Thinking about my paper: So, clinical trials show that psychosis is exacerbated by marijuana use, but also that people who display schizophrenic symptoms naturally gravitate towards marijuana.
Perhaps, in its entirety, marijuana poses a risk to people that are already susceptible to schizophrenia. However, perhaps when it is broken into its constituent compounds, marijuana can be a useful remedy for these patients. For example, in one preliminary clinical trial, cannabidiol, which is posited as being responsible for weed's anxiety inducing effects, was found to treat schizophrenia as effectively as antipsychotics. The drug was devoid of THC, the active ingredient in marijuana, which is what imbues it with psychoactive properties.
Marijuana also has a wide range of effects that, given the neuroanatomy implicated in schizophrenic patients, might possess psychopharmacological potential when it is compartmental based on what properties of the plant are desired.
For example, cannabinoids have been shown to elicit anti-depressant behavior and activate serotonergic neurons through the medial prefrontal cortex. Additionally, several studies have indicated functional interactions between the cannabinoid and 5-HT (serotonin) systems in the brain. For example, the dorsal raphe, which is a significant source of serotonin in the forebrain, expresses the enzyme amide hydrolase, which catalyzes the inactivation of anandamide and 2-arachidonoylglycerol, the endogenous cannabinoid neurotransmitters that the brain naturally produces. Basically, anytime a neurotransmitter (chemical messenger) is present in the brain, they eventually need to be terminated by enzymes so that they aren't acting upon the brain for too long. So it is important to note that the same systems in the brain that mediate mood involve cannabinoids to come capacity-indeed, cannabinoid receptors are also abundantly expressed in the prefrontal cortex.
This is important because depression is a comorbid occurrence in many schizophrenic patients.
Studies have also suggested that marijuana can stimulate neurogenesis, or growth or new neurons, in the hippocampus. Not only is reduced hippocampal volume a common observation is depressed patients, but in one study, it was also bilaterally reduced in schizophrenic patients compared to controls.
Hence, marijuana, or at least some of its constituents, might be able to alleviate some of the symptoms experiences by a schizophrenic patient.s
Now, it has certainly been demonstrated that marijuana can worsen symptoms in this same population. But again, no conclusive statements can be made as to whether or not people with schizophrenia naturally gravitate towards marijuana, marijuana increases the onset of psychosis in people that are already vulnerable, or a combination of the two.
There is something to be said for vulnerability. Very few of us have an optimal genetic ancestry. Everyone's family history is riddled with dark spots. Specifically, a recent study isolates the NRG1 gene as a susceptibility gene for marijuana dependence. It is also found to be implicated in schizophrenia risk.
It is a correlation that requires further exploration. Currently, young people are taught to avoid marijuana like the plague due to the associated risk of developing schizophrenia. But as the evidence for any type of relationship remains correlation and also elucidates the role of prior susceptibility, advising every human being to stay far away from the drug is not practical. A recent statistical analysis that examined available data regarding cannabis users and schizophrenia found that it would be necessary to stop 2800 heavy cannabis users in young men and over 5000 heavy cannabis users in young women to prevent a single case of schizophrenia. Among light cannabis users, those numbers rise to over 10,000 young men and nearly 30,000 young women to prevent one case of schizophrenia.
Rather than condemning this mysterious and potent herb to scientific squalor, we must subject it to rigorous empirical study and be open to the idea that the connections between marijuana and psychosis, specifically schizophrenia, are not as simple as they may seem. Knowledge is power, and by perfecting pharmacodynamic parameters such as the ideal dosage and exactly how much exposure makes marijuana dangerous for these patients, we can increase the chances that this drug will be used in ways that are conducive to well being and while avoiding potential risks.
This, coupled with the fact that there aspects of the marijuana plant that demonstrate potential for therapeutic application for schizophrenic patients, demands that scientists investigate the matter further. Maximizing safety, reducing harm to vulnerable populations, and possibly improving the quality of life for the approximately 2.5 million Americans who suffer from this debilitating illness, makes the relationship between marijuana use and the schizophrenic brain worth studying.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Are we really born in the wrong body? A dissection of the language that defines the trans movement
As transgender related issues receive increasing amounts of media exposure, I encounter more and more criticism within the community about the use of generalizations such as, "S(he) felt that s(he) was trapped in the wrong body." Many trans* individuals feel offended by and uncomfortable with the dissemination of a narrative that focuses exclusively on the dominant conception of assigned sex rather than the fiercely personal sense of gender identity.
To an extent, I agree with these arguments. Indeed, the default statements that precede the appearance of transgender guests on daytime talk shows such as Oprah and The Tyra Banks Show demand a diluted and digestible rationale for transitioning that will not break the thin ice that is already being tread upon. They serve to remind us that acceptance is scant and thus, we must rapaciously consume the few bread crumbs that are thrown our way as a token of acceptance. In this manner, the media facilitates a trade-off between the indispensable dignity of an autonomous individual and reaping the privileges conferred by the masses when our story is more palatable to them.
As transgender writer and activist Janet Mock puts it, "Why don’t I like it? Because it places me in the role of victim, and to those who take mainstream media depictions as truth I’m seen as a human to be pitied because I’m someone who needs to be saved, rather than a self-determined woman with agency and choice and the ability to define who I am in this society and who I will become in spite of it."
That being said, I have major reservations about the implications of insinuating that transgender people are able to acquire the tools conducive to this agency of which Mock so highly speaks. To prime you for this discussion, consider an article that I read just a few days ago written by a lesbian woman who hesitates to introduce her long-term partner as "wife" to co-workers and friends, in spite of them having recently obtained a civil union. Although their relationship certainly resembles a marriage when framed in terms of level of commitment and devotion, the author feels that it would be a disservice to imply to others that she and her partner have been allotted more federal protections than the law really allows. Thus, she draws attention to the importance of using nomenclature that keeps things in perspective and does not undermine the nature of the injustices that marginalized communities continue to be subjected to.
I will never condemn a fellow member of the Trans Family for their views. Far from it-of all people, no one is more entitled to state an opinion regarding trans issues than a trans person. This is why I hold the stances of all trans people in the highest esteem, whether I agree with them or not.
That being said, I think that while Janet Mock means well, she is promulgating the Transgender Dream, a journey that is delineated with sidewalks paved in gold. The harsh reality is that for many people, the means for transitioning, even partially, continue to be unattainable.
Stark classism is evident in a community that is already disproportionately impacted by unemployment, poverty, and lack of familial and social support. Quite frankly, taking the initiative to live full-time as one's true gender costs a lot of fucking money. Really, the cost is astronomical.
First, you have to buy a whole new wardrobe. You are basically building a whole closet from scratch instead of purchasing a few articles here and there as old items become disposable. Then, depending on where you live and what health care providers are in your area, you have to invest in therapy for months in order to receive a diagnosis of gender identity disorder so that you can receive a letter of recommendation to go ahead and start the process. If you don't have health insurance, you are fucked.
I was incredibly lucky, for I just so happen to be able to get to Philadelphia by train, where the Mazzoni Center is located. Mazzoni is an LGBT health care and wellness center that operates on an informed consent model, which means that there is no requirement for a letter from a therapist or specific requirements about about how long you have to live as your true gender. And those letters can be expensive-I have one friend who paid $600 for a lousy piece of paper that granted him permission to make decisions about his own medical care. And depending on what part of the country one resides in, there might not even be any gender therapists located in the vicinity. Some trans people travel to other states just to attend weekly therapy sessions, which again costs a shit ton in gas money.
Then you have to pay for the doctor's visits so that you can receive a thorough examination and have a full blood panel done in order to ensure that your state of health is optimal before starting the transition. Again, if you don't have health insurance, you are fucked. There are bound to be several appointments, so there are more co-pays and travel costs, as well. Then you have to pay for the actual hormones themselves. With insurance, they can range anywhere from $50 to over $100 a month. People without insurance have to pay out of pocket. This is why some trans people resort to buying hormones off of the black market. They might also consider illicit means to attaining their goals if therapists deny their letter if they find out that their transgender client has a history of sexual abuse. Unfortunately, it is (erroneously) believed by some in the field that these experiences influence one's gender identity.
I cannot speak for trans women, for I am simply ill-informed about the surgical means that are available to them. What I do know is that chest reconstruction surgery for trans guys is anywhere from $7,000-$10,000, and a full-fledged phalloplasty can cost anywhere from $50,000-$150,000. And for most trans guys, the current limitations of medical technology do not even make it a viable or safe option.
There is the cost of changing one's legal name, which is around $300 after court fees. There are the various fees associated with updating one's driver's license, passport, and other government issued documents and forms of identification.
So...is the age old narrative of being "trapped in the wrong body" over-simplified? Certainly. But is it inaccurate? I am not so sure. Of course, I cannot speak for all trans people. We are as diverse as we are numerous and well dispersed throughout the population and among all walks of life. But I think it is safe to say that agency must be backed up by currency in order to have any real value. And until trans individuals are able to take the steps that are necessary for being recognized as who they really are, well...the body isn't exactly going to feel like an ample ecological preserve imbued with opportunity, open spaces, and life-affirming experiences.
Maybe it would be more accurate to say that we were born into a bloody liberation front.
To an extent, I agree with these arguments. Indeed, the default statements that precede the appearance of transgender guests on daytime talk shows such as Oprah and The Tyra Banks Show demand a diluted and digestible rationale for transitioning that will not break the thin ice that is already being tread upon. They serve to remind us that acceptance is scant and thus, we must rapaciously consume the few bread crumbs that are thrown our way as a token of acceptance. In this manner, the media facilitates a trade-off between the indispensable dignity of an autonomous individual and reaping the privileges conferred by the masses when our story is more palatable to them.
As transgender writer and activist Janet Mock puts it, "Why don’t I like it? Because it places me in the role of victim, and to those who take mainstream media depictions as truth I’m seen as a human to be pitied because I’m someone who needs to be saved, rather than a self-determined woman with agency and choice and the ability to define who I am in this society and who I will become in spite of it."
That being said, I have major reservations about the implications of insinuating that transgender people are able to acquire the tools conducive to this agency of which Mock so highly speaks. To prime you for this discussion, consider an article that I read just a few days ago written by a lesbian woman who hesitates to introduce her long-term partner as "wife" to co-workers and friends, in spite of them having recently obtained a civil union. Although their relationship certainly resembles a marriage when framed in terms of level of commitment and devotion, the author feels that it would be a disservice to imply to others that she and her partner have been allotted more federal protections than the law really allows. Thus, she draws attention to the importance of using nomenclature that keeps things in perspective and does not undermine the nature of the injustices that marginalized communities continue to be subjected to.
I will never condemn a fellow member of the Trans Family for their views. Far from it-of all people, no one is more entitled to state an opinion regarding trans issues than a trans person. This is why I hold the stances of all trans people in the highest esteem, whether I agree with them or not.
That being said, I think that while Janet Mock means well, she is promulgating the Transgender Dream, a journey that is delineated with sidewalks paved in gold. The harsh reality is that for many people, the means for transitioning, even partially, continue to be unattainable.
Stark classism is evident in a community that is already disproportionately impacted by unemployment, poverty, and lack of familial and social support. Quite frankly, taking the initiative to live full-time as one's true gender costs a lot of fucking money. Really, the cost is astronomical.
First, you have to buy a whole new wardrobe. You are basically building a whole closet from scratch instead of purchasing a few articles here and there as old items become disposable. Then, depending on where you live and what health care providers are in your area, you have to invest in therapy for months in order to receive a diagnosis of gender identity disorder so that you can receive a letter of recommendation to go ahead and start the process. If you don't have health insurance, you are fucked.
I was incredibly lucky, for I just so happen to be able to get to Philadelphia by train, where the Mazzoni Center is located. Mazzoni is an LGBT health care and wellness center that operates on an informed consent model, which means that there is no requirement for a letter from a therapist or specific requirements about about how long you have to live as your true gender. And those letters can be expensive-I have one friend who paid $600 for a lousy piece of paper that granted him permission to make decisions about his own medical care. And depending on what part of the country one resides in, there might not even be any gender therapists located in the vicinity. Some trans people travel to other states just to attend weekly therapy sessions, which again costs a shit ton in gas money.
Then you have to pay for the doctor's visits so that you can receive a thorough examination and have a full blood panel done in order to ensure that your state of health is optimal before starting the transition. Again, if you don't have health insurance, you are fucked. There are bound to be several appointments, so there are more co-pays and travel costs, as well. Then you have to pay for the actual hormones themselves. With insurance, they can range anywhere from $50 to over $100 a month. People without insurance have to pay out of pocket. This is why some trans people resort to buying hormones off of the black market. They might also consider illicit means to attaining their goals if therapists deny their letter if they find out that their transgender client has a history of sexual abuse. Unfortunately, it is (erroneously) believed by some in the field that these experiences influence one's gender identity.
I cannot speak for trans women, for I am simply ill-informed about the surgical means that are available to them. What I do know is that chest reconstruction surgery for trans guys is anywhere from $7,000-$10,000, and a full-fledged phalloplasty can cost anywhere from $50,000-$150,000. And for most trans guys, the current limitations of medical technology do not even make it a viable or safe option.
There is the cost of changing one's legal name, which is around $300 after court fees. There are the various fees associated with updating one's driver's license, passport, and other government issued documents and forms of identification.
So...is the age old narrative of being "trapped in the wrong body" over-simplified? Certainly. But is it inaccurate? I am not so sure. Of course, I cannot speak for all trans people. We are as diverse as we are numerous and well dispersed throughout the population and among all walks of life. But I think it is safe to say that agency must be backed up by currency in order to have any real value. And until trans individuals are able to take the steps that are necessary for being recognized as who they really are, well...the body isn't exactly going to feel like an ample ecological preserve imbued with opportunity, open spaces, and life-affirming experiences.
Maybe it would be more accurate to say that we were born into a bloody liberation front.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
What It's Like To Be Home And Trans
Kurt Vonnegut once said, "Pictures are known not for their pictureness, but for their humanness."
The same can be said of mirrors. What I would give to see myself as a potential contender for the Fairest, a resident of the land instead of this amnesic state. I have forgotten all too quickly the coordinates of the embassy that we carry inside of us as an indication that second class citizens are not exceptions to humankind-they are inexcusable.
This happens every time I come home after being away for several months. I forget what I have learned at Rutgers about self-love until I am looking upon myself with the unaccustomed eyes of a layperson. The mirror occurs and I am affronted by a face made of fingerprints-no one has ever seen anything like it before and no one ever will again.
The formal term is freak.
My mother is my mirror-a hybrid of blank slate, acclimation, and ugliness. Her disapproving glare is like lightning that splits everything around it into a before and an after, into a dark past and an endless attempt at reconciliation. Whatever signs of long overdue acceptance she displays when I first arrive home are imbued with brevity, the kind that makes a bride last for but a day. Love of a child is not enough to impel her to enter the inverted world that hovers above a puddle, to liquidate her highly coveted way of viewing the world, to convert her contempt into its antithesis, to be a mother instead of an oxidizing agent adding fuel to a fire.
As we are driving in the car on the way to my grandfather's house, she says, as a way of holding my minor infractions against me, "You think I'm going to treat you like a boy? You have another thing coming." This comment takes me aback, as she has been referring to me as “Jordan” for days and making legitimate attempts to correct herself when she uses the wrong pronoun.
At my grandpa's house, she thinks nothing of having an open and frank conversation about my body parts and medical care related to my transition not only in my presence, but without my permission and as if I am not in the room.
The burden is on me to remove my person rather than on her to avert her gaze. This is because she is the primary source of perception and I am the reflection on the surface.
Mirror that she is, she makes my most salient feature my comorbidity, until layer after layer of flaws are wrapped around me like a cobra. She cuts off my circulation with the hysterical stridency that she uses to string together insults. Her esophagus has the wing span of a gargoyle as she screams obscenities so loudly that I can hear them through the front door of the house and from halfway down the driveway.
I understand now what it means to be a source of shame, a plague that has descended upon the family and defied their expectations of what it would be like to raise a child. I must bear the dishonor of waking up one day and realizing that I am loved in spite of who I am rather than because of it. When my parents speak of their child's accomplishments, it will be with affection that is soft and fuzzy, diluted by the anesthetic that dishonor draws up. As a drunk mind speaks sober thoughts, my mother in her endless slew of angry moments participates in the form of Truth. Her sentiments are distilled in a stream of consciousness, ostensibly unedited-and that is why I trust them, sadly.
But I must choose to be uncensored, too. It would be easy to go through life surviving, to be moderate, to speak in morse code, to reiterate what she says to me in a manner that is simple and to the point. It would be easy to communicate with enough marks to recreate the moment, and nothing more, to be detached and do only what I need to get by.
Instead, I must relearn the language that has been handed down to me. But being self taught requires enduring the turbulence associated with taking back the words that have been used to demean you. The reclamatory sense is more heightened than that of sight or sound. It is painful and amplified, but that is why our experiences can be used to create an even better masterpiece than can paint and pencils and instruments alone.
As Jean Paul Sartre would say, "Suffering is justified as soon as it becomes the raw material of beauty.." It is not easy to take a pastel to the precipitation and describe in every detail this vicious, relentless struggle with the pretty terminology that we use to classify the rain cycle, and yet we must. For although it is inexorable that the storms and the preceding calms we allude to will make cynics out of us, at least through the effort to allude at all can sorrow manifest itself as something that is more than a coincidence.
And so, I vow to paint pictures that are more than pictures. When I speak, it will not be for aesthetic purposes. When I speak, it will be my way of suing for all of the lost time due to transphobic comments and the disparaging parts of speech that she utters on a daily basis. It will be for, not eviscerating the bond between mother and child, but avenging the fact that it has to be there at all. My accounts will be full of eidetic imagery but also novel meaning that wasn't initially there. It is time to take back what is mine.
She should be the one living vicariously through me, but it is actually the other way around. It is I who is living through her. I see myself as she sees me, as her friends and colleagues must see me, as her family members must learn to. I understand what it is like to be them. It is the type of person that I was before I grew up and learned to think for myself, when ideas were handed down to me with antecedents and sacrifices made on my behalf.
It is like childhood, the lives that she and people like her lead. They are innocent and that is why they are troublemakers. Their ideals are less damaging than mine, less threatening to the stability of the world as we know it, while I disrupt the balance between all beings like ideas that were first espoused in the 1800's and the world hasn't been the same since. I am the hair that is let down, the corsets that are loosened, and the morals that follow suit. I am the bathtub gin that launched a thousand court dates. I am the conscientious objectors and the interracial couples. I am everything that was once an abomination. But always, always am I on the desirable side of the bell curve.
I have no need to do anything spectacular with my life. My only aim is to see something I can be proud of when I look into a mirror-when I look into my mother's eyes.
But this doesn't require winning her approval. What it means is that I can use her criticism constructively. I do not have to elicit her praise when I can use her as a source of inspiration instead. Her failed attempt at parenthood will be the victory that I gain on behalf of an entire community. It is in this manner that my appearance will no longer be an aberration. In fact, it might even be beautiful.
It is not an accident that portraits are one of the most popular forms of art, and that after that comes depictions of war. It is as if the capacity for violence is associated with looking at ourselves.
"Pictures are known not for their pictureness, but for their humanness."
So is hell.
The same can be said of mirrors. What I would give to see myself as a potential contender for the Fairest, a resident of the land instead of this amnesic state. I have forgotten all too quickly the coordinates of the embassy that we carry inside of us as an indication that second class citizens are not exceptions to humankind-they are inexcusable.
This happens every time I come home after being away for several months. I forget what I have learned at Rutgers about self-love until I am looking upon myself with the unaccustomed eyes of a layperson. The mirror occurs and I am affronted by a face made of fingerprints-no one has ever seen anything like it before and no one ever will again.
The formal term is freak.
My mother is my mirror-a hybrid of blank slate, acclimation, and ugliness. Her disapproving glare is like lightning that splits everything around it into a before and an after, into a dark past and an endless attempt at reconciliation. Whatever signs of long overdue acceptance she displays when I first arrive home are imbued with brevity, the kind that makes a bride last for but a day. Love of a child is not enough to impel her to enter the inverted world that hovers above a puddle, to liquidate her highly coveted way of viewing the world, to convert her contempt into its antithesis, to be a mother instead of an oxidizing agent adding fuel to a fire.
As we are driving in the car on the way to my grandfather's house, she says, as a way of holding my minor infractions against me, "You think I'm going to treat you like a boy? You have another thing coming." This comment takes me aback, as she has been referring to me as “Jordan” for days and making legitimate attempts to correct herself when she uses the wrong pronoun.
At my grandpa's house, she thinks nothing of having an open and frank conversation about my body parts and medical care related to my transition not only in my presence, but without my permission and as if I am not in the room.
The burden is on me to remove my person rather than on her to avert her gaze. This is because she is the primary source of perception and I am the reflection on the surface.
Mirror that she is, she makes my most salient feature my comorbidity, until layer after layer of flaws are wrapped around me like a cobra. She cuts off my circulation with the hysterical stridency that she uses to string together insults. Her esophagus has the wing span of a gargoyle as she screams obscenities so loudly that I can hear them through the front door of the house and from halfway down the driveway.
I understand now what it means to be a source of shame, a plague that has descended upon the family and defied their expectations of what it would be like to raise a child. I must bear the dishonor of waking up one day and realizing that I am loved in spite of who I am rather than because of it. When my parents speak of their child's accomplishments, it will be with affection that is soft and fuzzy, diluted by the anesthetic that dishonor draws up. As a drunk mind speaks sober thoughts, my mother in her endless slew of angry moments participates in the form of Truth. Her sentiments are distilled in a stream of consciousness, ostensibly unedited-and that is why I trust them, sadly.
But I must choose to be uncensored, too. It would be easy to go through life surviving, to be moderate, to speak in morse code, to reiterate what she says to me in a manner that is simple and to the point. It would be easy to communicate with enough marks to recreate the moment, and nothing more, to be detached and do only what I need to get by.
Instead, I must relearn the language that has been handed down to me. But being self taught requires enduring the turbulence associated with taking back the words that have been used to demean you. The reclamatory sense is more heightened than that of sight or sound. It is painful and amplified, but that is why our experiences can be used to create an even better masterpiece than can paint and pencils and instruments alone.
As Jean Paul Sartre would say, "Suffering is justified as soon as it becomes the raw material of beauty.." It is not easy to take a pastel to the precipitation and describe in every detail this vicious, relentless struggle with the pretty terminology that we use to classify the rain cycle, and yet we must. For although it is inexorable that the storms and the preceding calms we allude to will make cynics out of us, at least through the effort to allude at all can sorrow manifest itself as something that is more than a coincidence.
And so, I vow to paint pictures that are more than pictures. When I speak, it will not be for aesthetic purposes. When I speak, it will be my way of suing for all of the lost time due to transphobic comments and the disparaging parts of speech that she utters on a daily basis. It will be for, not eviscerating the bond between mother and child, but avenging the fact that it has to be there at all. My accounts will be full of eidetic imagery but also novel meaning that wasn't initially there. It is time to take back what is mine.
She should be the one living vicariously through me, but it is actually the other way around. It is I who is living through her. I see myself as she sees me, as her friends and colleagues must see me, as her family members must learn to. I understand what it is like to be them. It is the type of person that I was before I grew up and learned to think for myself, when ideas were handed down to me with antecedents and sacrifices made on my behalf.
It is like childhood, the lives that she and people like her lead. They are innocent and that is why they are troublemakers. Their ideals are less damaging than mine, less threatening to the stability of the world as we know it, while I disrupt the balance between all beings like ideas that were first espoused in the 1800's and the world hasn't been the same since. I am the hair that is let down, the corsets that are loosened, and the morals that follow suit. I am the bathtub gin that launched a thousand court dates. I am the conscientious objectors and the interracial couples. I am everything that was once an abomination. But always, always am I on the desirable side of the bell curve.
I have no need to do anything spectacular with my life. My only aim is to see something I can be proud of when I look into a mirror-when I look into my mother's eyes.
But this doesn't require winning her approval. What it means is that I can use her criticism constructively. I do not have to elicit her praise when I can use her as a source of inspiration instead. Her failed attempt at parenthood will be the victory that I gain on behalf of an entire community. It is in this manner that my appearance will no longer be an aberration. In fact, it might even be beautiful.
It is not an accident that portraits are one of the most popular forms of art, and that after that comes depictions of war. It is as if the capacity for violence is associated with looking at ourselves.
"Pictures are known not for their pictureness, but for their humanness."
So is hell.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Will The Real OCD, Please Stand Up?
Our vernacular conception of obsessive compulsive disorder is disgustingly divorced from the formal DSM-IV criteria. Lay people have somehow managed to reduce the archetypal OCD sufferer to a hygiene freak whose preoccupation with preventing contamination is a mere embellishment of Western society's increasingly meticulous sanitary movement.
This stereotypical portrayal of OCD diminishes it to a desire for sterility. Nothing could be further from the truth. OCD is not synonymous with germ phobia in any way, shape, or form. Furthermore, this behaviorist approach, which singles out merely one of myriad compulsions that may be presented, illustrates OCD as an overly simplified stimulus-response relationship that is exhibited when the individual encounters a manifestation of the universe that does not resonate with his or her immaculate expectations. This representation of OCD completely ignores the profound internal mental events that define the disorder.
What I find disconcerting is that even the DSM-IV criteria does not, in my opinion, accurately depict what constitutes a case of severe OCD. It is due to this very reason that it took me seven years to figure out just what the fuck was wrong with me, in spite of having consumed a deluge of empirical and anecdotal literature regarding psychopathology, receiving an associate's degree in psychology, seeing four therapists, and possessing the vast wealth of knowledge concerning the symptomatology, behavioral markers, and biological etiology of mental illnesses that are conducive to keen diagnostic skills. However, even the OCD inventories that are generated by mainstream psychological organizations do not even begin to capture the complexity and hallmark features of OCD, especially in its more severe forms. Consequently, the diagnosis evaded me for years.
Hence, I am going to propose a new way of understanding OCD. It involves acknowledging the remarkable amount of commonality between OCD and schizophrenia. "Although OCD and schizophrenia are distinct diagnostic entities, there is considerable overlap between the two disorders in terms of clinical characteristics, brain areas that are affected and pharmacotherapy" (Price, 2005). Indeed, the co-morbidity between schizophrenia and OCD is high. Studies have directly compared their clinical features. In fact, clinicians are frequently hindered by the difficulty in differentiating between the two.
While more enlightened sources devote a considerable amount of time to further addressing the psychotic component of OCD, most general clinicians don't even come close to tapping the surface of what OCD is really about. I firmly believe that if we analyze OCD in conjunction with its close cousin, schizophrenia, we can elucidate an essential understanding of the suffering endured by people with the disorder that would otherwise be impenetrable. My aim is to elicit compassion and support for people whose struggle is compounded by the trivialization and ignorant attitudes that undermine the disorder known as OCD.
Let us proceed with the comparison.
At the heart of the two disorders lies a gargantuan disturbance of thought. In the case of schizophrenia, this disturbance is often marked by the improper sensory perception that is characteristic of hallucinations, including (but not limited to) auditory and visual distortions. However, in the case of OCD, it is not incorrect information about the external world that is being imposed upon the sufferer. Rather, the individual is beleaguered by recurrent and relentless intrusive thoughts that materialize of their own accord, injected by a foreign jurisdiction rather than having been conjured up by one's conscious volition.
These internal mental events arise spontaneously, like pop-up ads, and are completely unresponsive to suppression efforts. Agency is usurped entirely-while you are at it, suspend the idea of agency entirely- as the individual is forced to share a space in his or her head with a volcano that erupts content of a disturbing and bizarre nature. It is as though a presence has been implanted in one's skull, and the intensity with which this presence asserts itself warrants the status of personhood. Think of the movie Inception, when the character played by Leonardo DiCaprio literally plants an idea in his wife's head, and the consequences of its germination are entirely out of her control. These thoughts serve the foundation for beliefs that, though they are false, are tenaciously held and against all resistance to modify them.
In an individual with schizophrenia, these unshakable beliefs are called "delusions." In an individual with OCD, they are called "obsessions." The nomenclature might differ, but both are characterized by a deeply held conviction that does not have a basis in reality.
The crucial distinction between the presentation of delusions in an individual with OCD and an individual with schizophrenia is that the OCD sufferer exhibits a degree of insight into the validity of their beliefs. That is, he or she is aware that their version of reality is twisted and warped. This lucidity adds an additional layer of horror as mutilated mental processes unfold. One reality is not being substituted for another. Rather, one reality is being supplemented by another. The individual's mind is superimposed by a lens that adds an additional element and another shade of meaning to one's existence.
In the grips of stress, this introspective advantage is lost, and the OCD sufferer operates, on an emotional level, as if they are absolutely convinced that their delusions are derived from a credible source. Hence, during these moments, the veil between firm ground and fantasy adopts a transparency that, for all intents and purposes, imbues falsehood with fact. For the time being, the delusions might as well be true.
The presentation of OCD and schizophrenia share a cognitive appraisal of the external world that has no basis in reality, and this appraisal is accompanied by persecutory themes and emotional components such as intense paranoia. Hallucinations are absent from OCD. Hence, the convergence lies in the misinterpretation of other peoples' intentions, as opposed to the insertion of erroneous sensory phenomena. It is almost analogous to intercepting and subsequently damaging the delicate genetic code that comprises DNA before it can be translated into the amino acids that serve as our biological framework. The entire meaning can become demented not by adding anything new, but by altering in some way what is already there. During severe episodes, namely ones exacerbated by stress and the deprivation of basic biological needs such as sleep, the OCD sufferer can experience episodes of paranoia that resemble a marijuana induced high in which the smoker "bugs out" and lapses into psychosis.
The individual with OCD is convinced that everyone is out to get them. For example, the obscure whispering of complete strangers across a room might be interpreted as negative commentary about the individual, tainted with a malice so incessant that it interferes with any and all attempts to supersede it. A crowded dining hall might prompt a magnetism that directs the eyes of everyone in the entire arena towards the individual. Casual glances of acknowledgement as people enter each others' realm of vision are converted into harsh glares and stares laden with daggers. A public space filled with random bouts of laughter is transformed into an orchestrated effort to destroy the individual with taunts.
The emphasis here should be placed on the judgement of others as it pertains to the individual, precisely because it pertains to the individual. This mindset arises not out of narcissism, but due to a deeply rooted self-directed enmity that results in an affinity for incorporating every surrounding stimuli, no matter how irrelevant, into a grand scheme to achieve self-deprecation at every turn.
Next, we will consider the OCD obsessions that are concerned with classic self-loathing. Again, keep in mind that the OCD sufferer is sharing a space in his or her head with a vicious presence that feeds him or her bellicose criticism all day long regarding every detail of their existence, and that the mercilessness with which this presence asserts itself is equivalent to a draconian, drug induced commander. To the OCD sufferer, every aspect of the self becomes a source of vicious scrutiny. One's gait might be perceived as incredibly stupid. The angle at which one moves his or her arm is a monstrosity. The inflection of one's voice mid-sentence makes one deserving of an execution. Like a topographical map, every perceived slight becomes an additional layer of imperfection, until the intellect of the OCD sufferer has constructed an atmosphere pervaded by inadequacy.
Sometimes, obsessions take the form of repetitive and morbid images. These extremely distressing and disturbing images, often involving themes of death, violence, and suicide, are completely unwarranted and erupt without the slightest provocation. While most people entertain dark notions from time to time, in the case of OCD, these obsessions can occur thousands of times a day. Additionally, it should be noted that these thoughts are entirely unwanted. To the OCD sufferer, it feels as though the spatter of a malevolent artery has extravasated into the compartment of the body that harbors their character. They mistakenly conclude that they have gruesome personalities. They take responsibility for their intrusive thoughts, an impossible feat for a human being, and grow terrified when they try to attribute meaning to these unwanted appearances.
It is worth clarifying that these images are not hallucinations. Rather, the OCD sufferer is forced to confront scenario after scenario in which the darkest elements of human existence are considered as a not so distant possibility. The vicious presence mentioned before taps into the primordial depths of one's deepest fears and exploits them.
Most importantly, it must be noted that the overwhelming majority of those afflicted by these thoughts, while terrified that their true desires are being represented, are so deeply disconcerted by these shocking images precisely because their disposition directly opposes that which is being presented to them. Indeed, the overwhelming majority of people with OCD never inflict acts of violence upon others. Quite the contrary, the afflicted individual often retreats into isolation and secrecy, a perpetuating behavior that further plunges him or her into a steepened state of despair.
Again, the emphasis should be placed on the prevalence of these thought processes. OCD is as debilitating as it is due to its exhausting stamina. Dozens of these thoughts are fired per second so that it is impossible for the individual to experience any semblance of respite. During a severe episode, these thoughts can cycle rapidly, as often as every second of every day. Additionally, it is important to note that the language used by this negative presence is ruthless, unforgivable, and asserts itself in no uncertain terms. The constant state of autonomic arousal that ensues in response to this intensity escalates into panic attacks, as the OCD sufferer is plagued by the calamitous effects of extreme anxiety. It is not uncommon for people with OCD to experience numerous panic attacks during any given week.
At this juncture, I would like to make an analogy that compares OCD and schizophrenia. I do this so that people with OCD might inherit some of the solicitousness that is reserved for those who suffer from a purely biological phenomenon. At this point, I think it is safe to assume that most (educated) people will not condescend to telling someone with schizophrenia, "Just don't think about it," or "Try your hardest not to let it bother you," or "You can ignore it if you really make an effort to do so." It would be silly to say any of these things to someone with schizophrenia. Neuroscientists, geneticists, and other relevant researchers have pinpointed a plethora of biological factors and neural circuits that are present in someone who is experiencing schizophrenia. It has been widely accepted in modern psychopathology that schizophrenia is a neurodegenerative disease, much like Alzheimer's.
Schizophrenia is the sole mental illness that has been observed across all cultures and during all points in history. This strongly suggests that schizophrenia is not influenced by social factors. Interestingly, reviewed studies from a diverse array of nationalities yields the insight that OCD also looks remarkably similar across cultures.
At the present time, I will not discuss the implications of an overactive orbital frontal cortex, abnormal brain cells in the basal ganglia, or insufficient levels of serotonin. Just take my word for it that OCD is biological as fuck.
The analogy that I would like to make alludes to the fact that the brain runs on electricity. Schizophrenia involves a total degeneration of the neural circuits that facilitate full blown visual and auditory disturbances. In the case of OCD, it might be useful to imagine a light bulb on a sign at a store that needs to be changed so that it flickers constantly, and every time it flickers on or off, images of death and irrational thoughts pop into the head, every second, all day, every day.
These obsessions, as they are described above, serve as the foundation for the emergence of compulsions, designated as such because they signify a mental mandate to behave a certain way, no matter how greatly this behavior may serve as an affront to the individual's conscious wishes. Compulsions emerge in an attempt to assuage the smothering din emanating from the obsessions, and because their function serves the purpose of dispelling potent fears and sources of disquietude, engaging in them is part of a contractual agreement. There is no backing out.
Compulsions are not habits. They are an army of addictions. Imagine not one alcoholic occurring within the same body, but countless alcoholics. A continent of alcoholics.
Compulsions can take many forms, and in some cases, one individual can exhibit dozens of them. Compulsions can mean having to breathe a certain way, such that the lungs expand the same width every time. Sentences might need to be read such that an equal allocation of time is devoted to every word. Sufferers might need to engage in activities for certain periods of time, if specific numbers have been deemed as "wrong" or "unsafe." For example, studying for a number of hours that does not end in a quarterly denomination can prompt an individual to believe that he or she is a failure in school. A person with OCD might need to check things, such as outlets, alarm clocks, and windows, as often as several dozen times. He or she may feel that surfaces touched with one hand need to be touched with the other while exerting the same amount of pressure delegated by the initial hand. Movements implemented on one side of the body may be met with the demand for exact replications of that same movement on the other side.
In some cases of OCD, self-injury develops in response to the need for symmetry and "balancing things out." Cutting and burning become motor outlets in addition to actions that signify self-loathing due to an inability to meet the incessant demands of one's mind. The very act of speaking can become a breeding ground for nervous breakdowns as the OCD sufferer scrupulously scans every possible vocabulary choice for imperfection and every potential word pairing for error until it becomes impossible to string together coherent sentences. To the OCD sufferer, it is better to remain silent than to utter a sound that can even remotely be construed as stupid.
Deviating from these irresistible rituals produces agonizing results. Violating the compulsory attendance statute devised by one's impossible expectations leads to utter despondency.
The interfering nature of compulsions with everyday activity and the associated anxiety and depression can lead to a total decomposition in functioning and prevent the OCD sufferer from meeting his or her basic needs, such as sleeping and eating.
The obsession-compulsion cycle takes place all day, every day. It does not cede itself to evenings, holidays, or second hands. It is unfolding during every wrinkle of time. Someone who has OCD may be consumed literally every second of their life by obsessions and compulsions. This is why OCD is one of the most incapacitating mental disorders, and is often met with treatment resistance.
So next time you go to make a joke about having OCD, please, refrain. Chances are, you don't actually have OCD, and your facetious remark is only serving to disconnect somebody who actually does.
This stereotypical portrayal of OCD diminishes it to a desire for sterility. Nothing could be further from the truth. OCD is not synonymous with germ phobia in any way, shape, or form. Furthermore, this behaviorist approach, which singles out merely one of myriad compulsions that may be presented, illustrates OCD as an overly simplified stimulus-response relationship that is exhibited when the individual encounters a manifestation of the universe that does not resonate with his or her immaculate expectations. This representation of OCD completely ignores the profound internal mental events that define the disorder.
What I find disconcerting is that even the DSM-IV criteria does not, in my opinion, accurately depict what constitutes a case of severe OCD. It is due to this very reason that it took me seven years to figure out just what the fuck was wrong with me, in spite of having consumed a deluge of empirical and anecdotal literature regarding psychopathology, receiving an associate's degree in psychology, seeing four therapists, and possessing the vast wealth of knowledge concerning the symptomatology, behavioral markers, and biological etiology of mental illnesses that are conducive to keen diagnostic skills. However, even the OCD inventories that are generated by mainstream psychological organizations do not even begin to capture the complexity and hallmark features of OCD, especially in its more severe forms. Consequently, the diagnosis evaded me for years.
Hence, I am going to propose a new way of understanding OCD. It involves acknowledging the remarkable amount of commonality between OCD and schizophrenia. "Although OCD and schizophrenia are distinct diagnostic entities, there is considerable overlap between the two disorders in terms of clinical characteristics, brain areas that are affected and pharmacotherapy" (Price, 2005). Indeed, the co-morbidity between schizophrenia and OCD is high. Studies have directly compared their clinical features. In fact, clinicians are frequently hindered by the difficulty in differentiating between the two.
While more enlightened sources devote a considerable amount of time to further addressing the psychotic component of OCD, most general clinicians don't even come close to tapping the surface of what OCD is really about. I firmly believe that if we analyze OCD in conjunction with its close cousin, schizophrenia, we can elucidate an essential understanding of the suffering endured by people with the disorder that would otherwise be impenetrable. My aim is to elicit compassion and support for people whose struggle is compounded by the trivialization and ignorant attitudes that undermine the disorder known as OCD.
Let us proceed with the comparison.
At the heart of the two disorders lies a gargantuan disturbance of thought. In the case of schizophrenia, this disturbance is often marked by the improper sensory perception that is characteristic of hallucinations, including (but not limited to) auditory and visual distortions. However, in the case of OCD, it is not incorrect information about the external world that is being imposed upon the sufferer. Rather, the individual is beleaguered by recurrent and relentless intrusive thoughts that materialize of their own accord, injected by a foreign jurisdiction rather than having been conjured up by one's conscious volition.
These internal mental events arise spontaneously, like pop-up ads, and are completely unresponsive to suppression efforts. Agency is usurped entirely-while you are at it, suspend the idea of agency entirely- as the individual is forced to share a space in his or her head with a volcano that erupts content of a disturbing and bizarre nature. It is as though a presence has been implanted in one's skull, and the intensity with which this presence asserts itself warrants the status of personhood. Think of the movie Inception, when the character played by Leonardo DiCaprio literally plants an idea in his wife's head, and the consequences of its germination are entirely out of her control. These thoughts serve the foundation for beliefs that, though they are false, are tenaciously held and against all resistance to modify them.
In an individual with schizophrenia, these unshakable beliefs are called "delusions." In an individual with OCD, they are called "obsessions." The nomenclature might differ, but both are characterized by a deeply held conviction that does not have a basis in reality.
The crucial distinction between the presentation of delusions in an individual with OCD and an individual with schizophrenia is that the OCD sufferer exhibits a degree of insight into the validity of their beliefs. That is, he or she is aware that their version of reality is twisted and warped. This lucidity adds an additional layer of horror as mutilated mental processes unfold. One reality is not being substituted for another. Rather, one reality is being supplemented by another. The individual's mind is superimposed by a lens that adds an additional element and another shade of meaning to one's existence.
In the grips of stress, this introspective advantage is lost, and the OCD sufferer operates, on an emotional level, as if they are absolutely convinced that their delusions are derived from a credible source. Hence, during these moments, the veil between firm ground and fantasy adopts a transparency that, for all intents and purposes, imbues falsehood with fact. For the time being, the delusions might as well be true.
The presentation of OCD and schizophrenia share a cognitive appraisal of the external world that has no basis in reality, and this appraisal is accompanied by persecutory themes and emotional components such as intense paranoia. Hallucinations are absent from OCD. Hence, the convergence lies in the misinterpretation of other peoples' intentions, as opposed to the insertion of erroneous sensory phenomena. It is almost analogous to intercepting and subsequently damaging the delicate genetic code that comprises DNA before it can be translated into the amino acids that serve as our biological framework. The entire meaning can become demented not by adding anything new, but by altering in some way what is already there. During severe episodes, namely ones exacerbated by stress and the deprivation of basic biological needs such as sleep, the OCD sufferer can experience episodes of paranoia that resemble a marijuana induced high in which the smoker "bugs out" and lapses into psychosis.
The individual with OCD is convinced that everyone is out to get them. For example, the obscure whispering of complete strangers across a room might be interpreted as negative commentary about the individual, tainted with a malice so incessant that it interferes with any and all attempts to supersede it. A crowded dining hall might prompt a magnetism that directs the eyes of everyone in the entire arena towards the individual. Casual glances of acknowledgement as people enter each others' realm of vision are converted into harsh glares and stares laden with daggers. A public space filled with random bouts of laughter is transformed into an orchestrated effort to destroy the individual with taunts.
The emphasis here should be placed on the judgement of others as it pertains to the individual, precisely because it pertains to the individual. This mindset arises not out of narcissism, but due to a deeply rooted self-directed enmity that results in an affinity for incorporating every surrounding stimuli, no matter how irrelevant, into a grand scheme to achieve self-deprecation at every turn.
Next, we will consider the OCD obsessions that are concerned with classic self-loathing. Again, keep in mind that the OCD sufferer is sharing a space in his or her head with a vicious presence that feeds him or her bellicose criticism all day long regarding every detail of their existence, and that the mercilessness with which this presence asserts itself is equivalent to a draconian, drug induced commander. To the OCD sufferer, every aspect of the self becomes a source of vicious scrutiny. One's gait might be perceived as incredibly stupid. The angle at which one moves his or her arm is a monstrosity. The inflection of one's voice mid-sentence makes one deserving of an execution. Like a topographical map, every perceived slight becomes an additional layer of imperfection, until the intellect of the OCD sufferer has constructed an atmosphere pervaded by inadequacy.
Sometimes, obsessions take the form of repetitive and morbid images. These extremely distressing and disturbing images, often involving themes of death, violence, and suicide, are completely unwarranted and erupt without the slightest provocation. While most people entertain dark notions from time to time, in the case of OCD, these obsessions can occur thousands of times a day. Additionally, it should be noted that these thoughts are entirely unwanted. To the OCD sufferer, it feels as though the spatter of a malevolent artery has extravasated into the compartment of the body that harbors their character. They mistakenly conclude that they have gruesome personalities. They take responsibility for their intrusive thoughts, an impossible feat for a human being, and grow terrified when they try to attribute meaning to these unwanted appearances.
It is worth clarifying that these images are not hallucinations. Rather, the OCD sufferer is forced to confront scenario after scenario in which the darkest elements of human existence are considered as a not so distant possibility. The vicious presence mentioned before taps into the primordial depths of one's deepest fears and exploits them.
Most importantly, it must be noted that the overwhelming majority of those afflicted by these thoughts, while terrified that their true desires are being represented, are so deeply disconcerted by these shocking images precisely because their disposition directly opposes that which is being presented to them. Indeed, the overwhelming majority of people with OCD never inflict acts of violence upon others. Quite the contrary, the afflicted individual often retreats into isolation and secrecy, a perpetuating behavior that further plunges him or her into a steepened state of despair.
Again, the emphasis should be placed on the prevalence of these thought processes. OCD is as debilitating as it is due to its exhausting stamina. Dozens of these thoughts are fired per second so that it is impossible for the individual to experience any semblance of respite. During a severe episode, these thoughts can cycle rapidly, as often as every second of every day. Additionally, it is important to note that the language used by this negative presence is ruthless, unforgivable, and asserts itself in no uncertain terms. The constant state of autonomic arousal that ensues in response to this intensity escalates into panic attacks, as the OCD sufferer is plagued by the calamitous effects of extreme anxiety. It is not uncommon for people with OCD to experience numerous panic attacks during any given week.
At this juncture, I would like to make an analogy that compares OCD and schizophrenia. I do this so that people with OCD might inherit some of the solicitousness that is reserved for those who suffer from a purely biological phenomenon. At this point, I think it is safe to assume that most (educated) people will not condescend to telling someone with schizophrenia, "Just don't think about it," or "Try your hardest not to let it bother you," or "You can ignore it if you really make an effort to do so." It would be silly to say any of these things to someone with schizophrenia. Neuroscientists, geneticists, and other relevant researchers have pinpointed a plethora of biological factors and neural circuits that are present in someone who is experiencing schizophrenia. It has been widely accepted in modern psychopathology that schizophrenia is a neurodegenerative disease, much like Alzheimer's.
Schizophrenia is the sole mental illness that has been observed across all cultures and during all points in history. This strongly suggests that schizophrenia is not influenced by social factors. Interestingly, reviewed studies from a diverse array of nationalities yields the insight that OCD also looks remarkably similar across cultures.
At the present time, I will not discuss the implications of an overactive orbital frontal cortex, abnormal brain cells in the basal ganglia, or insufficient levels of serotonin. Just take my word for it that OCD is biological as fuck.
The analogy that I would like to make alludes to the fact that the brain runs on electricity. Schizophrenia involves a total degeneration of the neural circuits that facilitate full blown visual and auditory disturbances. In the case of OCD, it might be useful to imagine a light bulb on a sign at a store that needs to be changed so that it flickers constantly, and every time it flickers on or off, images of death and irrational thoughts pop into the head, every second, all day, every day.
These obsessions, as they are described above, serve as the foundation for the emergence of compulsions, designated as such because they signify a mental mandate to behave a certain way, no matter how greatly this behavior may serve as an affront to the individual's conscious wishes. Compulsions emerge in an attempt to assuage the smothering din emanating from the obsessions, and because their function serves the purpose of dispelling potent fears and sources of disquietude, engaging in them is part of a contractual agreement. There is no backing out.
Compulsions are not habits. They are an army of addictions. Imagine not one alcoholic occurring within the same body, but countless alcoholics. A continent of alcoholics.
Compulsions can take many forms, and in some cases, one individual can exhibit dozens of them. Compulsions can mean having to breathe a certain way, such that the lungs expand the same width every time. Sentences might need to be read such that an equal allocation of time is devoted to every word. Sufferers might need to engage in activities for certain periods of time, if specific numbers have been deemed as "wrong" or "unsafe." For example, studying for a number of hours that does not end in a quarterly denomination can prompt an individual to believe that he or she is a failure in school. A person with OCD might need to check things, such as outlets, alarm clocks, and windows, as often as several dozen times. He or she may feel that surfaces touched with one hand need to be touched with the other while exerting the same amount of pressure delegated by the initial hand. Movements implemented on one side of the body may be met with the demand for exact replications of that same movement on the other side.
In some cases of OCD, self-injury develops in response to the need for symmetry and "balancing things out." Cutting and burning become motor outlets in addition to actions that signify self-loathing due to an inability to meet the incessant demands of one's mind. The very act of speaking can become a breeding ground for nervous breakdowns as the OCD sufferer scrupulously scans every possible vocabulary choice for imperfection and every potential word pairing for error until it becomes impossible to string together coherent sentences. To the OCD sufferer, it is better to remain silent than to utter a sound that can even remotely be construed as stupid.
Deviating from these irresistible rituals produces agonizing results. Violating the compulsory attendance statute devised by one's impossible expectations leads to utter despondency.
The interfering nature of compulsions with everyday activity and the associated anxiety and depression can lead to a total decomposition in functioning and prevent the OCD sufferer from meeting his or her basic needs, such as sleeping and eating.
The obsession-compulsion cycle takes place all day, every day. It does not cede itself to evenings, holidays, or second hands. It is unfolding during every wrinkle of time. Someone who has OCD may be consumed literally every second of their life by obsessions and compulsions. This is why OCD is one of the most incapacitating mental disorders, and is often met with treatment resistance.
So next time you go to make a joke about having OCD, please, refrain. Chances are, you don't actually have OCD, and your facetious remark is only serving to disconnect somebody who actually does.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Blindness and Homosexuality: What Can We Learn From This Fascinating Combination?
Today, my cognitive psychology teacher showed us a video about the phenomenon known as blindsight, or the ability of people who cannot consciously process visual information due to lesions in their primary visual cortex to respond to this stimulus, in spite of the fact that they cannot actually see it. Studies demonstrating the accuracy with which blind people can detect movement and discriminate amongst visual stimuli have yielded the insight that our behavior is guided by sensory information that is acquired without our explicit awareness.
How is it possible to perceive the world around us in spite of cortical blindness?
Human beings have two separate visual systems concerned with different aspects of vision. The first one allows us to "see." Its pathway involves more sophisticated and higher brain structures, such as the visual cortex. Within the context of an evolutionary timeline, this system has emerged relatively recently. The other system is phylogenetically ancient, and resides in the parts of the brain that we share with reptiles, rodents, birds, and other mammals. It relays information from the brain stem, a primitive structure native to all vertebrate. Reflexive behavior and directing eye movements are some functions of this older visual pathway.
Immediately, this video directed my thoughts to an internet article I encountered a year earlier that is authored by a blind man who also happens to be gay. I had conducted a Google search for "blind and gay" because I reasoned that the presence of gays in the blind community would largely refute the arguments that homosexuality is learned. After all, many of the models concerning observational learning, such as the one proposed by Albert Bandura, are primarily sight-oriented, and do not take into account how the visually impaired pick up on social cues and grow acclimated to gender roles.
I was fascinated, and still am, by the accounts of people who have been blind since birth and were aware of their same-sex attraction at an early age. Even with no conception of visual attraction, they report a romantic and sexual affinity for the voice and touch of members of the same sex. They develop an attraction towards one sex, but not the other.
One gay and blind man asserts that when he was as young as eight, he experienced strong feelings when hugging other boys that he did not experience when hugging other girls. By the time he attended college, he knew with certainty that he was gay, but was terrified of inquiring about the gay community due to the fear that the social difficulties he faced as a result of being blind would be compounded by an additional deviance from the "norm." (Those who maintain that being gay is a choice should seriously question why anyone who self-reports a significant amount of psychological distress due to an unfair social stigma would deliberately subject themselves to inheriting more animosity.)
As is the case with transgender individuals, we have another valuable, yet untapped, population, the empirical study of which contains the potential to fully understand the astonishingly rich enigma that is sexuality (and, in the case of the former, gender identity).
To what extent is the sexual and romantic experience of the visually impaired influenced by tactile sensation, sound, and the release of chemicals such as pheromones?
Is there a biological hardwiring or genetic predisposition to developing strong feelings of attraction for the same sex, and if this drive is innate, then does it require sensory cues, or is it merely amplified by them?
Are there differences in the incidence of homosexuality amongst people who are blind due to lesions in their primary visual cortex as opposed to people who have sustained damage in other parts of their brain, more specifically, the older visual system? Does this primitive visual system still detect distinctions between the motions and mannerisms of men and women?
The answers are right in front of us! The search for biological etiologies of homosexuality should include studies of people who are both blind and gay. There is so much insight to be generated! Why does this topic have such a scant presence in scientific literature?
How is it possible to perceive the world around us in spite of cortical blindness?
Human beings have two separate visual systems concerned with different aspects of vision. The first one allows us to "see." Its pathway involves more sophisticated and higher brain structures, such as the visual cortex. Within the context of an evolutionary timeline, this system has emerged relatively recently. The other system is phylogenetically ancient, and resides in the parts of the brain that we share with reptiles, rodents, birds, and other mammals. It relays information from the brain stem, a primitive structure native to all vertebrate. Reflexive behavior and directing eye movements are some functions of this older visual pathway.
Immediately, this video directed my thoughts to an internet article I encountered a year earlier that is authored by a blind man who also happens to be gay. I had conducted a Google search for "blind and gay" because I reasoned that the presence of gays in the blind community would largely refute the arguments that homosexuality is learned. After all, many of the models concerning observational learning, such as the one proposed by Albert Bandura, are primarily sight-oriented, and do not take into account how the visually impaired pick up on social cues and grow acclimated to gender roles.
I was fascinated, and still am, by the accounts of people who have been blind since birth and were aware of their same-sex attraction at an early age. Even with no conception of visual attraction, they report a romantic and sexual affinity for the voice and touch of members of the same sex. They develop an attraction towards one sex, but not the other.
One gay and blind man asserts that when he was as young as eight, he experienced strong feelings when hugging other boys that he did not experience when hugging other girls. By the time he attended college, he knew with certainty that he was gay, but was terrified of inquiring about the gay community due to the fear that the social difficulties he faced as a result of being blind would be compounded by an additional deviance from the "norm." (Those who maintain that being gay is a choice should seriously question why anyone who self-reports a significant amount of psychological distress due to an unfair social stigma would deliberately subject themselves to inheriting more animosity.)
As is the case with transgender individuals, we have another valuable, yet untapped, population, the empirical study of which contains the potential to fully understand the astonishingly rich enigma that is sexuality (and, in the case of the former, gender identity).
To what extent is the sexual and romantic experience of the visually impaired influenced by tactile sensation, sound, and the release of chemicals such as pheromones?
Is there a biological hardwiring or genetic predisposition to developing strong feelings of attraction for the same sex, and if this drive is innate, then does it require sensory cues, or is it merely amplified by them?
Are there differences in the incidence of homosexuality amongst people who are blind due to lesions in their primary visual cortex as opposed to people who have sustained damage in other parts of their brain, more specifically, the older visual system? Does this primitive visual system still detect distinctions between the motions and mannerisms of men and women?
The answers are right in front of us! The search for biological etiologies of homosexuality should include studies of people who are both blind and gay. There is so much insight to be generated! Why does this topic have such a scant presence in scientific literature?
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Being openly trans v. being stealth: the continuing debate
To what do I owe a continuing stake in a crusade that makes my own happiness less pertinent?
By what passion, what permanent interest, is the beloved observance of my formative experiences actuated?
How palpable is the public good that I should grow unduly attached to a cause that dispenses nothing but incomprehensibility in my presence?
How consistently must I assert these concepts that alienate me before my accrued rights sustain the injuries of my accrued debts?
When will the hours that I pour into advocacy and the animosity that I inherit be consonant to a pronounced respect for people like me?
I just want to retreat into my intellectual cabin, study people as though they are things, be left alone, and secure the testimony of autumn that time obliterates rather than heals that which was not maladious to begin with.
I want to file away the scandals, the scrutiny, and the ease with which the presupposition makes it more probable that I will feel oppressed.
I want to burn my driver's license and deposit the ashes in a Swiss bank so that they will be insulated from the light of day, from the pressure to reciprocate support for a past that serves as an impediment.
Is it possible to compose enlightened views from the incubator of neutrality? Is it possible to elicit support and kindle sympathy for who I am without disclosing who I used to be?
I wish I had answers instead of pain.
By what passion, what permanent interest, is the beloved observance of my formative experiences actuated?
How palpable is the public good that I should grow unduly attached to a cause that dispenses nothing but incomprehensibility in my presence?
How consistently must I assert these concepts that alienate me before my accrued rights sustain the injuries of my accrued debts?
When will the hours that I pour into advocacy and the animosity that I inherit be consonant to a pronounced respect for people like me?
I just want to retreat into my intellectual cabin, study people as though they are things, be left alone, and secure the testimony of autumn that time obliterates rather than heals that which was not maladious to begin with.
I want to file away the scandals, the scrutiny, and the ease with which the presupposition makes it more probable that I will feel oppressed.
I want to burn my driver's license and deposit the ashes in a Swiss bank so that they will be insulated from the light of day, from the pressure to reciprocate support for a past that serves as an impediment.
Is it possible to compose enlightened views from the incubator of neutrality? Is it possible to elicit support and kindle sympathy for who I am without disclosing who I used to be?
I wish I had answers instead of pain.
Should I start over completely at Rutgers by leaving my past behind forever?
I always thought that I would go back into a burning building to retrieve my antecedents as though they were a friend under extreme duress.
I thought that I would be capable of wearing my past on my sleeve.
I thought that I was ready to be a pioneer instead of a person.
I was convinced, mistakenly, that as long as some unsubstantiated trans kid in Uganda got his wings every time a gay person I met at a pride event asked me intrusive questions about what's in my pants or felt entitled to know what surgeries I have had, that I could derive an iota of satisfaction from my transparency in spite of the humiliation and discomfort that it facilitated.
A sense of purpose and a commitment to promoting the visibility of a vastly underrepresented population has beleaguered me with a balancing act that I cannot reconcile.
I write this from a musky basement littered with embarrassment in the form of clothing that has not felt mammalian warmth in over a year and a half. I'm leaning on a pillow made of garbage bags filled with bra imbued tank tops that were stitched together to accommodate bits of matter that I seek to destroy, in spite of the ineptitude of our universe at doing so.
Curse the conservation law. I want so badly to forget that I was born in a female body. It's so fucking painful.
The solicitous inquiry about my transition provokes unwanted memories. It embellishes an opening that has already been antagonized by birth, a void that grows more evocative every time I am lured into a dark cave full of reckless inquiries and drinks laced with determinism.
I thought that I could perceive my past as a legacy rather than a liability. Instead, I want to write myself out of my own history the way that autumn omits the foliage from the trees.
How many calendars would I have to rewrite in order to account for the discrepancies that would undoubtedly come up in future conversations? Must I deprive myself of hundreds of Facebook posts, a lifetime of wisdom acquired through the lens of lashes that were often lengthened, even my fucking Bat Mitzvah? Must I go so far as to invent a twin sister to rationalize the contents of a thousand photos, only to kill her off so as to put her sudden disappearance from my life in context?
Though this task seems daunting, it is one that I seriously entertain.
For while I am incapable of establishing a meaningful friendship with someone who doesn't know what I have been through, I can't bear the thought of one insidious detail compromising their conception of me early on, or ever.
So long as I draw upon my experiences as a trans person for educational purposes, I will continue to be my own worst enemy. I undermine my own masculinity by divulging these flagrant sources of comparison for all the world to see. Interesting and statistically rare as these reference points might be, they conjure to the forefront of my mind stabs of remorse for having drawn attention to them at all.
I don't want a Sabbatical. I want a sunset.
I want the past to die. I want to introduce myself with a display of blood that will never be blue again. I want rigor mortis to take my memories away, to absorb sound waves that I now find staggering to interpret and egregious in the damage that they inflict upon my newly resolved sanity.
I stupidly thought that embracing this magnanimous resolution to educate and reform by living my life as openly as possible would serve as a source of strength. Instead, I find that any vestige of my former self weakens me.
It's sad because...I never thought that I would fight so vehemently to come out of one closet, only to trade it for another.
I thought that I would be capable of wearing my past on my sleeve.
I thought that I was ready to be a pioneer instead of a person.
I was convinced, mistakenly, that as long as some unsubstantiated trans kid in Uganda got his wings every time a gay person I met at a pride event asked me intrusive questions about what's in my pants or felt entitled to know what surgeries I have had, that I could derive an iota of satisfaction from my transparency in spite of the humiliation and discomfort that it facilitated.
A sense of purpose and a commitment to promoting the visibility of a vastly underrepresented population has beleaguered me with a balancing act that I cannot reconcile.
I write this from a musky basement littered with embarrassment in the form of clothing that has not felt mammalian warmth in over a year and a half. I'm leaning on a pillow made of garbage bags filled with bra imbued tank tops that were stitched together to accommodate bits of matter that I seek to destroy, in spite of the ineptitude of our universe at doing so.
Curse the conservation law. I want so badly to forget that I was born in a female body. It's so fucking painful.
The solicitous inquiry about my transition provokes unwanted memories. It embellishes an opening that has already been antagonized by birth, a void that grows more evocative every time I am lured into a dark cave full of reckless inquiries and drinks laced with determinism.
I thought that I could perceive my past as a legacy rather than a liability. Instead, I want to write myself out of my own history the way that autumn omits the foliage from the trees.
How many calendars would I have to rewrite in order to account for the discrepancies that would undoubtedly come up in future conversations? Must I deprive myself of hundreds of Facebook posts, a lifetime of wisdom acquired through the lens of lashes that were often lengthened, even my fucking Bat Mitzvah? Must I go so far as to invent a twin sister to rationalize the contents of a thousand photos, only to kill her off so as to put her sudden disappearance from my life in context?
Though this task seems daunting, it is one that I seriously entertain.
For while I am incapable of establishing a meaningful friendship with someone who doesn't know what I have been through, I can't bear the thought of one insidious detail compromising their conception of me early on, or ever.
So long as I draw upon my experiences as a trans person for educational purposes, I will continue to be my own worst enemy. I undermine my own masculinity by divulging these flagrant sources of comparison for all the world to see. Interesting and statistically rare as these reference points might be, they conjure to the forefront of my mind stabs of remorse for having drawn attention to them at all.
I don't want a Sabbatical. I want a sunset.
I want the past to die. I want to introduce myself with a display of blood that will never be blue again. I want rigor mortis to take my memories away, to absorb sound waves that I now find staggering to interpret and egregious in the damage that they inflict upon my newly resolved sanity.
I stupidly thought that embracing this magnanimous resolution to educate and reform by living my life as openly as possible would serve as a source of strength. Instead, I find that any vestige of my former self weakens me.
It's sad because...I never thought that I would fight so vehemently to come out of one closet, only to trade it for another.
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