So You Want to Be a Whale Psychiatrist?
On Joe Rogan’s podcast, Donald Trump said he wants to be a whale psychiatrist. What might it be like to be one? Read on. I wrote about it in Trump's voice on Substack.
It all started with a small ambition: to become a whale psychiatrist. When my mother asked what exactly that meant, I explained it was like marine biology, but with more therapy. She didn't ask any further questions, and honestly, neither did I. This was my destiny.
Day One: Whale Whispers
I’ll admit, there’s nothing quite like the sight of a 50-ton humpback with abandonment issues. They look at you with those soulful, silent eyes, and you know, deep down, that something is wrong. It’s either unresolved trauma, or maybe they just heard about the latest IPCC climate report. Either way, I nod empathetically, muttering soothing sounds that nobody told me wouldn’t translate to Cetacean, because as it turns out, the language barrier is… sizable.
But that’s where my formal training in *Whale Whispering 101* came in handy. Imagine sitting on a dock, clipboard in hand, diligently nodding while a disillusioned orca vents about the commodification of his culture for theme parks. You’re looking at an aquatic being who’s done more circus tricks than you have therapy sessions, and he’s not shy about saying so.
Developing a Therapeutic Approach
Now, whales are complex creatures with layered issues, and after a week or so, I learned to pick up on the nuances. For instance, a common source of trauma in whales is a phenomenon known in our field as "Post-Echolocative Stress Disorder" (PESD). Imagine emitting powerful sound waves only for them to echo back “WTF, humans?!” at full volume.
So, I developed a few techniques. Standard talk therapy was a bust (they’d dive after a few minutes), and CBT (Cetacean Behavioral Therapy) just couldn’t penetrate that layer of blubber. I eventually found success with an experimental approach I called *Fin-fulness Therapy*, a mindful practice where the whale focuses on the rhythm of their own tail, letting go of existential angst one flip at a time.
Client Diversity and Setting Boundaries
The thing about whale psychiatry is that every day is different. Some days, it’s a blue whale who feels like the world’s weight is on his… well, entire body. Other days, it’s a pod of dolphins staging an intervention for a bottlenose with boundary issues. My personal favorite? The narwhal couple that arrived with “tusk envy,” a classic case where one felt his tusk was inadequate in comparison to others.
As with any form of therapy, maintaining boundaries is crucial. After a long session with a particularly clingy beluga who had a troubling attachment to his last tank, I realized I needed to establish some ground rules. No breaching within ten feet during sessions. No splashing the therapist. And for heaven’s sake, no unsolicited flipper hugs.
Dealing with Ethical Dilemmas
Being a whale psychiatrist comes with its own set of moral quandaries. Do I tell the migrating humpbacks that their annual journey now involves a plastic-laden wasteland that would make the 405 at rush hour look quaint? Do I let the orca finish his tale of woe about that one time he got body-shamed by a passing dolphin?
Sometimes I feel like I’m in too deep—literally and figuratively. They’re all different, but their problems share a theme: humans. I can’t in good conscience tell them it’s going to get better, so instead, I help them reframe. “Yes, the ocean is literally on fire in some places, but maybe… it’s an opportunity to work on your resiliency?”
How to Get Started in Whale Psychiatry
If this sounds like the career for you, I’ll give you my best advice: forget the textbooks. A good whale psychiatrist doesn’t rely on theory; they rely on intuition, rubber waders, and a very forgiving attitude towards being regularly doused in salt water.
You’ll need patience, a waterproof notebook, and a unique blend of existential flexibility—because let’s face it, some problems are just bigger than a Board Certified Cetacean Psychiatrist can fix.
