question:我可以不可以单独设置一个函数去运行串行代码输出时间然后计算加速比？

question:试一下吧你

question:#include <mpi.h> #include <cstdio> #include <ctime> #include <random> #include <omp.h> #define N 1000000000 // 抽样次数 int sing() { int count = 0; double pi; srand(time(NULL)); // 用系统时间作为随机数种子 clock_t start_time, end_time; double time_taken; start_time = clock(); for (int i = 0; i < N; i++) { double x, y; x = (double)rand() / RAND_MAX; y = (double)rand() / RAND_MAX; if (x*x + y * y <= 1)//如果点在第一象限内部，则count加1 { count++; } } end_time = clock(); time_taken = double(end_time - start_time) / CLOCKS_PER_SEC; pi = (double)count / N * 4; return time_taken; } int main(int argc, char *argv[]) { int rank, size; int count = 0, global_count = 0; double pi; double start_time, end_time, time_taken; double serial_time = sing(); MPI_Init(&argc, &argv);//MPI初始化 MPI_Comm_rank(MPI_COMM_WORLD, &rank);//获得总进程数和当前进程编号 MPI_Comm_size(MPI_COMM_WORLD, &size); srand(time(NULL) + rank); start_time = MPI_Wtime();//记录开始使劲按 #pragma omp parallel// { int count_private = 0; #pragma omp for for (int i = rank; i < N; i += size) { double x, y; x = (double)rand() / RAND_MAX; y = (double)rand() / RAND_MAX; if (x*x + y * y <= 1)//如果点在第一象限内部，则count_private加1 { count_private++; } } #pragma omp atomic count += count_private; } MPI_Reduce(&count, &global_count, 1, MPI_INT, MPI_SUM, 0, MPI_COMM_WORLD); if (rank == 0) { pi = (double)global_count / N * 4; end_time = MPI_Wtime(); time_taken = end_time - start_time; printf("MPI+OpenMP: # of trials = %14d, estimate of pi is %1.16fn", N, pi); printf("MPI+OpenMP time = %f secondsn", time_taken); double mpi_speedup = serial_time / time_taken; printf("speedup = %fn", mpi_speedup); } MPI_Finalize(); return 0; }加上注释

question:summarize: One reason this approach has proved less effective in the psychological realm is that mental health and emotional health are not the same thing. Mental health encompasses disease-like states such as clinical depression and schizophrenia, which are complex and difficult to treat but do present with recognizable symptoms. Here, we are more interested in emotional health, which incorporates mental health but is also much broader—and less easy to codify and categorize. Emotional health has more to do with the way we regulate our emotions and manage our interpersonal relationships. I did not have a mental illness, per se, but I did have serious issues with my emotional health that impaired my ability to live a happy, well-adjusted life—and potentially did put my life in danger. Medicine 2.0 has a harder time dealing with situations such as this. Taking care of our emotional health requires a paradigm shift similar to the shift from Medicine 2.0 to Medicine 3.0. It’s about long-term prevention, just like our approach to preventing cardiovascular disease. We have to be able to recognize potential problems early and be willing to put in hard work to address these problems over a long period of time. And our approach must be tailored to each individual, with their unique history and set of issues. Our Medicine 3.0 thesis is that if we address our emotional health, and do so early on, we will have a better chance of avoiding clinical mental health issues such as depression and chronic anxiety—and our overall health will benefit as well. But there is rarely a simple cure or a quick fix, any more than we have a quick fix for cancer or metabolic disease. Addressing emotional health takes just as much constant effort and daily practice as maintaining other aspects of our physical health by creating an exercise routine, following a nutritional program, adhering to sleep rituals, and so on. The key is to be as proactive as possible, so that we can continue to thrive in all domains of healthspan, throughout the later decades of our lives. What makes dealing with emotional health harder than physical health, I suspect, is that we are often less able to recognize the need to make changes. Few people who are overweight and out of shape fail to realize they need to make a change. Making the change might be another story. But countless people are in desperate need of help with their emotional health, yet fail to recognize the signs and symptoms of their condition. I was the poster child for this group. — After two weeks, I left the Bridge. My therapists there were uneasy about letting me go so soon; they wanted me to stay for another month, but I felt that I had made tremendous progress in that relatively short time. Acknowledging my past felt like a huge deal to me. I felt hopeful, and they finally agreed that I could leave. So I flew home the day before Christmas. This was probably a mistake. I wish I could say that this marked the end of the story, the point where Old Peter said goodbye, with his selfishness and his anger, and New Peter took his place, and we all lived happily ever after. Alas, that was not the case; it was, at best, only the end of the beginning. I had a lot of work to do when I came home, to process what had been unearthed at the Bridge and to begin to try to heal my relationships with my wife and my children. With the help of two wonderful therapists, Esther Perel (alone) and Lorie Teagno (with my wife), I made slow progress as the weeks and months went by. Lorie and Esther both felt I needed a male therapist, one who could model healthy male emotions. I tried out several good male therapists, but I did not feel a connection to any of them the way I had felt connected to Jeff English, my primary therapist at the Bridge. I was ready to give up when Esther suggested that I read Terrence Real’s book I Don’t Want to Talk About It, a groundbreaking treatise on the roots of male depression. Once I started, I could not put it down. It was almost creepy that this guy seemed to be writing about me, despite never having met me. His main thesis is that with women, depression is generally overt, or obvious, but men are socialized to conceal their depression, channeling it inward or into other emotions, such as anger, without ever wanting to discuss it. (Hence the title.) I could relate to the stories that he shared about his patients. So I began to work with Terry as well. After having gone far too long without any therapy at all, I was now seeing three therapists. Terry had grown up working-class in Camden, New Jersey, with a father whom he describes as a “loving, smart, and brutally violent man.” It turned out that the driving force was his father’s hidden depression, which he had adeptly handed on to Terry. “My father beat his depression into me with a strap,” he told me. Trying to cope with his father’s anger and violence was what had pushed him in the direction of studying psychotherapy. “I needed to make sense of my father and his violence, so I would not repeat it,” he said. Terry helped me continue to connect the dots between my own childhood and the kinds of dysfunction that had marked my adolescence and my life as an adult. Looking back at my teenage self, and the way I was in college, I realize now that I was morbidly depressed—clinically, off-my-rocker depressed. I just didn’t know it at the time. I had the classical symptoms of covert male depression, which were a tendency to isolate myself and, above all, a propensity to anger, perhaps my most potent addiction. One of the first things I wrote in my journal, after an early discussion with Terry, still resonates today: “90% of male rage is helplessness masquerading as frustration.” Terry helped me make sense of the helplessness that I still felt. I came to understand that the crucial factor for me was the shame I felt about having been victimized. As is the case with many men, I had flipped that shame into a feeling of grandiosity. “Shame feels bad; grandiosity feels good,” he told me. “It is central to masculinity and traditional manhood, this flip from the one-down victim to the one-up avenger. What’s devilish about flipping from shame into grandiosity like this is that it works. It makes you feel better in the short run, but it just creates havoc in your life in the long run.” Even worse was the realization of what my behavior had been doing to my family, especially my kids. I was not so delusional as to think I was being a particularly good dad, at that point, but I took at least some modicum of pride in the fact that I could protect my kids from the trauma I had suffered. I was a great “provider” and “protector.” They would never have to suffer my specific childhood shame. But I knew they saw my overflowing anger, even though it was rarely directed toward them or Jill. At the Bridge, I learned that children don’t respond to a parent’s anger in a logical way. If they see me screaming at a driver who just cut me off, they internalize that rage as though it were directed to them. Second, trauma is generational, although not necessarily linear. Children of alcoholics are not inevitably destined to become alcoholics themselves, but one way or another, trauma finds its way down the line. As Terry had written: “Family pathology rolls from generation to generation like a fire in the woods taking down everything in its path until one person, in one generation, has the courage to turn and face the flames. That person brings peace to his ancestors and spares the children that follow.” I wanted to be that person. — Slowly, with the help of Terry as well as Esther and Lorie, I began to pick up some tools to help me deal with my past and to guide my day-to-day behavior onto a better path. One helpful model that Terry had taught me was to think about my relationships as akin to a delicate ecosystem, a kind of emotional ecology. Why would I want to poison the environment in which I had to live? This sounds so basic, but it took some thought and consideration, and even strategizing, to put into practice. It meant pulling back from the little things that used to make me mad at the people around me, on a daily or even hourly basis; that, I now recognized, was poisoning the drinking well. I had to learn new ways of dealing with day-to-day problems and frustrations. This is an important stage in Terry’s framework, the stage of teaching: This is how you do it right. This is how you listen to your partner’s complaint and be compassionate. “These are all skills,” Terry told me. “And like all the skills you have tried to master over your life, you can learn these, also.” Some of the changes I made seem like no-brainers. I made sure to spend time with my kids—one on one, no phones—every day that I was home. I would check in with Jill on her experience (not “events”) each day. I limited my phone time and my work hours to a strict window. One day a week, typically Saturday or Sunday, I would refrain from doing any work at all, something that went against decades of ingrained habit. Even more amazing, Jill and I went on an actual vacation for the first time in years, just the two of us, no kids. One skill I worked on that is a bit more complicated is called “reframing.” Reframing is basically the ability to look at a given situation from someone else’s point of view—literally reframing it. This is an incredibly difficult thing for most of us to do, as David Foster Wallace explained in his now famous 2005 commencement address to the graduating class at Kenyon College, “This Is Water”: Everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe; the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely think about this sort of natural, basic self-centeredness because it’s so socially repulsive. But it’s pretty much the same for all of us. It is our default setting, hardwired into our motherboards at birth. Think about it: there is no experience you have had that you are not the absolute center of. The world as you experience it is there in front of YOU or behind YOU, to the left or right of YOU, on YOUR TV or YOUR monitor. And so on. Other people’s thoughts and feelings have to be communicated to you somehow, but your own are so immediate, urgent, real. I could relate. This had certainly been my own default setting, for as long as I could remember. It’s tempting to try to pin it on my own history of trauma, and my need to adapt to protect myself, but obviously it had stopped serving me so well. Easier described than accomplished, reframing entails taking a step back from a situation and then asking yourself, What does this situation look like through the other person’s eyes? How do they see it? And why is your time, your convenience, or your agenda any more important than theirs? This comes in handy almost every single day. For example, if my wife comes home and snips at me because I didn’t help put away the groceries, my tendency might be to think, Hey, I’m working really hard and I can’t always pitch in. And that sense of entitlement would sneak up inside me because, well, I am working very hard, and someone else can put away the groceries. But then I ask myself, Wait, what has Jill’s day been like today? She had to pick up our boys from school and take them to the grocery store, where they probably fought like wild animals and made everyone in the store think Jill is the worst mother on the planet because she can’t control her spoiled little brats, while she stood in line at the deli counter just to get me the perfectly sliced deli meat that can’t be found with the prepackaged deli meat, and then on the way home she hit every single red light while the boys threw Lego bricks at each other. And you know what? When I view it through her lens, I quickly get over myself and realize that I’m the one who’s being selfish and that next time I have to do better. That’s the power of reframing. You realize that you have to step back from a situation, temper your reflexive reaction, and try to see what is actually happening. Somewhere along the line, in a random airport on a long work trip, I had picked up David Brooks’s book The Road to Character. On the plane, I read the part where Brooks makes a key distinction between “résumé virtues,” meaning the accomplishments that we list on our CV, our degrees and fellowships and jobs, versus “eulogy virtues,” the things that our friends and family will say about us when we are gone. And it shook me. For my entire life, I had been accumulating mostly résumé virtues. I had plenty of those. But I had also recently attended a funeral for a woman about my age who had died of cancer, and I was struck by how lovingly and movingly her family had spoken about her—with hardly a mention of her impressive professional or educational success. What mattered to them was the person she had been and the things she had done for others, most of all her children. Would anyone be speaking that way about me when it was my turn in the casket? I doubted it. And I decided that that had to change.