Recently, I found myself talking to a nine-year-old about basement break-ins. “Can you speak to M? She’s very anxious,” my neighbour asked. She wanted me to reassure her daughter that she’s very unlikely to be kidnapped, even if a thief happened to break in. Surprisingly, my day job came in handy.
“The thief wants to get in, steal things he can re-sell and get out again,” I explained. “He probably doesn’t want to kidnap you because it would cause a lot of trouble for him. And also, because he won’t be able to fit you on his scooter.” I think the scooter argument convinced her.
Being a forensic psychologist has taken me to some unexpected places within and without my psyche. But being able to reassure a young girl about her safety and breaking down the stranger-danger myth into more realistic scenarios went right to the heart of why I chose this profession - to help people understand difficult behaviours, and to help them feel safer in their own worlds.
The first time I told my mother I wanted to become a forensic psychologist, she was horrified. “Absolutely not, you would have to go to Tihar jail,” she said. Tihar jail is a notorious, monolithic prison in New Delhi, and the idea that a good Indian girl would spend her day immersed in the thick of crime, surrounded by murderers and lawbreakers was inconceivable.
I briefly put those thoughts away, explored the more genteel crannies of an English literature degree - hated it - and returned to studying forensic psychology a few years later, after the twists and machinations of life brought me to Australia.
My parents were momentarily relieved that I would not be going to Tihar jail, but were made somewhat nervous by the picture I sent of the first day at my work placement, standing outside a maximum security prison.
My parents were momentarily relieved that I would not be going to Tihar jail, but were made somewhat nervous by the picture I sent of the first day at my work placement, standing outside a maximum security prison.
“People have been stabbed here, but I will be safe because they don’t like hurting women and I am always accompanied everywhere,” I wrote. I don’t know if my parents found this reassuring, but they have since learnt to tolerate the relative oddity of the work I do, and speak of my immersion in the little understood worlds of sex offending, stalking, family violence and arson with pride.
'We’re not in Kansas anymore' is how I think about my pre-forensic psychology life. Gone were the days in India, when we attended sex education in high school, and a friend said she “didn’t think we should hear about these things, because it might give us ideas.” In my work today, it’s not uncommon to have to ask a sex offender what he masturbates to, and whether he is able to ejaculate during sex as part of a formal assessment.
My job has changed the shy and anxious person that I was. It is impossible to be shy when you have to tell an aggressive client that they are raising their voice or being threatening. When you practice these attributes at work, they bleed into the fabric of your being. It suddenly doesn’t seem such a stretch to be firm about saying no to someone, or to let someone know when they are being disrespectful.
Noticing and naming behaviours that are difficult is part of my day job – and while I try to remain open and gentle with friends, the briskness and boundaries I hold at work have also informed who I am, and how I respond to difficult situations, people and relationships.
My job has changed the shy and anxious person that I was. It is impossible to be shy, when you have to tell an aggressive client that they are raising their voice or being threatening.
I often get asked how I do the work I do. “Isn’t it heavy?" is a common question. It’s usually the second thing people say about my job, shortly after expressing their fascination with it.
Yes and no, is my answer. Yes, because it is heavy. And no, because I have a lot of training in managing the weight of what I see, and have learnt to compartmentalise and leave work as soon as I snap my laptop screen shut, or exit the building.
But sometimes, despite my best efforts, I notice the stress sneaking up on me. When I start to sleep badly and toss and turn with heavy dreams of stabbings, when I start to look warily at people walking up the road and assess them for the possibility of sudden violence, or when I am talking to a stranger on a date and start to wonder whether he will stalk me. These are all signs that the heaviness has taken its toll and I need to pull away from work and immerse myself in the distance of a weekend away, a yoga class, or a fantasy novel about dragons.
Another question I get asked a lot is why people commit crimes. This is probably the hardest one to answer as a forensic psychologist - because after a while, you start to see the shared humanity you hold with your clients and realise that a few small quirks of fate could have led you down a similar pathway.
I still remember the time I had a strong urge to thank my parents for not being offenders and providing me with a safe home, encouraging me to go to school and modelling a healthy way of life. I didn’t end up saying that out loud, since it would’ve alarmed them. But I always try and remember that people often offend because of the life circumstances they find themselves in, sometimes through no fault of their own.
I hold in mind that I work with some very hurt people who hurt other people - and that extending compassion, care, understanding and respect is crucial. Meanwhile, I will always be grateful for a job that helps me deal with the unexpected anxiety of nine-year-olds.
Dr Ahona Guha, DPsych, is a clinical and forensic psychologist in Melbourne, Australia. She has a specific interest in working with victims of trauma and also works with perpetrators of a range of offending behaviours. She writes about a range of psychology topics at Psychology Today () and can also be found on twitter (@drahonaguha).
