Rorschach Test

 

My initial trip to a shrink in the early 70s, wasn't really by choice. It was my first year out as a primary teacher school teacher and I'd been posted to the outer suburbs of Melbourne. Every weekday I took the early morning train all the way across town from the big group house I shared with other members of my avant-garde theatre group. It was quite a leap to throw on some civvies and leave the hippy household for the day. Back by late afternoon, I'd be in time for a rehearsal of the latest play we were working on, although my teaching committment meant I could only participate on a peripheral level. 

This was my dilemma. I wanted to be fulltime in the theatre group but the previous year I had failed to convince my school principal father that this was the best thing for me. Instead I had given into his will and proceeded to play out his dream for me — a secure job for life with decent pay and holidays, just like him.

By the time the September vacation rolled around I knew I wasn't going back. This was a problem as I was under contract to teach for three years. To leave now meant I would have to pay back my teacher training scholarship.  

 

Unless...

I could prove that I was emotionally unfit to teach.  

Now this would be a great humiliation to my dad who was well known in the Victorian Education Department. Ironically it was one of his best mates at the teachers union who explained what I needed to do.

I would go on sick leave and embark on ten sessions with an assigned psychiatrist. His assessment would be sent to the powers that be, and that my dear friend, would be that.

I don't remember much about the sessions except for the Rorschach ink blot tests he showed me. I had to articulate what I saw in the image, while he recorded it.  I thought they were beautiful, but didn't really take them seriously. I think I made up exaggerated, bizarre answers, for after all I wanted him to believe I had some kind of mental problem.  

I wish now I had made good use of my time with this psychiatrist. God knows I needed help, but my friends and I had a poor view of psychiatry in the same way we condemned religion as being a crutch for the needy.

And while I thought I was pulling the wool over the psychiatrist's eyes by pretending to be mentally unwell, I'm sure he saw straight through me. What a pity I didn't as well. 

I received a letter some weeks later informing me I'd been declared unfit to teach and was thereby released from my contract.  Meanwhile more dramatic events were taking place in my life, but that, as we say in the biz, is another story! 

 

 

(c) Jan Cornall 2021