My psych teacher is a sensitive man, the kind that were popular in the 1970s. Like Alan Alda, only puffier.
A girl cried after class, after our bantering yet brutal discussion on sexual assualt. (She said later she was having post-traumatic stress!) Our teacher clutched her consolingly and muttered details on female genital mutilation in Africa and other travesties committed against "woman". Hear her roar!
I graciously apologized for whatever remarks in the discussion I made, not intending to elicit sobs. Surprised I could be interpreted as mysognist (?)
Abnormal psychology is pretty fun to study, crisscrossing with reality as it does.
Thursday I almost fell asleep, despite the morning adderall and fascinating subject matter. My blood barely flows as I Iisten to the droning lectures.
We were highlighting the vagaries of schizophrenia. My teacher telling of olfactory delusions, where people think they smell odors: blood or urine or feces or vomit.
The Rican stoner next to me chimes up, in earnest stoner-concern: "Man, this be a terrible disease! Everthing be smellin' like shit."
Dr. Marcus assured us olfactory delusions are quite rare. By far the most common delusions are command auditory hallucinations. Voices in your head telling you to do stuff! Or saying mean things to you!
I couldn't help thinking of little Linda Blair tied to the bed, spewing pea soup, "Fuck me, Jesus! Fuck me, Jesus!" This nostalgic memory brought a gentle smile to my face.
Dr. Marcus is sublime.
I hadn't planned on taking summer school, but at the end of last term, I said to him, "I'd really like to take you again." He said he's leaving our fine institution, annoyed at remaining only an adjunct professor. He said I could come to Abnormal Psych in the summer.
"It's already full," I told him.
"Just come the first day and I'll sign an override waiver."
So I did. It required a gruff man, the department head, approving. "Brandon's one of my best students and I don't mind the extra work," Dr. Marcus told him.
Still, the gruff man acted petulantly like it was an ordeal for him to sign a slip of paper. I smoothed his ruffled feathers, batted my eyelashes and scampered down to the registrar's office.
Class time can be a droswy, early-morning mutually brain-dead interlude. But we all seem to enjoy each other's company.
One morning Dr. Marcus came in wearily and said, "I need to stop gettin to sleep at 3am. Last night I went to the Pearl Jam concert, and sat in front of a celebrity. Guess who! I'll give you a hint...there's two of them..."
Somebody guessed it. "Uh, the Olsen twins?"
"Exactly. How did you know?" He said. He explained they were small in real life and surrounded by leggy fashion model-friends who towered above them. Dr. Marcus said he slouched over to the side, kindly not to block the view of Mary-Kate or Ashley.
"One of them's anorexic," somebody said, gossipily.
"Yea, Mary-Kate!" I chimed in, surprised this random fact lurked somewhere in my skull, suddenly accessible.
Dr. Marcus was concerned/intrigued by this development, being the sensitive male that he is.
