#Teen Psychologist

[positivemindhubsworld]

Melbourne’s Leading Teen Psychologist: Supporting Mental Wellness

As Melbourne’s leading teen psychologist, we are committed to fostering mental wellness and supporting adolescents through their formative years. Our practice is dedicated to providing high-quality psychological care tailored specifically for teenagers facing a range of challenges. With a deep understanding of adolescent development, we offer evidence-based interventions to address issues such as anxiety, depression, and self-esteem concerns. Our approach is rooted in empathy and respect, creating a safe space where teens can explore their emotions and develop effective coping strategies. We work closely with each individual to build resilience and promote positive mental health, empowering them to overcome obstacles and thrive. By prioritizing a holistic and personalized approach, we ensure that every young person receives the support they need to achieve their fullest potential. Trust Melbourne’s foremost expert in teen psychology to guide your adolescent towards a healthier, happier future.

[johntzanosphd]

Your teen has been diagnosed on the Autism Spectrum and you have a unique parenting journey to navigate. Is it difficult for your teen to understand or make friends? If he pulls away from you in the face of social situations, or if he doesn’t seem to be gaining independence as quickly as other teens, then these are issues that counseling can support.

[doomdaysdecays]

assigned depressive borderline at birth 😍

get a totally legit diagnosis here <3

[profounddefendorcrusade-blog]

I feel bad for Starlo. (pt. 6)

I think the main thing we were supposed to see as Star's character flaw wasn't that he was acting proud/arrogant/reckless/badass (I mentioned that it's fine for him to act that way because he deserved it after everything good he did and obviously I still mean it 110%), but how that proud, charming guy was never the real him. He literally lost himself trying to feel worthy and please everyone in town. For years he's been acting the role (for a noble cause) but the price was him losing touch with the nerd he is.

Yet STILL, if only everyone had been a bit more gentle with him, I bet he'd have toned it down during the WE section, and even before that. But they all decided to let him know the truth at the worst possible time, right when he was supposed to make Clover his deputy. Right after they attacked the kid because they were jealous. It was supposed to be the PEAK of Starlo's day and they randomly threw the "we never liked any of this" bomb at him instead of trying to talk it out BEFORE things escalated. I'd be pissed too.

Oh yeah...

... his brother doesn't take him seriously apparently and doesn't realize that staying positive and strong 24/7 is tougher than it looks, especially with Starlo's insecurities (and yeah being a farmer is hard work, but so is being in Star's position; on the contrary, it's even TOUGHER) ...

Orion should try being an entertainer for a day and see what it's like, let alone doing it for years

...Solomon says how Star thought him and Crestina didn't support his life choices...

... and how he rarely talks to his family...

...and it suddenly came to me: in all these years, they didn't ever bother telling him that they did support him? They didn't bother trying to reach out to him more? Understand his passion (Ceroba doesn't get it either; once again, I don't blame Starlo for caring about Clover so much, that kid understood)? Have an honest talk?

No wonder Star stopped interacting with them for the most part. Maybe him feeling worthless came from his family? Who knows (or he was bullied as a kid for being a nerd). In any case, he clearly had to deal with these feelings by himself.

This man's been through some stuff.

P.S. I know he has flaws like everyone, but you've gotta ask yourself the important question: WHY? where did all this come from? But clearly nobody in his life ever asked themselves this. So it all kept building up till he almost killed his deputy for... status. He was SO desperate to feel valued and get his friends back (who made him feel less alone.. but ultimately just left when he needed someone the most, at least ONE person) that he was ready to go all the way to achieve what he'd been lacking his entire life: *feeling like he MATTERED.*

I wonder If he'll ever go 100% back to being his true self. Slim chances :'( this is him now. Half farmer half sheriff

[azraphels]

Inspired by an episode of "The Big Bang Theory" and staying with the theme of my new Thiam-Sterek Fanfic "Fall In Love With A Kiss" coming soon to Ao3

(In my new Thiam there will be no existential, suffering drama of Theo alone where everyone hates him!)

I INTRODUCE YOU....

Lydia has been Theo's best friend since they were seven years old! Ah their discussions about how stupid Stiles was filled their days, along with movie nights (horror movies of course!) and secrets!

Theo met Allison in high school because she started dating Scott. It was really a troubled affair between Scott and Allison, they were on and off for quite some time and Theo didn't know who to listen to! Scott was stupid and just screwed up, and Theo felt sorry for Allison!

Malia met her in junior year when she moved out and started dating Stiles (definitely bad breakup apparently!) but still they hated each other especially because Theo always stays at her house! (Peter's fault of course!)

For Theo, Kira is so innocent that she doesn't know why she is his friend! She was an ex of Scott's but their affair had lasted only a year and then Kira got a crush on Malia but she was still dating Stiles... Luckily, Theo's policy was "Never have romantic relationships with your friends, you always get in trouble!"!!'

Theo has endured too many conversations about his friends' sizes and how they have sex to say with certainty that this rule has actually saved him a lot of trouble! (Theo would never admit it, but he has been head over heels in love with the same person for two years, without having had any other romantic relationships)

"Theo Raeken's ✨Council Of Ladies✨" meets every Thursday night!

A cup of tea, a fancy dress, lots of pastries and a big white cloth and a projector!

Bridgerton awaits them!

(READ THE TAGS!!!)

[wallwriterstuff]

Paint Over The Cracks ||FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley|| Part 4

Warnings: A lot of swearing. Implicit mentions of child abuse. Brief description of murder. Descriptions of PTSD and trauma. Discussions of the foster care system. Mentions of sibling separation.

Words: 3383

Summary: Simon is grappling with much more than he lets anyone see, so much so he feels like he's splitting at the seams. John meets him with the same calm kindness he always has, and Simon struggles to figure out his motivations for it.

<-Part 3: Dirty Laundry Part 5: Fault Lines ->

Nothing here was right.

The old man was though.

You’re a stain, shitbag that’s exploded and left his stench behind.

No. No? Shut up. God shut up.

If there was a way to turn down the voice in his head Simon would have muted the thing years ago. It’s gruff and cracked from the abuse the vocal chords have suffered, inhaling too much crap and not enough air. It spews poison in his brain and he knows it’s all rubbish, a hallucinogen, a serpent in his Garden, but god if it isn’t convincing. He wants to peel of his skin, drain the blood from his veins, and refill it with someone else’s. It’s got to be genetic right? The black spot of old that got pirates quaking has to be branded into his DNA by cigarette butts the same way the life lessons are beaten into his skin, a colourful array of reminders that blare like sirens when he presses one just right to feel something other than the overwhelming dread of just existing as himself.  He can count each one and he knows the meaning of them all.

Worthless.

Vile.

Stupid.

Disappointing.

Coward.

God it’s hot. It’s boiling in this stupid hoodie. It’s got burn marks for ventilation and the sweat it soaks up only makes it smell worse as he pours himself out just trying to keep it all in. Cover the marks. Keep your voice hidden. Don’t tell a soul. Protect mom. Protect Tommy. Fuck, she looked like his mom. Well, the mom he knew before his old man beat her down anyway. No one deserved to look how she looked at the end. Fuck was that – no, no a splash of paint, it was paint, just paint. That bloody awful portrait in the doctor’s office was too close to her head. He never knew blood could arch that far until he watched his old man pull the hammer back. It’s all so confusing. Simon doesn’t honestly know if he’s here or there or somewhere in-between but there’s sun in his eyes and a paper bag in hand with his name on and an address printed underneath that he doesn’t call his own.

No, that’s the address of the palace. It’s a place where the surfaces always smell of citrus bleach, where the walls are warm and straining to keep the bustle of the world out and the quiet of the house within. There’s no blood staining the bathroom here and there’s no desperate search for food through the haze of a burning joint that makes his head swim more than Michael Phelps ever has. No, no in this palace, there’s always food whenever he wants it. The fridge is a pantry stocked full in preparation for a grand feast three times a day, and there’s always spare food going about. He should throw out the apples he’d never gotten round to eating but the luxury of storing it all away beneath that one loose floorboard still hadn’t worn off because – God, was Tommy as lucky as he was? His stomach’s never been so full and yet so queasy. It’s exhausting keeping an eye on the Bearded Guy. He’ll snap eventually, they always do. He was surprised he hadn’t set him off when he saw the mattress.

The shame is still gnawing in his gut and reminding him what a disgusting stain he is on that palace. His fingerprints leave trails of blood and ichor behind. There were no monsters under the bed before he moved in. Those pristine white walls are tainted with smoke and filth and he’s just never quite clean enough. How much do you have to scrub a soul for the devil to want to barter for it again?

“Simon?”

Should have never fucking had you.

“Simon?”

You can join your fucking mum.

“Simon!”

The touch is light, unintrusive, but the flesh remembers what the mind wishes it could forget. Simon flinches from Price’s tap to his shoulder like the man’s burned him, and he has to give himself a good mental shake before he dares meet Price’s eyes. Shake it off. Head in the game. Protect Mom. Protect Tommy.

“Why the fuck are we at B&Q?” Simon blurts the question before he can stop himself. His thoughts feel a little too lose and it’s unhinged his mouth. He clamps it tightly shut once more and imagines the box; Pandora would be jealous of the horrors he hides in his, but the lock doesn’t feel quite so sturdy today. Price raises a brow at the language but doesn’t comment on it. Simon’s glad. He’s finding it increasingly hard to fight the Bearded Guy on anything when he’s always so calm about things. It’s a beguiling sense of security. They’re trying to coax something out of him but he still can’t tell what.

“Paint.” Price’s reply is simple, and yet it throws him completely for a loop. Paint? Why the hell do they need paint? His palace is glorious and in no need of renovations. It’s got everything he could ever want. Hell, he could die happy in the bathroom just to juxtapose his mum. The old man might call it poetic justice. Simon squints through the windshield, eyeing the bold orange letters with wary confusion. It feels like a trick, but his head’s too scrambled to really figure out the man’s mind games today so he has no choice but to bite the line and let him reel him in.

“Why?” he asks, letting his eyes drift back to Price. The man’s got eyes like ice and Simon isn’t sure he’ll ever know what lies in the murky depths of them, isn’t sure he wants to know. Price pulls up the handbrake and turns off the ignition. The silence in the air is charged and Simon’s muscles ache from all the tension in his body. The morning’s been a lot and he just wants to go to the closest thing he has to home, which is currently the bin liner in his room that’s rapidly losing the smell of Tommy and his Mum and he just…isn’t ready for it to go. He can’t handle the palace becoming his home, for their to be no trace of his mum or Tommy in it, for lemon scented cleaning products to replace stale cigarette fumes and the tang of blood that’s his only real connection to the last of his mother’s warmth as she spilled it onto his hands with her final breath. God he needs therapy, and he hates himself all the more for acknowledging it. 

Uh-oh. That looks never good on an adult. His lips have pursed and his eyes are searching. Simon won’t let him find a thing though, tilting his chin up just a little and narrowing his eyes the way he’s been taught. He’ll bare his teeth before he ever bares his throat.

“There have been certain things that have come to light, things that Mrs Laswell wants to come and talk to you about before she’ll talk to me about them, that mean you’ll be staying with me for a while,” Price is choosing his words as carefully as a bomb disposal expert picks which wires to cut, “So I thought…maybe you could choose a colour or two, make your room your own and decorate it a bit.” His words ricochet around his brain like bullets, but none of it’s a misfire. They hit so many open wounds it makes Simon suck in a sharp breath to keep from screaming out because it’s just not fair. He doesn’t want Price’s room, or his baskets, or his palace but nobody seems to care what he wants right now.

“How long? Is Tommy coming to live with you to?” Simon’s voice is sharp, too sharp, jagged edges bleeding raw and Price is seeing too much again. He can’t help it though and the white hot fury and panic is a deadly combination with the heavy grief that keeps trying to steal his breath. He’s a skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of flesh and there’s not enough room for all these feelings so into Pandora’s box they go to.

“No, Simon, he can’t.” Price is so calm about it all, as if Simon’s sanity isn’t hinging on the decisions these adults are making for him. “I’m sorry. I understand that feels unfair, and you might well be angry, maybe even anxious, sad. It’s okay to feel like that-“

“Fucking hell here we go.” He muttered, eyes rolling and head turning away. He’s agitated by the injustice of it all, a tempest incoming on a tranquil shore. Since when did they get to decide for him? Why do his choices never seem to matter?

“Okay. Okay. I see it’s not something you want to talk about. When you’re ready, I’m here to listen. Do you want to do this? Decorate your room a bit? Or should we go home?” He wants to yell and scream at the old man to get mad, to be mad on his behalf, to rebel against the stupid rules of the world that are keeping his brother away from him and just let him have him anyway. Tommy needs him. He always has. It’s the only thing he has left. But here Price is again, a gentle breeze on a summer’s day that gives fresh air in a humid and cloying place devoid of comfort. He just seems to know how to calm the fiery fury, flips switches in his brain like a train line manager switches tracks, easily diverting disaster because yes – yes, god, finally, something he can control.

“Whatever.” He grumbles, already opening the car door and leaving Prive to follow behind. Maybe he’ll get black. Or neon yellow. His thoughts are already spinning to see what colours might piss off Price the most. His feelings are all spiteful and petty little things that demand retribution for him in all its forms. You’re a stain. Alright then. He’ll taint this palace just as he’s tainted every other place he’s been. Yet, as Price leads him to the paint section and he faces rows and rows of colour swatches, he’s struck dumb by the amount of colour.

It’s the explosive reds that catch his eye first, his rage calling to those colours like their soulmates destined to cross the distance and meet, but then he spots a crimson too close to the shade of his mum on the bathroom floor and he’s forced to look away as grief swells and crushes any fight or resolve his spirit had. Perhaps blue is the better colour for him, but even that looks too happy. The feelings and thoughts battle in his head and Simon pulls the black mask from his pocket instinctively, slipping it over his ears and hearing the whisper of maniacal laughter rumble through his mind before it all falls quiet. Silent as the grave. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

Go on Simon, pick one, as a treat. Don’t tell your dad, okay? He so badly wishes his mother was here and it really was just as simple as picking a sweet treat at the bakery to sneakily share with her on the way home from school. How can he possibly pick a colour for his room in the palace? It’s too big a responsibility for his thin shoulders.

“Have you got a favourite colour?” Price’s question pulls him from the depths of his mind and Simon forces his eyes to move from the shades of red. The question seems innocuous enough that he feels inclined to answer.

“Blue.” Simon’s not really sure it’s the right answer, but he’s got to be the man of the house and blues a boys colour, or so he’s been taught.  He’s not entirely sure he likes any of the blues that Price pulls from the swatches to show him, though he’s sure he should. His brow crinkles slightly.

“You sure?” Price’s voice is gentle, probing. Simon’s eyes roam the swatches of colour and linger on the greens. There’s one like the shade of Tommy’s hoodie, and another like the grass in the field of the old industrial estate he could escape to when the house was too much. Some nice oranges to, like the sunsets that painted his mum in such a lovely light in summer, back when she could wear sundresses without worrying about who saw the bruises or cuts or emaciated bones beneath butterfly-wing flesh. He gravitates to them, craving the joy those memories bring. If he gets to control anything in this shitshow of a life he’s living, if he really gets to choose this, then god fucking dammit he wants to be the one to really choose. He gently slides the two colour strips from their snug spot in the line up and stares them down like the answers might just pop out at him.

“I want these.” The words are out before he can stop them, and his head snaps up because stupid stupid stupid you’re not allowed to want such unnecessary things. Be grateful for what you’ve got you little maggot.

“Well, we’ll need to narrow down a shade a bit more, but green and orange it is.” Price so easily gives in and Simon feels a spark of something warm. It’s the same kind of feeling he got when he saw them take his old man to the ground and cuff him like the criminal he was – satisfaction. It’s a feeling that grows when, between himself, Price, and a store employee, he narrows down the shades of paint he wants. Price loads them and two other cans he insists are necessary to make a proper paint job onto the trolley and they start weaving back through the aisle’s. B&Q isn’t a place Simon’s ever gone to before and for just a little while it’s nice to get lost in the wide and busy aisles, to let his eyes wander and dream of what a real home might look like. He can’t imagine ever really having a proper one, but dreams are nice, comforting, delusional.

With the paint purchased and stored safely in the boot of the car, Simon’s set to return to the palace and tries to steel himself for a torturous evening of stopping his mind from collapsing in on itself again when Price points out the nearby IKEA to.

“What about it? You know the meatballs are all horsemeat right?” Simon says. Price chuckles slightly at that. He’s relaxed back in his seat, making no effort to leave anytime soon. It set’s Simon on edge slightly, and he sits straighter. What sort of favour did he want in return for the paint then?

“I don’t want the meatballs. I wanted to know whether or not you’ve got enough storage for your things? We can get some more furniture if we need to.” Price says. Oh. Simon’s brow furrows, wondering when the other shoe will drop. He’ll surely want him to pay up for it somehow but he just can’t workout how or when or with what. He’s been shown how it works time and again. Maybe it’s a fistful of powder or his own beaten body, but somehow you always have to pay the piper.

“It’s fine.” He won’t get in anymore debt than he already has today. Price nods, takes him at his word, but still drives them there anyway.

“Well, I want to get a new desk chair for my office. We’ll go home after this and sort dinner, okay?” His words are a soothing balm to Simon whose more than ready to be home and out of the public eye. Being under Price’s watchful gaze is draining and he’s ready to hide back in his room again, imagine the paint on his walls, wallow in peace. They walk a good section of the store where Simon can’t stop the way his eyes turn and wheel over the items on display. It’s an abundance of luxury to him. None of this stuff is thrifted or upcycled from his neighbour’s garage, nor a hand-me-down from grandparents he never got to meet. He wonders aimlessly through the aisle’s as Price takes his sweet time choosing a chair.

As they pass through the kids section he gets the feeling he’s been doused by a bucket of cold water. It’s a monstrous thing, long and green with a yellow underbelly and this flicker of red felt for a tongue that’s in no way real but still sends a shiver down his spine.

You scared of Rocco, Simon?

Just having fun.

He can see the things bulbous head, hear the lapping of its tongue as it flicks to search for prey. He can feel the smoothness of scales on his lips still. It takes a lot of willpower to stop his hands from shaking in the pockets of his hoodie as he reminds himself the toys just that, a toy.

“You like snakes?” Price asks with genuine and innocent curiosity. Only Simon see’s the horrors in his head as he replays vivid memories of the nights his old man bought home the deadly beasts. It brings a cold sweat to his palms and his knee-jerk reaction is to keep the weakness hidden.

“No. It’s a stupid toy.” Simon scoffs, moving on quickly from the stuffed animals. He only pauses in his pursuit of an exit when they reach the final section of the store, just before the warehouse. It’s crammed full of portraits and mirrors and candles, house plants and rugs to. His head is buzzing still with the hiss of a snake but it’s slowly being drowned out by the gentle humming of his mum, his feet carrying him naturally to the plant he recalled her tending to so often. It infuriated his old man of course. He’d tossed the thing out of the window after accusing her of nourishing it more than her family. Simon had been the only one to witness her despair that day. He ran his fingers gently along the big leaves covering the soil in the pot, the same way his mum had done once as she hummed.

If the plant happened to slip into Price’s trolley then, well, neither of them needed to acknowledge it, did they?

Price let him be once he’d helped him put all the new things they’d bought into his room. Simon couldn’t bear to unwrap or move anything, suffocating in the weight of his own feelings of unworthiness for a while before he finally sucked it up and began to move the new belongings into place. He hurriedly threw the absorbent pad on the mattress atop a waterproof sheet, shame clouding his every thought as he prepares his bed and prays those tablets the doctor prescribed him would work so he wouldn’t have to make his bed like that ever again. Simon sets his plant up next, takes his time with it, ensures it’s in the best spot on his desk where the sunlight can hit it just right. He waters it, adds a little bit of plant food he’d insisted was necessary to buy and sets an alarm on his phone to remind himself to water it some more in a few days time.

He sits back on his bed and glances about the pristine quarters he’s been given in the palace, imagines them green and orange like the paint waiting to be used in the shed, and for the first time in weeks Simon feels a little of the weight ease from his shoulders. Maybe this place could be home; with a splash of orange there to reflect the sunsets and, oh maybe he could go half and half and…Tommy would likely never see it. Simon’s expression sours, bitter rage welling in his chest again until all he can do is bring his fist down on the pillow again and again and again and its never enough to close that raw, throbbing wound in his chest. Panting hard, he squeezes his eyes closed, but nothing helps to quell the rage.

Oh? You do have some balls on you after all!

Simon’s left helpless in the maelstrom of his life once more.

[shadystranger]

samdean bring world order by making everyone put their differences aside and all come together to agree they're freaky and need help

[galactic-rhea]

listening to what my mom and my older sister's advices to a friend of them regarding her son and I'm here like

Holy cow on a motorbike, you both fricking suck so much at this, how am I a functional person

[yoddhasblog]

RCI, you dumb group of idiots

[justtogetthrough]

Finally came to the realization that I’ve uuuh spent 15 years trying to apply other people’s interpretations of my life to my experience of my life, like over my own, and that’s probably why I’ve had immense struggle in making sense of things (understatement).

Being diagnosed with autism is finally making me understand what my therapist and the psychologist said a couple months ago about trauma not being the right lens for a whole ass portion of things. I heard them both independently say it. I apparently did not understand what they meant until this weekend. Now I’m like oh my god, maybe I’ve been wrong in trying to blame early life Trauma for all my problems, and that’s why I’m not getting anywhere in terms of feeling like I understand myself.

My therapist is very gracious every time I prove her right. I love that about her.

[katniss-evermeme]

My mom: *routinely watches R rated thriller movies with generous amounts of gore and excessive usage of the f-bomb when my little brother is around*

Also my mom: *freaked out when we got to the bomb dog episode of Spy X Family, relentlessly asked why I'd watch something so brutal around my brother*

[sincerelyyoursg]

baby he told me how i should be a doctor bcs i told him to drink water since he has a headache 😭

[kaleidoscopebydbh]

Best Psychologists for Teens in Delhi

Hyperactivity is a prevalent problem among children, impacting their capacity to concentrate, control impulses, and remain still. Recognizing the indications of hyperactivity in children and consulting with adolescent psychologists can assist in addressing the problem before it escalates. At Kaleidoscope, a unit of Dr Bakshi's Healthcare Centre, we have a team of best psychologists for teens to assist them in overcoming any challenges they are encountering. Counselling enables children to express their emotions and thoughts in a safe environment.

[azraphels]

if there was a possible Stranger Things spin-off with Jim Hopper as the lead, might I recommend to use Dylan Sprayberry as its actor? Check him out! It gives me too many Jim Hopper vibes!

[positivemindhubsworld]

Melbourne’s Leading Teen Psychologist: Empowering Young Minds

In the vibrant city of Melbourne, teenagers face unique challenges that can impact their mental health and well-being. As a leading teen psychologist, our mission is to empower young minds through compassionate, evidence-based support. We recognize that adolescence is a critical time for personal development, and our approach is designed to help teens navigate this transformative period with confidence and resilience.

We provide a safe, non-judgmental space where teenagers can explore their feelings, concerns, and aspirations. Our therapeutic methods are tailored to each individual, addressing issues such as anxiety, depression, self-esteem, and relationship struggles. By fostering open communication, we encourage teens to express themselves authentically, helping them build self-awareness and emotional intelligence.

Teen Psychologist Melbourne

[primoresplendens]

...accurate damn

try my quiz!