Chapter 2: Stein, 2014
"Rashed and Bingham (2014) bravely attempt to draw a clear delineation between disorder and deviance, arguing that the limit of what society may be willing to accommodate does not mark the beginning of illness"
Stein, D.J. (2014). Disorder and Deviance: Where to Draw the Boundaries? Philosophy, Psychiatry, & Psychology 21(3), 261-265.
***
KAYDEN
I fucking hate Mondays.
The U of E Department of Psychology decided to hold their staff Welcome-Back BBQ on Labour Day this year. They take their hamburgers very seriously.
Except lets just say that a couple dozen PhDs aren't exactly the most entertaining crowd.
"So, Dr. Hall." A warm hand clasps my shoulder as a familiar, hoarse voice rumbles behind me. "How's that feel, huh? PhD. Makes you feel old, right?"
Mike Zabina's cheerful, aging face is looking a bit rough around the edges these days. "Makes me feel smarter," I quip dryly.
"Heard your grant went through, son. Congrats."
"Thanks, Mike."
Mike was my master's supervisor four years or so ago before I went off to UBC for my doctorate. Now I'm back, and they put me in a dusty old office right beside him.
At least the guy has a decent sense of humour.
"Ready for your first lecture tomorrow?"
"Just a syllabus, Mike. Shouldn't be too daunting."
He takes a bite out of his loaded hot-dog and doesn't seem to either notice or care when he smears ketchup on the tip of his nose.
"So you gonna lecture in Docs and jeans, huh? You know you'll be the talk of the town."
I roll my eyes. "I'm a social psychologist, Mike," I joke. "Aren't we supposed to be anti-conformity or something?"
He snorts. "Still have that whole rebel-with-a-cause thing going for you, eh?"
That's the thing about psychologists, nosy bastards. They can't stop fucking psychoanalyzing you.
"Hey, so, that thing next Wednesday." I take a sip from a cheap bottle of beer and try not to dwell too long on the flat taste. "That... what is it? Undergrad psych mixer? We have to go to that?"
Zabina polishes off the last of his hot-dog and swipes a napkin roughly all over the lower-half of his whiskered face. "Yeah, you should. The Undergrad Psych Student's Association puts a lot of work into it. Show your face for a couple hours, talk to the kids about your research."
He missed a spot of relish at the corner of his mouth that I debate pointing out to him. "All the wannabe shrinks, huh?"
His laugh is low and grating, the product of one too many Marlboros back in the day. "It's not all bad." Something amused tugs at the edge of his salt-and-pepper bristled jaw. "And anyways, if you don't show up, Layla Mitchell will have your hide." He chuckles to himself. "The girl is persistent and runs a tight ship. Department won't be the same without her next year."
Who the fuck is Layla Mitchell? "Who?"
"She's the president of the UPSA. Fourth-year honours psych student. Good kid. We're rooting for her to stay for her MA next year but I think she has her eyes set on U of T."
I hold back my laughter. An undergrad psych student is gonna force me to attend a kitschy faculty event. Yeah, right.
"Sucking up is part of the job, I'm afraid. Department's more likely to fund your research if you're a team player, Hall. Get the students interested." A friendly clap on the arm. "Shouldn't be too hard with such an... exciting area of focus."
Honestly, I can't imagine that many of those stuffy pre-med keeners want to talk about sex and violence, but I don't bother pointing that out.
***
Don't fuck any undergrads.
My buddy Jack who's starting his psychiatric residency across the country jokingly offered that sage advice to me when I accepted the open faculty position back in May.
I completely forgot about it until this afternoon, when I look towards the front row of the lecture hall and see the pretty little thing who spilled coffee all over me this morning, looking at me with recognition and mortification.
I don't know what exactly it is about her that makes me want to stare a little longer. Her oaky brown hair tumbles in shiny waves down her shoulders, has brighter streaks of copper and gold where the light hits. And when I glanced into her wide, shocked eyes this morning, they were a sharp, soft brown.
Everything about her seems like a strange but heady combination of sharp and soft. Something about the slope of her neck and the curve of her nose and the angle of her jaw... The way she carries her shoulders, like she's brimming with energy and confidence but at the same time wildly disciplined.
And her full, pouty, soft mouth that for some perverted fucking reason I can't help but imagine wrapped around my cock.
Get your shit together, Hall.
Don't fuck any undergrads.
Definitely don't even think about fucking one of your students for Christ's sake.
***
"Today's lecture, we'll be exploring the distinction between deviance and disorder."
There are exactly twenty upper-level students enrolled in this class, who actually all show up on Thursday for lecture.
The cynic in me knows it's because of the participation marks, not necessarily due to a keen interest in the subject matter.
"Anyone want to remind us what characteristic the DSM-V typically uses to distinguish a behaviour as pathological, rather than simply socially aberrant?"
Crickets.
Of course.
I raise an unimpressed eyebrow, sweep my gaze across the room.
I'm determined to let them sit with it until someone works up the balls to say something but then a feminine voice pipes up from the front row, clear and sure. "Distress."
I hone in on the source of the answer. Coffee Girl.
Her rich brown hair is tied up today. She sits in that same spot front and centre with her red-headed friend, laptop open in front of her and attention focused on the front of the room, on me.
"Thank you," I acknowledge, meeting her eyes for just a second before looking back to the rest of the room. "Yes, distress. Most researchers and clinicians agree that the experience of psychological, emotional, or physical distress, by self or others, distinguishes disordered from typical behaviour."
There's furious typing as people attempt to document my words verbatim.
Most of the students in this room probably just want an easy, reasonably-interesting elective. They care more about their GPA than actually learning and thinking about and reflecting on the material.
"One of the greatest dilemmas in psychology, sociology, and medicine seems to be the distinction between behaviours that may confer social distress rather than, perhaps, personal dysfunction."
I go on to explain a few different textbook definitions of 'deviance' and deviant behaviour, and then describe deviance as a continuum that can range from socially uncomfortable to necessarily criminal.
"Can someone give me an example of something that would be considered both sexually deviant and criminal?" Silence again. I roll my eyes. "Don't be shy, you guys."
"Rape," someone calls from the back of the room.
"Great example. Does anyone know what proposed psychological disorder some clinicians have considered applying to those who engage in non-consensual sexual behaviour?"
"Coercive paraphilic disorder," Coffee Girl supplies.
"Yes, thank you. The DSM-V rejected coercive paraphilic disorder as a diagnoseable mental illness on the grounds that no specific underlying dysfunction seemed evident. However, sexual assault does, evidently, result in distress and harm to others. And so the distinction between deviance and disorder becomes blurred."
I take the last few minutes of class to explain the discussion component of the final grade. "On your eclass page you'll notice a document detailing five different discussion topics with specific dates. You will be split into groups of four and are expected to come to class prepared to discuss the topic at hand with your group. Conclusions and discrepancies from each group discussion will be presented to the class so we can process and dissect them together. Your final participation mark will reflect the depth and thought behind your responses."
Once I end the lecture, students pile out as fast as possible, most of them probably done for the day.
My eyes are drawn to the pretty, clumsy, apparently clever brunette sitting in the first row as she packs away her things and talks animatedly with her tall, exuberant friend.
She looks towards me, meets my gaze for a second, blushes.
Damn she's cute when she blushes.
She slips her backpack onto one shoulder and then turns and walks out of the lecture hall with her friend.
I wonder if she'll always be the first one brave or knowledgeable enough to answer my questions for the rest of the semester.
I get the impression that she's trying not to come across as an over-confident know-it-all, and that's why she lets some time pass in unanswered silence before she responds lucidly, without hesitation, like she's known the answer all along.
Or maybe I'm just being a nosy psychologist over-psychoanalyzing everything.
***
A/N:
Damn, I spent too long reading psychological literature in preparation for this chapter.
EXCITING NEWS: The fanfiction account is almost live... *happy tears*
Tiffany and Rachel will be posting some fanfiction up in the next little while and then I'll make sure to give you the account information. (I've been told that we can expect a threeso—I didn't say anything.)
XOXO Ami