Dr. Ken Wilcox arrested and deported from Cambodia
The therapists are the ones who need to see a therapist.....
I hate these people with a deep passion. No let me rephrase. I do not hate the therapists, I hate what they do.
Why the hell is everybody going through therapy? What are the resources that therapists provide that we cannot either provide ourselves or work out for ourselves. ''Ah'...I hear you retort, ''it's somebody who will listen to me''. ''Someone, who will not interrupt, someone who will bend their ear and drink in every word I have to utter''. Do you know why they sit in stony silence and listen to your sorry dribble? Let me tell you - because they are paid to do it! Take the same therapist and ask if they provide this service for nothing. No of course they would not. They simply prostitute their ears. Yet we actually think they want to help us, that they somehow truly care and engage with us in a way that loved ones will not. The therapist has somehow become synonymous with this 'lost' generation.Why the hell is everybody in therapy? Somebody answer me please. Therapy! Counseling! I need to grasp this concept and understand it.
Mature, developed adults, with the gift of their own brilliant minds to explore, choose instead to sit for an hour with some gormless, clueless fuckwit, who probably possesses a City and Guilds certificate in basket making, to unravel the secrets of their mind.
It has become the national sport - visiting the therapist. We have clearly inherited this passion from our lunatic, war-mongering neighbours across the pond. The magnificent, fist clenching, pompous, self glorifying USA. The land of the free! The free? The land where everybody is so bound up with their own demons that the dear souls would appear to have a therapist for each day of the week. The land of the free? Really? Maybe if they stopped bombing the living daylights out of less fortunate nations then some of the demons might disappear without any input whatsoever from a therapist. Neuro Linguistic Programming will not facilitate a withdrawal from Iraq - but a conscience might! Eh?
So therapy! I have my well publicised pains, and I am reminded at every corner that my next port of call ought to be a counselor. Why? what can a counselor tell me that I do not aleady know. They may offer some logical thought patterns, but they do not and cannot ease feelings.
They exist as an excuse and fashion statement. Having a counselor is akin to having a hot tub or a fast car. It's just a statement, because these days it's cool to say 'I am screwed up'! You are not screwed up - it is simply the fact that you own a fridge - lost the fridge and life will be just fine.
I hate these people with a deep passion. No let me rephrase. I do not hate the therapists, I hate what they do.
Why the hell is everybody going through therapy? What are the resources that therapists provide that we cannot either provide ourselves or work out for ourselves. ''Ah'...I hear you retort, ''it's somebody who will listen to me''. ''Someone, who will not interrupt, someone who will bend their ear and drink in every word I have to utter''. Do you know why they sit in stony silence and listen to your sorry dribble? Let me tell you - because they are paid to do it! Take the same therapist and ask if they provide this service for nothing. No of course they would not. They simply prostitute their ears. Yet we actually think they want to help us, that they somehow truly care and engage with us in a way that loved ones will not. The therapist has somehow become synonymous with this 'lost' generation.Why the hell is everybody in therapy? Somebody answer me please. Therapy! Counseling! I need to grasp this concept and understand it.
Mature, developed adults, with the gift of their own brilliant minds to explore, choose instead to sit for an hour with some gormless, clueless fuckwit, who probably possesses a City and Guilds certificate in basket making, to unravel the secrets of their mind.
It has become the national sport - visiting the therapist. We have clearly inherited this passion from our lunatic, war-mongering neighbours across the pond. The magnificent, fist clenching, pompous, self glorifying USA. The land of the free! The free? The land where everybody is so bound up with their own demons that the dear souls would appear to have a therapist for each day of the week. The land of the free? Really? Maybe if they stopped bombing the living daylights out of less fortunate nations then some of the demons might disappear without any input whatsoever from a therapist. Neuro Linguistic Programming will not facilitate a withdrawal from Iraq - but a conscience might! Eh?
So therapy! I have my well publicised pains, and I am reminded at every corner that my next port of call ought to be a counselor. Why? what can a counselor tell me that I do not aleady know. They may offer some logical thought patterns, but they do not and cannot ease feelings.
They exist as an excuse and fashion statement. Having a counselor is akin to having a hot tub or a fast car. It's just a statement, because these days it's cool to say 'I am screwed up'! You are not screwed up - it is simply the fact that you own a fridge - lost the fridge and life will be just fine.
This morning I went so see a therapist.
This was not my first time - I am far from being a therapy virgin.
He was a large, balding, bespectacled chap tucked in behind a large, walnut veneer desk. There was a fashionable arrangement of books spread out across the desk. There were several copies of National Geographic, myriad psychology text books ( just to reassure me I was in the right place), three different recipe books and a copy of the Kamasutra. He requested and gestured that I be seated. He suggested that I might like a glass of water. I impolitely reminded him that I had come for mental health advice, not to quench my thirst.
He handed me his business card - his named in raised, golden letters with a plethora of meaningless letters at the end. I believe they represented an advanced qualification in breeding ravens but I cannot be sure. I did not study it for long enough. It might as well have said Harold Shipman, Sleep Therapist for all I care. I have an aversion to business cards. They tend to be an extension of the ego, and serve little purpose other than filling up waste paper baskets around the world. Oh, they can be also used in pubs where they can be dropped into the 'drop your business card in this jar for a chance to win a bottle of champagne' jar. I have only ever been handed two business cards of significance - the donors know exactly who they are.
His started the clock and launched into some diatribe and about not accepting personal responsibility should I choose to voluntarily enter into the 'big sleep' as a result of his wise counsel! I was bored already. What kind of therapist would distance himself from responsibilty?
He asked me why I was in his room? What did I want to talk about? What was up? I noticed he had big, sausage like fingers. Truly extraordinary digits. His voice piped up once more, throwing up what I assumed were probing, ice breaking type questions. I started to laugh at him. He was puzzled then. He had several chins that gave his neck a bizarre concertina effect when he looked down. I was not laughing, however, at his physical apearance. I was laughing at life itself. I asked him if he needed any therapy. He answered quite categorically in the negative. So why was he a therapist then, I meekly asked. He was quizzical about my enquiry. Was I suggesting that to be a therapist, you need to be in therapy? I looked at him and complimented him on his profound intelligence that he had understood my theory and had been able to make this connection.
He started to cry, his bottom lip quivering uncontrollably. I felt sad for him, and for all of humanity. Unquestionably his career was a cathartically driven experience, that was not working out really well (thus far).
I told him it was time for me to leave, and he looked genuinely disappointed. I think he just wanted someone to talk to. I rolled up a copy of the National Geographic and smashed it down across his skull. I did not intend to kill him - it was just a wake up call.
This was not my first time - I am far from being a therapy virgin.
He was a large, balding, bespectacled chap tucked in behind a large, walnut veneer desk. There was a fashionable arrangement of books spread out across the desk. There were several copies of National Geographic, myriad psychology text books ( just to reassure me I was in the right place), three different recipe books and a copy of the Kamasutra. He requested and gestured that I be seated. He suggested that I might like a glass of water. I impolitely reminded him that I had come for mental health advice, not to quench my thirst.
He handed me his business card - his named in raised, golden letters with a plethora of meaningless letters at the end. I believe they represented an advanced qualification in breeding ravens but I cannot be sure. I did not study it for long enough. It might as well have said Harold Shipman, Sleep Therapist for all I care. I have an aversion to business cards. They tend to be an extension of the ego, and serve little purpose other than filling up waste paper baskets around the world. Oh, they can be also used in pubs where they can be dropped into the 'drop your business card in this jar for a chance to win a bottle of champagne' jar. I have only ever been handed two business cards of significance - the donors know exactly who they are.
His started the clock and launched into some diatribe and about not accepting personal responsibility should I choose to voluntarily enter into the 'big sleep' as a result of his wise counsel! I was bored already. What kind of therapist would distance himself from responsibilty?
He asked me why I was in his room? What did I want to talk about? What was up? I noticed he had big, sausage like fingers. Truly extraordinary digits. His voice piped up once more, throwing up what I assumed were probing, ice breaking type questions. I started to laugh at him. He was puzzled then. He had several chins that gave his neck a bizarre concertina effect when he looked down. I was not laughing, however, at his physical apearance. I was laughing at life itself. I asked him if he needed any therapy. He answered quite categorically in the negative. So why was he a therapist then, I meekly asked. He was quizzical about my enquiry. Was I suggesting that to be a therapist, you need to be in therapy? I looked at him and complimented him on his profound intelligence that he had understood my theory and had been able to make this connection.
He started to cry, his bottom lip quivering uncontrollably. I felt sad for him, and for all of humanity. Unquestionably his career was a cathartically driven experience, that was not working out really well (thus far).
I told him it was time for me to leave, and he looked genuinely disappointed. I think he just wanted someone to talk to. I rolled up a copy of the National Geographic and smashed it down across his skull. I did not intend to kill him - it was just a wake up call.
- violet
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Up to you.... hello. I can agree with what you say about therapists, with one exception. I know a psychologist who treated a person for 8 months at no charge, because the individual could not afford to pay, and they needed someone to listen and help unscramble their head.
They aren't all money grabbers. Some just care about people.
Anyway.... nice writing. Do carry on.
They aren't all money grabbers. Some just care about people.
Anyway.... nice writing. Do carry on.
The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.
- Plutarch
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- violet
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TEFL teachers are to "Dr" Gloria, Ken Wilcox, and K440, what Tasmania are to Iran, China and the USA.Dengchao wrote:Can anyone provide the original thread where Dr Gloria was first ousted? I can find the one where she is "back in practice" in 2006 but cannot find the original...
AND...
When is 440 going to start busting all the TEFLers here who keep calling themselves "teachers?"
The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.
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Whats Dr Gloria up to these days? Still in Cambodia?
She was pretty good to me. Whilst suffering from the haemoragic type of dengue fever in 2003 she treated me and also put me on a drip couple of times. Was also dealing with an evacuation to BKK for a transfusion but thankfully that wasnt necessary in the end. From memory one of her aussie friends was a "nurse" working alongside her.
She was pretty good to me. Whilst suffering from the haemoragic type of dengue fever in 2003 she treated me and also put me on a drip couple of times. Was also dealing with an evacuation to BKK for a transfusion but thankfully that wasnt necessary in the end. From memory one of her aussie friends was a "nurse" working alongside her.
Some odd new changes to his "Thor" website, which until less than two weeks ago was soliciting donations via paypal. And while the url is still thorhs.com, the business seems to have changed it's name to Thor Consulting Services (and now explicitly claims to be a private company). They have also removed the info on most of the "doctors" working there. All the bios are gone.
While I'll have to wait until Monday to see if indeed they have actually registered the business, I was quickly able to confirm that they don't yet have a VAT number and aren't registered with the ministry of taxation.
And just for you Ken, here's a little reminder of what Google Cache is: You make a web page. It saves a version. You go and change the web page, it shows people the new version or old version depending on which one they want to see. You can change it all day long, the originals are still there for all to see.
While I'll have to wait until Monday to see if indeed they have actually registered the business, I was quickly able to confirm that they don't yet have a VAT number and aren't registered with the ministry of taxation.
And just for you Ken, here's a little reminder of what Google Cache is: You make a web page. It saves a version. You go and change the web page, it shows people the new version or old version depending on which one they want to see. You can change it all day long, the originals are still there for all to see.
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only until the cache is cleared by Google... which happens regularly.Bubble T wrote:Some odd new changes to his "Thor" website, which until less than two weeks ago was soliciting donations via paypal. And while the url is still thorhs.com, the business seems to have changed it's name to Thor Consulting Services (and now explicitly claims to be a private company). They have also removed the info on most of the "doctors" working there. All the bios are gone.
While I'll have to wait until Monday to see if indeed they have actually registered the business, I was quickly able to confirm that they don't yet have a VAT number and aren't registered with the ministry of taxation.
And just for you Ken, here's a little reminder of what Google Cache is: You make a web page. It saves a version. You go and change the web page, it shows people the new version or old version depending on which one they want to see. You can change it all day long, the originals are still there for all to see.
The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.
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You'll still be able to find the original content cached in a number of other places besides Google Cache. Once you say something on the Internet, you can't take it back.violet wrote:only until the cache is cleared by Google... which happens regularly.Bubble T wrote:Some odd new changes to his "Thor" website, which until less than two weeks ago was soliciting donations via paypal. And while the url is still thorhs.com, the business seems to have changed it's name to Thor Consulting Services (and now explicitly claims to be a private company). They have also removed the info on most of the "doctors" working there. All the bios are gone.
While I'll have to wait until Monday to see if indeed they have actually registered the business, I was quickly able to confirm that they don't yet have a VAT number and aren't registered with the ministry of taxation.
And just for you Ken, here's a little reminder of what Google Cache is: You make a web page. It saves a version. You go and change the web page, it shows people the new version or old version depending on which one they want to see. You can change it all day long, the originals are still there for all to see.
That's not exactly true... It makes it sound like you're saying u can find older versions of ANY website forever on the net, which is NOT the case. See if u can go find my FIRST myspace page BEFORE I deleted it or edited it... U can't...Bubble T wrote:By which point it's already cached by a multitude of other sites and networks. Do you honestly think that just deleting something on a webpage means it never existed?violet wrote:only until the cache is cleared by Google... which happens regularly.
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