Eggnog, Mistletoe & Clinical Depression

by Scherezade Siobhan I am a psychologist who has a love-hate relationship with major holidays on account of several reasons. I love holidays because, well, who doesn’t enjoy a timeout from work, delicious food and a good sale on gadgetry? On the flip side, I am a psychotherapist who works with people on the depression &…


All that I’ve learned about feminism and its intersectionality, pitfalls, and successes can be distilled into a visit to my neighborhood beauty parlour. You know the kinds. You’ve been to one too; the types with no fancy frills or single-use wax sticks. The one where there’s no concept of disposable ‘gowns’ for you to wear….

Fight like a Girl

10 Eponymous. The most ignorant myth perpetuated about childhood abuse is that all sufferers/survivors must have experienced some form of measurable or visible violence. If the story isn’t grafted on your physical skin, it is possibly untrue. That if your devastation hasn’t been continual and corporeal, it wasn’t exigent. That you MUST have always hated…

The Good Survivor Myth

In my early 20s, as part of a training program in psychotherapy, I had the opportunity to sit through a series of observership cases with my guide/mentor who specializes in doing work with women who experienced PTSD/MDD. After one of the more harrowing sessions, the young girl we were consulting with waited back for the…

Lost Rooms

Growing up in an Indo-Rroma culture, you are expected to be thankful that your body is safe, that you get an education and get a job and be sufficiently independent so as to not be throttled daily by the immensity of a patriarchal inheritance stalking your every movement. Mental health isn’t even a dot on the radar. When I decided to study psychology early on, it was partially because I had already been through so many dirty corridors of indeterminate analysis and loud opinions that I knew the best path to understanding what I was experiencing was to study it myself. This was the beginning of a long and punishing dissent. I still remember pouring over my textbooks of Therapeutic Practices in Clinical Psychology with a nearly unhinged jaw as I read description upon description of every conceivable DSM disorder and almost all of them included a not-so-subtle exegesis that as a third world brown woman, I was almost 50% more likely to have a mental health condition and the scope for relevant support systems to help better my situations was slim to nil. In others, simpler words — I was fucked.