Standards and Excuses

There was a time when I [briefly] had the services of an "art therapist."  I've written about her once before some years back.  But the story bears telling again since the passage of time may bring a clarity to the mulling over of past events and situations.  The woman was indeed a situation.

The last time I blogged about her, it was to register a public complaint about two things.  Her PhD was fake.  For 35 bucks and a copy of her "book," she was sent a degree from a certain mail-order university which gave "credit for life experiences."  Said university operated solely out of a slummy office in Hawaii or somewhere like that and I've heard that it has since been forced to move to Asia.  

She is not the only person in the universe who has hung out a shingle on the basis of a bogus degree.  There is a man in the same city who the state contracts to offer services to folks with traumatic brain injuries.  He also has a bogus degree.  Although the State was made aware of his situation, they chose to renew his contract offer that year and the one after.  He is still under contract with them as a "PhD" which he did not earn.

Last I knew, the art therapist was claiming to use her [real] bachelor's degree for her work.  The problem is that she still also uses the title of "Doctor."  I am equally sure that any insurance companies are reimbursing her under doctor rates.  She is not under contract with the State as far as I know.  She does offer expensive workshops for professionals to attend, in addition to taking on clientele.

The other complaint that I had blogged about was how I came to be discharged from her services.  She fired me over the telephone.  The reason why I was terminated is because I refused to go to her personal internist for medications.  I had my own professionals in place for that, including the shrink who understands t.b.i. and who is probably more qualified to prescribe psych meds for me than her internist is.  The conflict of interest should be obvious to anyone who knows anything about ethics.  It is not ethical for her to insist that I see one of her medical professionals instead of one of my choosing.

That particular blog post yielded a comment from a woman who claimed that "everyone loves" the art therapist-- as if that makes a difference-- and that the art therapist has helped a lot of folks.  I have no direct information on how many folks the art therapist has helped.  Nor do I have any way of measuring what "being helped" might evidence as.  My original complaints remained that her advanced degree was bogus and that she dumped me over the phone under less than ideal circumstances.  The fact remains that in the couple of sessions that we had, I learned a few things.  So I will not say that the woman is useless, because that is unquantifiable and not fair.

The idea that I am addressing in this post is the supposition that because we are brain damaged, we are granted a license to get crap work published or perform any employment for hire in a substandard manner.  The world does not have to adjust to me and my atypical neurology.  I maintain that I am the one who has to adjust to reality as it is and not the way that it "ought to be."  If I want the same rights as everyone else has, it follows that I have to hold myself to the same standards of performance that everyone else is held to.  I live in a state of constant irritation and frustration.  I don't get to impose my emotional state on those around me.  And I don't get to have special privileges on the basis of my whacked up brain.  The "art therapist" wrote terrible prose.  I read her "book" and I did not think all that much of it.  Being loved is the stance of an emotional infant.  Self-publishing terrible prose and having a diploma mill degree are not signs of achievement or self-respect.

I recently read a book by another "survivor" of a traumatic brain injury who works as a counselor.  It also demonstrated substandard writing.  I don't mean that I didn't care for the book.  I mean that the book was poorly written.  To be sure, her book was better written than the "book" written by the art therapist.  But it still was not a professional job.  The book by the survivor-counselor employed choppy sentences throughout it.  It also left out some key information that t.b.i.-ers and family members deserve to have in such a book as the one she wrote.

After my accident, I was no longer able to express myself in a clear fashion on paper or in e-mails.  I had to re-learn how to write sentences.  Since there wasn't any cognitive rehab in the works for me [due to insurance companies fighting over who would pay my medical bills-- the one three-day a week program that I qualified for refused my offer to pay cash up front without any sort of discount], I had to be in charge of my own rehab.  I learned how to write grammatical sentences again in a t.b.i. chat room and in a t.b.i. e-mail support group.

The world does not owe me a living.  I don't get to have slovenly standards for myself on the basis of my brain damage.  To be sure, my injury means that I have to work hard at daily everyday stuff that many people take for granted.  Nothing is automatic for me anymore.  The brain fatigue kicks my ass on a regular basis. 

The voc-rehab folks want to send someone to my house for an hour or two in order to watch me do housework and offer a few tips on body mechanics.  After this, the voc-rehab folks want to discharge me as a rehabilitated homemaker.    In other words, V.R. has not been able to help me obtain any employment, never mind meaningful employment.  I understand that I am getting dumped.  Oh well.   

Anyone who has visited me in my home is aware that a few tips on body mechanics will not in any way render me an adequate homemaker.  I continue to struggle greatly with initiation, organization, and stamina on a daily basis.  I keep pushing myself to find a different way of doing things even as I prepare to hire someone who will help me for several mornings a week with home maintenance.  Knowing that I need help is not an admission of defeat.  It is a sign of strength to be able to ask for assistance.  I am comfortable with that.

 My experience with the professional helpers and bean counters at the V.R. office has left me grateful to the few people in my life who have never stopped believing that I will again find my way to viable employment in spite of the obstacles that I face.  And I do know what I want.  My old dream of writing books has never left me.  It is something inside of me that demands that I write.  I have to write.  I continue to practice my writing in blogs and journals and forums. 

I've been published in many literary magazines [lit mags].  I have way more than fifty publication credits to my name.  And my stuff has appeared in three anthologies.  I've read at open mics.  And I keep on writing.  It is my hope to get good enough to land a book contract.  I anticipate having a self-published e-book ready for market soon.  If I live long enough, I hope to get good enough to get paid for my writing up front.  I figure that I am brain-damaged but I am not dead.  I want my stuff to stand on its' own merit.  I don't want to be known for my dysfunctional brain.  I want to be known for excellence with the written word.  And that means I have to commit to working toward the same excellence than any person honing a craft would work toward.  Those standards should not be lowered for me because of my brain.

Getting a bogus PhD from a mail-order university and getting a book published as a survivor with little regard for literary excellence both cheapen something of extreme value.  That something is to be known beyond labels.  If I am to be a citizen of the universe with something of value to offer, I don't want that something to have less professional quality than the works of people who are not impaired.  If my stuff isn't good enough to stand on its' own merits, I don't want it to be allowed to stand on the basis of "that person has brain damage so substandard output is excusable."  I'm here declaring that substandard output is not excusable.  Moving beyond my neurology requires excellence, not excuses.

sapphoq healing t.b.i.