doula, and a coach all work together to keep the mother-to-be heading in the right direction.

 

 Evan’s heart rate had been at a consistent 140 ever since we were able to find it. He was retaining that same rate, even through the pushing stage, which was good for us and him. At about 10:15pm, Hayley began to feel the urge to push. Our midwife had to break her water at 9:30 in order to get things moving, and it was not very difficult, as the sac had been stretched thin and was very malleable, according to out midwife. Prior to this, Hayley had taken two baths to get things moving, as well as changed positions numerous times, walking up and down the stairs, doing laps downstairs, and various other exercises to progress labor. The pushing stage is good for many women, as it gives them a little more control over the situation, and encourages them for a while. Hayley’s entire amount of time pushing lasted about 45 minutes, which is rare for women, especially those having their first baby. However, God was gracious to her in that area, as well as preserving her body – she didn’t have any tears, which is another miraculous sign, as anyone can attest, pushing a baby out in only 45 minutes usually results in a suture having to be made after the birth.

 

 Evan cam out looking healthy, and I was the first one to hold my son; in retrospect, it was a weird experience, as I anticipated having to tell myself to get over the nastiness of the vernix, amniotic fluid, and other stuff and just do it. But instinct took over. There was a moment of hesitation, and Evan was hanging out halfway when our midwife said “Dave, aren’t you gonna catch him?” I don’t remember what I said, but I reached over and took him gently, and began to cradle the little miracle that had taken nine months to cook. It was completely overwhelming for me to hold the little guy, realizing that at that moment, my life would be different for the better.

 Now, Evan is two days old (almost), and he is thriving. Hayley is getting him acquainted with nursing, which a fun experience for mom and baby. I have taken a couple of days off to spend time with my family, but I plan on going to work soon. The experience was one that I truly embrace as amazing – no hiccups, Hayley’s body doing what it need to do, and she had the help she needed to make it through. God’s providence really comes through in moments like those, where you are weakest. I am continually impressed with my wife’s capacity to endure life’s difficulties, and I cherish her more than ever. Evan will be in great hands, and we are looking forward to raising our little son in the joy if the Lord. 

 

Awesome! Finally, a movie worth spending someone else’s money on!

Go, Speed Racer!Carefully, anyway – we don’t want to see anything too dangerous. Well, I do; but that’s beside the point.I am moderately thrilled about the release of Speed Racer, slated to be released sometime in ‘08. I never really watched the cartoon, but had some friends that were distantly connected (via older siblings). I think it will be great, and I can give you some reasons why.

1. There will probably be cars going at incredibly high speeds.  From the small tidbits I have seen on the internet, it looks something like Podracing on steroids, hopefully without some stupid little kid yelling things that George Lucas thought would be funny, and even worse, culturally relevant. I love fast race scenes, especially when I think someone will explode against the side of a building, or be impailed by an out-of-control piece of rubble. Whatever the case, I am looking forward to seeing people (all computer generated, of course) die.

2. There may be acting worth watching in 2008. After most of the movies released in 2007, I was somewhat disappointed by the lackluster performances that actors/lucky Denny’s night cook put forth. I am hoping, therefore, that what we see in “SpeedRacer” will be worthy of some kind of award – maybe a handful of banana peels at the red carpet release, maybe some hissing and booing, possibly even a golden globe. We’ll see. 

3. I am sure that two people will purport some kind of love-scene that induces vomiting for me and the rest of the audience. In every movie where some guy has something to prove due to a jagged past, there is always some girl who helps him find his way; eventually, they realize they need each other, in some sick, fornicatious, unnaceptable manner. No doubt, SR wil have something like this. Puke. Also, since movies are  moving in a direction that accepts hugging and kissing without clothes (double puke), it may win an award (see number 2). 

 

4.  I am planning on winning a gift card of some type to go see this movie – erego, I will not have to spend my own money on the ticket. However, I will have to plan to take the time and actually go see this thing. Planning equals money, because planning equals time. Getting ready costs money as well, in the form of clean clothes (water and electricity), shaving (household items), the restroom, bathing, getting drinks ready (water, water, water), driving there (gas), walking (I’m fairly lazy), etc. 

 

 Oh my gosh, forget it. Unless I get a gift card worth my whole month’s salary, I can’t afford to go see this freaking thing. 

Our perception of Others

I have resolved (no, it isn’t a New Year Resolution) to make sure that I provide those faithful few who read my blog – all 4 of you – with some new thread at least once a month. Otherwise, it just gets boring; and by boring, I mean more boring than it already is.

 I recently found myself in the throes of a group of women covering for another therapist’s “Body Image Group”. Besides getting off-track every now and then, I felt that the group members did a great job of leading the direction and the topic of conversation on their own, with limited instruction from myself. I have longed for a group to go this way, and I was pleased to experience a minimalist appraoch, which all in the mental health field should pursue when it comes to facilitating.

 But then I started thinking, “what makes my perception of these people significant?” For a brief moment, I wandered into the silent stereophonic of my thoughts, drifting into the perspectives I take, the perspectives I am given, my collective consciousness, etc. After some self-redirection, once again I began to consider what sets me apart from anyone else, client or not, regarding the person and their own perceived self. While this may sound a bit humanistic, dare I say too Rogerian, I want to allow the opportunity of exploring thoughts – not just mine, but everyone’s – in an effort to obtain some sense of objective collectivism with regard to the idealized stereotypes we place upon others in specific situations, rationalized (or otherwise irrationalized) notions, and finally, thoughts that people hold for themselves.

 While it would be impossible to condense such a topic into an infinitesimal blog, my thoughts are as simple as this: I cannot truly determine who a person is, only myself, and even then it is a poor understanding of myself at that. All I can do is try my best to rid myself of any preconceived notion regarding a person’s self-image, and truly accept most (there is you operative word) of what they tell me. Rather than assume something, it behooves me to really allow them to explain and discuss logical facets about their conceptualizations about their cognition, their metacognition, etc. However, I think it is important for me to retain some kind of weariness, since people have a tendency to lie to themselves on a regular basis.

It isn’t simply my own idea of “who” a person is that gives me this weariness; it is also theirs. As stated earlier, people have a tendency to lie to themsleves, to fabricate, to present. As Carl Jung proposed, we all wear masks: one for society, one for family, one for work, one for our lovers, and so on. Why, then, would we not wear a mask for an examination of ourselves? I think this may be elemental, but in a sense, it transcends a lot of thinking. We often bypass simple truths or facts because they are so minute or basic that we look at them and think, “no big deal – I’ll worry about it later.” But the truth of it is (in my opinion, anyway) we need to at least make an attempt when it comes to that self-examination. Only then can we look upon others with lenses of ideal objectivity.

 Or not; eveyone relies on my perception.

Christmas Time and Santa the Liar…

I try to be a realist. Even when my heart tells me something, I have trained my brain to veto the little red organ in my chest, as I know that feelings (usually) are invalid, especially when it comes to holidays and the childhood nostalgia associated. That is why I was pleased to see this story featured on Yahoo! News today, the 4th of December.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20071203/od_afp/swedenchristmaskyrgyzstansantaoffbeat_071203163428

That link will take you to the truth of the matter, no ifs, ands or buts about it. What is particularly satisfying is knowing that all of those children who I argued with over the years were wrong, and horribly wrong at that. The article basically states, among other things, that Santa only has 34 microseconds to deliver presents at each house. Even though he has 48 hours to do it (the direction he travels in gives him an extra day), he has practically no time to drop off the toys. Also, his reindeer would have to go at speeds of over 3500 miles per second. Per second. Does anyone else see a problem with this? Light travels at 186,282 miles per second – why would Santa be able to replicate speed similar to that? Short answer: he can’t. Sorry. I know it’s kind of a heart breaker for the little ones, but they need to know, for the sake of truth.

 While it may seem repugnant to post a story that denounces the fancy of Santa, I need to be the beacon of truth for kids in this day and age, especially after hearing what they are being taught in schools (or, more appropriately, what they aren’t being taught in schools). So here it is, point number one: Santa, even if he did exist, would not work this hard to get presents to thousands – millions, even – of kids who, quite honestly, don’t deserve them. That’s just the fact of the matter. And point number two: you parents are simply adding fuel to the fire by purporting this lie for years on end. Take the truth to heart and heed the facts that I have provided for you: Santa does not exist. Except in the malls from November to mid-December.

Thanksgiving in Review (abridged)

There’s nothing quite like fried turkey (yes, we finally tried it). I was kind of surprised, though, because I only enjoyed the taste when it was going down…

I got a little sick, but not from overeating. The kids were sick, and they spread it like a wildfire (not quite). One kid had it, then another kid had it, then someone else. The I kind of got it, but was stuck (and still am) in that in between phase of knowing I need to ralph, but not being able to. I stinks almost more than just doing it an getting it over with. But all in all, I think I’m getting better.

As far as food goes, it was quite tasty. All of the tasty yummies were there along with old aunts and uncles. Plus, there were about 50 pies (not kidding) that my mom made. The turkies were abundant in flavor: injected with a butter/garlic herb-like base, they were picked clean from the get go. There were leftovers for sandwiches, as well as soup. Mashed potatoes were beside the meat, as well as freshly baked rolls, torts, green-bean casserole, yams, stuffing…I could go on, but suffice it to say that there were enough items to indulge your needs.

The best part came in the form of conversation with others. It was great to sit an talk with people about life, new things, old things, whatever. That was great. Eating pie afterward was even better, and the, to top it all off, you get to watch football and then fall asleep. That’s just day one. it gets better, as the food is still there, and there are more games to watch.

Good time. Besides the bug, everything was nice and reasonably enjoyable (aside from other minor family issues that arose).

The Top Five Meals, Ever

I am an eater – I love food. Always have, always will. I follow in the footsteps of my family, with whom I learned the ever-pervasive secrets of indulging in copious amounts of yum-yums and gaining weight. I know, it’s a secret not everyone can afford to learn. But when you do, hold onto it; cherish it; for you never know which meal will be your last.

This past weekend, I recently stumbled over my wife’s “Better Homes and Gardens” magazines, and I decided to indulge in the pictures of delectable glory: pictures of pies, stuffed bird meat, dainty appetizers. You name the festive fall holiday regular, it was there. And it was there in wonderful fashion, making itself known for all to see and embrace within their heart of hearts (that is, hoping their mother would make it for Thanksgiving).

In order to provide an accurately acceptable list of tasty treats and masticatory morsels, I will provide you with a list of my all-time favorite treats that I have been allowed to indulge in over the past few years. While I cannot conjure up all of the meals I saw this weekend in the magazine (my photographic memory is slowly fading), I would at least like to provide you with some idea of what I perceive as good – and we all know, my perception is what matters. This five-part list is my no means an end all, but it is, for the fall season, an appropriate guide to the warmth and comfort of great, family-oriented food.

1. Thanksgiving Day Turkey, complete with stuffingWe all know that this is some of the best meat ever, in the world, no questions asked. My brother recently presented the idea of frying a turkey for the big day (OMG!). What could be better than good meat prepared the Colonel Sanders way? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And couple this big bird with some mashed ‘taters, green bean casserole, and everything else that is supposed to accompany such a wonderful meal, you have an incredible surge of tryptophan putting you out in front of the tube. Embrace this season, my friends…

2. Fresh Honey Roasted Ham, spiral-cut In an effort to take advantage of those who do not eat the piglet, I posit that this is some of the sweetest-tasting meat you will ever encounter. When cooked right, the juices have entered every nook and cranny of Babe, while at the same time…”cutting the fat!” (Thanks Ron Popeil). This goes amazingly well with the same types of appetizers you find on a Thanksgiving day dinner table, and…oh my heavens…sometimes we allow ourselves to indulge in both, at the same time! While tis may seem like gluttony, it is simply an appreciation for the finer things in life. Tags: Dad putting both meats in a sandwhich, Dad wrapping both meats in a bologna blanket.

3. Roast Brisket with Sauce Oh, whoever decided to use this part of the cow was guaranteed a spot in heaven. Whatever inclination this person had was just fine with me, because this, my friends, is some of the finest meat I have ever tasted in my life. The best part, though, is that it takes about 8 hours to prepare. This means that the whole day, you will be smelling the savory juices and spices circulating in that crock-pot. The tension gradually builds, and culminates with the first bite into that succulent meat. But it doesn’t stop there: the sauce is the often under-considered part of the meal. These two go so well together, I am surprised that it can be found in  Betty Crocker cook book – you would have thought they stored this recipe at Fort Knox it’s so valuable. But I won’t complain…

4. White Bean Chili If there is any indication that chili should be a standalone meal, let me clear up any confusion: YES! Why have I not seen the likes of meals such as this before college? I don’t know how many kinds of beans are used in this chili, but I know that they all compliment the rest of the seasoning and the absurd amount of chicken that goes along with it. Again, making use of the crock pot makes delayed gratification something you can finally appreciate; but what sets this meal apart from the rest is the fact that Jalapenos are thrown in, adding some spice by the spoonful. Breakfast, lunch or dinner – it can even replace dessert.

5. Biscuits and Gravy (Gravy and Biscuits for the dyslexic population) If you have ever been woken up by the sweet smell of warm, buttery biscuits and sausage-filled gravy, you know that ecstasy has a twin. That twin usually makes it way to me about once a week, and I find myself never wanting him to leave. This meal is perfect, especially after it has snowed a bit, and you are forced to go outside and labor on a Saturday; while the laboring isn’t that great, the reward comes, and that right quickly. I try to get two bowl-fulls, knowing that I can burn off the fat (which should be left on in true Tennessee fashion) another day. Sitting down to a nice college football game makes this meal all the more scrumptious.

It is sad to know that Thanksgiving and Christmas do not stay, knowing that family (and food) are fairly seasonal. However, when we polish off the last bit of goodness left behind, we know that the next equivalent to that meal only some 360 days away, give or take a few. Patience is what keeps us going, and we know that we can make it another year. After all, these wonderfully wafting wanton desires would grow old if we ate them every day; we can’t have their luster turn to peanut-butter and jelly, right?

Why I Have Resorted to Limiting My Own Thought Processes

I have been told that my “blogs” (so trendy) are too long. So, I will be resorting to more limited (both in length and in content) entries. Rather than bore everyone with continual ramblings (which is what my blog is about anyway), I would much rather heed the warnings of others, and limit the amount of space I am taking up.

You may ask, “Dave, are you being sarcastic?”

No, not at all…

Another person had mentioned that this blog was not what he expected. How unfortunate that I cannot live up to the dreams and demands of that pill-pusher. I truly regret that my entry does not make you giggle under your breath while you read it at work. How dissapointing it must be that you cannot find more humor in my musings.

All in all, I don’t mind the constructive criticism of my own creative liberites. I think it’s great…just like Communist Russia.

The Family Clock

Family visits are something to relish: what’s new? What’s happening? Who has been doing well in life? Who has been sucking it up? Conversational topics such as those are what we as a family indulge ourselves with. Sometimes it can be rough, though, being with these people that you so hastily and desperately tried to emancipate yourself from.  

Don’t get me wrong; I like my family. I enjoy the times that we have together. I enjoy gathering around the dinner table to eat some of Mom’s famous cookies (that should read something else, but yes, we all gather ’round to eat cookies – every activity is somehow centered around a meal) while we play cards and discuss the latest in small-town gossip and reminisce about the good ‘ol days. Those times are fun, don’t get me wrong. My parents are great folks, lovely entertainers. The house has good curb appeal, the landscaping is homey and simple (some might say lacking), and the nostalgia is truly palpable in the air (sometimes the tension is, too). Siblings enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company, leering at each other and pushing each other’s buttons just to enough to realize that they really do love one another. Yes, Martin family home visits/interrogations are what make life worth living.

It would all be perfect it is wasn’t for that stupid grandfather clock that sits in the entryway.

For years, that clock has been chiming its gears off, counting the minutes, ticking at inconclusive and arrhythmic moments, dinging on the hour, on the half, and at either quarter. The house ambiance seemed to center around that clock and what events were occurring: where we going somewhere at 10 after? Was someone expected at a quarter ’til? Would dad lay his big, gnarled hand on your rear at a half past because you backtalked, forcing tears like a leaky faucet? Who knew. For all intents and purposes, that clock was the driving force behind everything that went on in that house. Forget Mom and Dad, forget relationships, forget family gatherings or sneaking into the workshop to try and sniff some ammonia to kill the thoughts of algebra. Put all that aside for now. There was a time when that clock ruled the household. And no one knew it. Except for me.

I wanted to put my fist through the glass cabinet door every time I walked by that thing. Why would I do that, you ask? Numerous reasons come to mind, but the crux of that attitude rests in the fact that the clock (I feel the need to name it – Clocky), Clocky, would beckon me, all day, everyday. I heard the faint ticks while I was in my bedroom trying to sleep, even with the door closed; I listened to it when I got home from school as I went down the hall to start on my homework; it rang out when I was alone at home. It was a force ever-calling, ever-crying, always singing it’s tune of incessant moment-keeping and time-telling.

It spoke to me, on more than one occasion.

Believe it or not, Clocky would tell me things. Things that were told to the tune of the tick, things that were marked to the movement of the motion. Yes, Clocky informed me of plans, of goings on in the home, with the family members. I was scared at first – but then I began to listen to the faint cry of Clocky’s words.

Don’t be panicked: I was never told to kill anyone or anything like that. I simply learned to listen to Clocky and what he had to say about life, the day, the night, stories he had to tell, etcetra, etcetra. Clocky and I developed a bond, a relationship to the point that i would come to expect a series of notes sent specifically to me for a certain reason. Information was just that – information. There was no other reason to have the clock speak to me than for information’s sake.

The I grew older. I couldn’t speak to the clock (clock-talk, I called it) to get information. I had to begin developing a more normal sense of cognition as I grew up, and I couldn’t allow myself the pain of trying to maintain a relationship with an inanimate object. Besides, I had reasoned one evening as Clocky was calling out to me in deep sways and chimes, I have other friends, people I can talk to.

I didn’t realize how I would go about severing the tie. But when I cut the cord, I cut it with a dull spoon, spit in its face, throw it on the ground, step on it, degrade it by calling it some names, and then get people to take pictures of the events. The I leave. all that to say, cutting the cord means exactly that. So what did I do? I told Clocky to get a life, to stop chiming like an idiot, to grow up. I told him off. There were times when I would stand in front of him, staring at the decorative instruments, giving looks that would need no explanation of intention. Looks that said “stop trying to talk to me,” and “if I could, I would throw a rock at you right now.” But the clock continued to talk.

By this time I had left for college, and clock-talk was the last thing on my mind. I had found myself amidst a new group of friends, people who had self-actualized and developed a moral sense of self. I was moving toward that, I wanted that. I was slowly developing those things. But every time I went home, that clock would try to talk to me again. He would sya “welcome home, my little friend! I hope you haven’t forgotten me, as I have not forgotten you. Would you like to speak with me?” Clocky continued in his incessant monologue, trying to get me to talk to him. But I couldn’t; I had severed the ties, and I had to remember that. Instead of bowing to the incessant requests, I needed to continue my self-actualization process and move on.

Needless to say, I got through those nights just fine. But I do regret how I decided to move on from the clock. Rather than be a jerk about it, could I have asked nicely to have the clock stop talking to me? Would it have made a difference? I like to think that it wouldn’t, and that I did exactly what was necessary. But sometimes I can’t help but feel bad about my words. I know that someday, I will be able to enter a stage of near delirium and start hearing Clocky again, but possibly in a different form. When I am old and living in an assisted living facility, I will hear the unmistakable tick of not only my good friend Clocky, but of death, in the form of Grim with a scythe.

 Ahh…

Thoughts on Mental Health

So many thoughts come flooding into my temporal lobes for this post…

 I try to present myself as a clinician who is genuinely concerned with providing assistance to clients, even if I have never met them before. What strikes me as odd is the statement “I’ve never met you, so I really don’t have anything to say to you,” followed by 20 minutes of history, complaining, griping, whining, bickering, solution-seeking, etc. Call it what you will, I have more instances where a client states they will not share anything with me (either due to a lack of rapport or my age) and then they offer a dissertation of their needs, wants, fears, and desires. Needless to say, I am fairly puzzled by the behavior.

I know that establishing a therapeutic relationships takes time with a client; what differs is who the client and who the therapist is, and how they feel there is (or isn’t) a connection there. Moving forward may take the shape of a variety of ways, either in progressing through therapy for a number of years with little movement toward a model of rehabilitation, or may take as little as 6 visits to gain insight into a particular issue. However it pans out, there is almost always initial reticence to discuss things pertaining to the client’s situation.

Even more so is there an unwillingness to speak about these things with a person who you don’t know after you have established a  relationship with another therapist. It’s like a child who has grown accustomed to a specific baby-sitter: when mom and dad leave, even though it was a challenge in the beginning, they eventually grew used to that new person who would take care of them. There were a lot of trust issues, uncertainty about what would happen when their only source of tangible security walked out the door. After time, they learned to trust the baby-sitter. They felt that they could relax and at ease.

With the client-therapist situation, it’s very similar to that. In many ways, the client has just gotten over dealing with trust issues with the baby-sitter. All of a sudden, the original baby-sitter is gone, out sick, on vacation, or quitting, and the new baby-sitter comes in and tries to offer some kind of solution to any problems that may be coming up for the client. This is not really something that is easy for the client to do, and understandably: think back to when you were at that age of basic trust versus basic mistrust, and you had serious difficulty accepting people who you didn’t know. Would you have wanted those strangers to hold you? to coddle you? to try and provide comfort? Probably not.

What strikes me as odd in all of this, then, has to do with the sudden openness that is revealed regarding things. In what seems to be a complete 180 from their self-preserving standard, the client shares things with you; they let you in on secrets, things they know. My question in all of this is a resounding why. If there is willingness to come to that conclusion after five minutes of telling you off and letting you know they have little to share, where does the change come from?

I realize that my rambling can probably be absolved by a couple of sessions spent in a Treatment methods class, gaining an understanding of the client’s feelings about these things and how the therapist can help (or not). But what I find most perplexing is the argument that if a client is able to share things with a new person that they didn’t think they would be able to do, why then are we making the statement that it shows true progression, self-actualization, and insight, especially after 20-some years of “treatment”? Just because a client is able to open up about things and reveal some insider information does not mean that he or she has come to a point in treatment where they are “getting better.” I’m sure that it may allude to that, and with the proper treatment that may be the case. Let us therefore assess what “proper treatment” means.

Can we not say that the therapist is a big part of the client’s rehabilitation? Certainly, without their intervention, there would be little progression. I’m not arguing that only therapists can help people; I’m not even arguing that clients can’t come to know healing unless guided by a mental health professional. What I am saying is that clients who recognize the need for help will allow themselves to fall into the arms of a therapist and have them help begin the healing process. While this does not always automatically happen, it is certainly doable. And while it cannot be perfectly scripted, that is why we follow certain treatment models and modalities to give the best care to clients.

I am unfamiliar with many clients and their problems, due to one reason or another. Either they have a different therapist, or they are reclusive, or reticent to share things with anyone. But what I believe is that with the right attitude from the right person and given the right amount of time, a client will slowly open up and realize that any person can be a helper. Going back to the baby-sitter analogy, if a child has good relationships with their parents or other immediate caretakers, then they will only be anxious for a brief period of time when that new baby-sitter enters the room. Rather than stick tot he same baby-sitter, it may behoove parents to have a number of them on a list. In that way, the child will start to grow at ease with many people when their parents are gone.

In case you haven’t gotten it, the therapist (or the mental health realm) is like the babysitter. The clients are not always guaranteed a good life growing up; in fact, many people in the metal health system have had severely dysfunctional lives. And not to state that if we be the best therapists we can possibly imagine, all clients will become better and lead lives of production within the society. That may be a stretch. Rather, it would be more appropriate to state that the therapist has the power to lead the client into a direction of health and wellness.

I recognize that this post leaves so many doors open that there’s a strong gust through each of them, to the point where you almost can’t hear a person talk. I just wanted to get some ideas on the table…

First entries are always a littel nerve-wracking…

This is my first time writing anything on wordpress – on any blog, for that matter. I have never done anything like this before, and to be honest, it feels a little awkward.

 I was the kind of person who always disavowed the uses that Myspace had to offer. No, I don’t have a Myspace page, but in my haste I realize that it has its uses for the younger generation of thrill-seeking sex addicts looking to shack up and get it on. That’s fine; that’s their (your) thing. Keep doing what you do. Go for the gold.

I will simply dip my toe in the waters of web-wandering at my own leisure, testing, analyzing, and retesting before I plunge in like a fat kid at a pool party. I have nothing to gain by throwing caution to the wind and immersing myself in an electronic world. Chatting does not appeal to me, I hardly ever use my Yahoo! instant messenger. Why then, you may ask, have I decided to initiate a blog page? Blogging? For crying out loud, I don’t even care to read what I have written. Reading is really a challenge for me, and I can’t stand the thought of having to scroll through someone else’s nothingness. I guess what spurred me on to start a blog was the fact that I can write what I want to for those who are even remotely interested (family, mostly) without the danger of interactive dialogue, getting interrupted, you know, that stuff. I can be 100% dogmatic and not be challenged.

Unless, of course, the readers challenge me within their minds, in which case they have already won, and this blog means nothing to them, except an opportunity for them to brush up on their “false-argument” skills.