Restraints

Physical managements are never fun. They're even less fun when the patient is about two times your weight and hasn't showered in weeks. But it is a great bonding experience with your fellow staff.

I had just finished rounding off when a patient approached me and told me another patient was hurting herself l in her room. Obviously, we moved to intervene, and when she would not stop, and instead began to get violent, we had to retrain her.

It is a testament to my coworkers that none of us hesitated to help, even though all of us were women and none of us found the stench of unwashed body to be one we wanted to carry through the rest of our shift. For a solid twenty minutes, we held her as she fought and screamed and swore, desperately trying to get free to grab a hold of any sharp object she could find. I have some lovely bruises now.

After it became clear that the PRN the nurse had given to calm her down was not taking effect, she called for help, and soon staff from our other units flooded in to help. I had to step back to continue rounds (an extremely vital aspect of our job), and came upon the other patients all grouped together in one of the dayrooms, their eyes wide. They had never seen anything like that before.

“Why couldn't you just leave her alone?” one asked.

“She was hurting herself,” I answered patiently. “We couldn't let her do that.”

“Do you call the police?”

“No—we're trained to handle it,” I smiled.

A few impressed gasps.

“Miri, we had no idea you were so badass!” one blurted, and I laughed.

The laughter broke the tremulous feeling of fear in the room, and peace and smiled returned. The rest of the night flew by, and soon I was driving home.

And, of course, the minute I came home, I dumped my clothes in my laundry basket, showered twice, threw my washcloth into the laundry too, and sat down to write about it all. It's a good reminder, I think, that my job isn't all fun and games and touching moments. Sometimes, it involves strength of mind and body.

That, and a whole lotta soap.

Secrets

There are some people who would look at the group I had today and say “Man, what a bad shift.” And in some ways, it was. These girls were somewhat sneaky, passing notes, sneaking hugs, gossiping about each other and the staff, constantly asking me the same questions in a rather rude tone of voice, needing constant redirection, constant supervision. It was exhausting.

And yet.

And yet today I ran a group longer than any I ever have before; for a full two hours, we talked. We talked about secrets, about regrets, about memories. I saw girls, one-by-one, open up their souls and truly look inside. I had girls who drove me crazy the rest of the day tear up in sympathy for another's past. They identified with each other—they were honest with each other.

I had some tell us stories they'd never admitted before; others tell about secrets they once were weighted down by that only recently they had allowed to surface.

I had a few who would not share their secret, but they were quite willing to share why they kept it: fear. They were afraid as to what their parents, their friends, their family, even strangers would think if they were honest. They were afraid of being rejected, of being labeled, of being mocked.

And the devastating reality is, their fears are legitimate. These are the girls who are bullied, who are mocked, who are scorned by their own family and told they are just attempting suicide or harming themselves for attention. Their illnesses are dismissed, degraded, and rejected.

Isn't that horrible? Isn't society horrible, that this is the norm for these wonderful, difficult girls? I want to encourage them to be honest, be open, and yet I cannot bring myself to fully advise them simply because I am painfully aware of the reality that the end result may be more harm than good.

And, of course, we talked about that too.

Names

It is rare for us to have patients stay longer than a week. Usually, they stay and leave so quickly you barely have time to remember their names. Some will return days, weeks, months later, and be wounded that you don't remember them. “In the time since you've left, I've worked with hundreds of kids,” I want to tell them, but I don't. I just pretend to remember their face, not their name. And they laugh at how forgetful I am.

I wish I could remember all the kids I worked with in inpatient. I still remember the ones I cared for in residential, and I pray for them by name daily. I knew those kids, their likes and dislikes, their quirks and thoughts. In inpatient, you're lucky if you know whether they are on good terms with their parents or not (usually not).

Sometimes, the kids will write me notes or draw me pictures thanking me. Those are the ones I remember. I put them up on my cupboards and I smile every time I see them. It's a reminder to me that even though I may not remember all of their names, I have made some small difference in their lives. Those notes and pictures, they represent to me all of those who I have worked with and cared for in just a small moment of their long lives.

I know I am just one person. I know that I cannot make much of a difference in anyone's life. But I also know that I can look back in my own life, point to one person, and say “There. He is the one who changed me. He is the one who gave me hope. He is why I am who I am today.”

And maybe it's vain, but I want to be that person too.

Quick Update

Hello all! So sorry I have not posted lately; my computer has been giving me a lot of problems, and as I write the posts in advance and then publish, it's hard for me to get a post uploaded. Please hang with me a while longer, and I'll hopefully have the money to get it repaired! Thanks so much for following!

Returns

The worst part about my job is not what you would expect, or what I expected when I started working there. It's not the biting, kicking, yelling, threats, aggression, or anything like that. It's not staring at a room of girls and boys so young and already wanting to give up on life. It's not tensing slightly when a patient who's in for attempting to kill their parents walks by you. It's seeing them come back.

Some patients, we know they'll be back; the only reason they left in the first place was because their insurance ran out or they learned how to lie. But others, well, we really never want to see them again. We want to believe that they are living a happy life somewhere out in the world.

At least four times in the past month alone, I have had favorite patients of mine, those who I really thought may make it, come back. Some are optimistic, saying they just need a little more help, and then they'll be okay. Those are the ones who usually commit themselves. Others stare up at you with sad, huge, lost eyes, wondering why they're here again, why they can't break their habits. They are the ones that suffered breakdowns, and simply snapped. It's tragic.

Unlike a lot of patients, these children are sweet, kind, and considerate. They know the rules and respect them; they remember the staff and are kind to us. They try hard in groups, talk to us when they're feeling suicidal or when they want to harm themselves, and generally do anything in their power to understand what went wrong.

These boys and girls, they want help. They want to get better, and they want to make a difference. Interestingly enough, they are the ones who tell me that someday they want to do my work. If they can win these battles, I tell them, they will make fantastic staff.

I keep a mental list of these girls. I pray for them whenever I'm reminded of that list. I keep the notes they write to me up on my walls, and pray for them whenever I see them. The way I figure, they can use all the support they can get.

And, after all, a little prayer never hurt a soul.

Aggression

It occurred to me today that almost all my posts are about our suicidal/depressed/self-injuring patients. I don't really know why that is; I suppose it may be because they are the ones that I think need so much support and love. But they are only half of the residents.

They other half, they are aggressors.

These are the children that , when they are first admitted, will kick you, then wait. They will yank your hair, and wait. They will slap, spit, yell, curse, threaten......and wait. They wait to see what you will do, how you will react. They are testing the waters. They want to know how much they can get away with before you lost your temper. They run hot or cold; either these patients will flare up with fury, or wait, spreading hatred like ice across a lake, slowly but deadly.

These are the children who will toss racial slurs at their peers, make death threats, even attack them for no reason. They keep us on our toes, and they make the other patients, the ones who would never harm anyone but themselves, nervous.

These boys and girls are, quite frankly, nasty. They are admitted for burning down their homes, attacking their family members, even bringing guns to school. They are angry, and they want to spread their anger.

Unfortunately for them, we've seen it all before.

The Achilles Heel of these children is not punishment or negative reinforcement, it is kindness. When someone kicks you, kicks you hard, you want to kick them back. But that is what they want. What they can't stand is a disappointed look and a gentle voice asking them why they would disrespect someone who is trying to help them. To see if it's genuine, often a few more vulgar insults have been thrown into the air. A reminder that you are not disrespecting them, but they are most certainly disrespecting you, will make them feel ashamed. Any human in the world hates that feeling.

Some will try to hide their shame by acting out more, and when more patience, more kindness, is offered, they will simply throw up their hands and storm off to sulk. Others will apologize. Some will suddenly decide they like you, and then the aggression is pointed elsewhere.

These children are far more complicated than those who hurt themselves, but I believe that most, if not all, of them loathe themselves so much that they turn their anger outward, a shield against the world. Some have been heavily abused; others are the abusers. All of them are still children.

Kill them with kindness, I think as I stare at my bruises. Kill them with kindness.

And hide your surprise when they greet you with a smile and a hug on your next shift.

And maybe be sure they aren't holding a shank.

Challenges

It's easy to let one day slide into the next working here. The faces become blurred, the stories run together, and even the staff begin to all look the same. Since I last wrote a post, I have done three physical managements, worked with probably a good 50 girls, and counted the minutes till shift change God-only-knows how often.

I love my job, I love the girls I've worked with and continue to work with, and I enjoy most of the staff. But even chaos becomes mundane after a while.

Today was what we call challenging and what non-staff would call flat-out impossible. Even our longest veterans agreed it was in the top 5 for crazy days. Every 10 minutes or so, someone else would go off. Chairs were thrown, tables tipped, windows and walls punched. A challenging day.

I admit, it got to me after a while. My girls could not go to bed because some of the other patients down the bedroom halls were making the entire area unsafe. It felt like I had one girl crammed in each corner, hands over their ears or mouths, eyes wide, hunched into little balls, and I could do nothing to help them because I had to help with the patients who were the threats. Challenging.

And yet, at the end of the day, I go home knowing we did good. The threats were dealt with, the children comforted and asleep, the group rooms tidied and the nurse's desk organized. Some will probably go out for a drink; I will go home to a book. I like books. They are like alcohol for the soul, sweet, addicting, and diverting.

And I will gather the strength to face the challenges of tomorrow.

Existence

Sometimes, on good days, I will sit my girls in a circle, and for an hour we will talk. It is rare to get them to go for that long; they are so guarded, so suspicious. But today was not one of those days. Today, we talked, and talked, and talked. We talked about secrets, about regrets, about things that they blame themselves for that really aren't their fault. And, eventually, we talked about memories buried so deep that they'd nearly convinced themselves it was just a dream.

I had three girls share about stories of molestations that they had never told a soul. Their faces pale, struggling to find words, they managed, phrase by phrase, to tell their stories. And we all listened.

To have earned the trust of these suspicious and weary young women is a great honor. To listen to their tales is difficult, but rewarding. This is how I can make a difference. And, for those girls who have not experienced this horror, it opens their eyes to the cruel reality of other lives. It makes them think, to realize how wrong it is that so many of the the girls that they consider their friends have suffered incredible injustices in silence.

Sometimes, I am fortunate to have a patient who understands this, who encourages others to share, who is open and patient and, honestly, they do more good than some of the staff. But those girls, as wonderful as they are, worry me too. They are so focused on encouraging others that they forget about their own problems, or shove them aside, deeming them “not that important.” But their feelings are so important; they are the ones who will encourage the world, but until they learn to take time for themselves too, they will burn out.

I try to pull these children (and adults) aside and talk to them, to share this. Sometimes they listen, sometimes they ignore me. But I hope that one day, maybe when they're a little older or a little wiser, they'll remember what I said.

And maybe then they'll turn off their phones, shut off the computer, go outside, and simply be.

Withdrawal

There are a few times, with a few patients, that I am jarred. She was one of these times.

Small, skinny, with heavy bags under her eyes and thinning blonde hair, I could not tear my eyes from her sad, distant smile. I knew those eyes. I knew her posture, shoulders slumped inward, defeated already at such a young age. A heroin addict, going through withdrawal.

Someone I loved once, once and deeply, was an addict too. Tall, strong, with a wild grin and deep blue eyes, tanned skin and thick hair, he didn't look the part. He hid it well. But behind the facade, despair wrapped around his mind. I saw him then, when the smile was gone and his head was buried in his hands as his shoulders shook with the desire for a drug so devastating that he lost years of his life and his memory to it, running from a past that always seemed to loom large in front of him. When he lifted his head, the motion seemed to take all of his energy, and the bruises, dark, black, heavy, encircled his once fake-bright eyes.

As I watch her walk down the hallway, I see him in her steps, stumbling slightly from days without eating, days in which his stomach would not even hold water. I see how she weakly clutches a trembling blanket closer around her thin frame, and I remember how he could never seem to get warm. I see her bones, standing out against dehydrated skin, and remember counting his ribs as I counted his shaky breathing.

When she suddenly blacked out, stumbling to her knees, I remember catching his limp body with my own weight, stumbling back, bruising my back. When he came to, he cried, and so did I.

I would not date him while he was on drugs. That was the deal, and no matter how I felt, I was firm on it. So he stopped using. For a time, at least. When the shakes finally passed, when he could finally eat and smile real, tentative, smiles, the period that followed was bright and joyful. But his eyes never lost their bruises.

When I found that drug hidden in his bathroom a year later, I sobbed. He found me there, and could not deny it. The defeat was back in his eyes, in his shoulders, in his hands. I asked him why, and all he could do was shrug. I knew why. It was a stupid question. I knew he had not faced his demons, but instead tried to hide from them behind me. And for a year, it worked.

I left him then, for a while at least, and six months later, he reappeared in my life, brighter, somehow. Less bruised, less beaten. And for just under a year, we were together again. But what once was hopeful and lovely was marred by my terror that he would begin using again. I became paranoid, and he would watch me with sad eyes that still held a trace of their bruises. We fought, we cried, we made up and fought again, and finally we parted ways.

I never heard from him again. I don't know how he's doing, if he's still clean, or even if he's still alive. But as I see this girl, just a few years younger than myself, stumble down the hallway, I send a sorrowful prayer heavenward. I pray for her, and I pray for him.

And I pray for me.

Laughter

There are times with my job where it takes all of my patience to tell a patient that they are acting like a spoiled brat. Granted, I understand that they are afraid and are hiding behind a guise of impatience and rudeness to mask their terror and vulnerability, but sometimes some people take it so over the top that even the nicest people I work with are cursing about them behind their backs.

“Sara” is one such woman. She is rude, entitled, and snotty. If we did not drop everything to assist her right that instant, then we would have a Recipient Rights Compliant filed against us. If we told her 'no,' or tried to explain a rule, BAM, RRC. She drives us all up one wall and down another, and all I can do is hide it until I get home, until I can relax with my cup of tea and vent and yes, even laugh about it.

That's one thing I've learned, working here: Laughter really is the best medicine.

I sit at my kitchen table, talking wildly, complaining loudly, and my Chosen sits across from me with a little smile on his face as I begin to mimic her tone, her demands, and suddenly I see how pointless it is to get so worked up over one patient, and I too begin to smile, and suddenly we're both laughing, and after I'm out of air I just smile instead, and then he grins and knocks my shoulder, and I go to bed happy.

Too many people are too easily offended. I know outside of work that I am too. But Sara has taught me that I can't be hurt or confused or offended just because one patient out of hundreds treats me with dismissal and disrespect; I know I have helped a good many people fight their battles, and maybe even defeat a few monsters too. I do good work, and I am proud of my work.

I can't let one woman, no matter how frustrating she is, get the better of me like that. So instead I'll ignore the tone, ignore the rudeness and the threats, and treat her with the same efficiency and care that I do with every patient that I meet.

And, at the end of a particularly hard night, I'll go home, make myself a cup of tea and honey, and laugh about it.

To My Daughter

I wrote this recently, and a friend and fellow psychiatric hospital worker asked me to post it here. She told me that the groups she has led using it have responded very well to it. I hope you all enjoy. It is called "To My Daughter."

My precious daughter:

I will never call you beautiful, that

ugly, caging word, but

I will call you strong,

confident, resilient, unafraid

to speak

your mind.

I will never call you cute,

but clever, and

laugh at your quick wit, your

darting smile.

I will never call you Darling—

instead, be Daring.

Take risks, climb

mountains, be unafraid

to lose.

You will never be my Princess, but

you will be my

Adventurer.

Face your battles, slay your

dragons, save

yourself.

Don’t be sweet—be

smart, learn the

whys and the hows, and

question

everything.

Don’t let me call you perfect—make

mistakes, throw

tantrums, be

human, be

you.

As I watch you breathe,

slow, soft, I

marvel.

I marvel at

your smooth skin, your delicate

lips pursed

in sleep, your

downy hair that I

feather

trembling fingers

through.

Oh, my precious, precious daughter,

I will never call you beautiful—

Even though

You are.

Instead, I will call you

Free.

Difference

About a week ago (http://wanderandworldwalk.blogspot.com/2014/10/to-hear.html), I wrote about a girl who confessed to me that her mother was rapidly growing abusive and she was terrified of he. I was unable to work with her since that day, as I was assigned to different groups, but on the day of her discharge I happened to be her staff again. She was smiling, happy, writing little notes to the staff that she wanted to thank. And then she pulled me aside.

“I'm not going to write you a note, Miss Miri, but you're amazing. You're the first adult to actually listen to me—they sent my mom to a mental hospital because of you, and I'm hoping she'll be able to get help. I thought no one would listen; you proved me wrong.”

And she gave me a big hug as she walked out the door.

I'm blinking back tears even now. I had hoped to know what kind of impact I might have made, to know if I actually made a difference, even a small one, and I am so incredibly blessed to have that knowledge. She was so scared that if CPS got involved, she would be pulled away from her family, and instead they were able to get her mother help and give her hope. She left my unit happy and smiling, eager to go home, to see her father and siblings again without having to worry about her mom hurting them.

It was a wonderful reminder that everyone deserves someone to listen to, everyone deserves a chance to be understood. Sure, her tearful confessions put me back in my paperwork and made me miss my break and caused me some serious stress, but knowing that she was heard because of me is amazing. I am so glad I listened, so glad I wrote down all of her sobbing, half-formed thoughts, and that her social worker took the time to talk to her. We made a difference, a real, solid difference, in that girl's life, and to me that is worth all the stress and exhaustion that one night caused me. She is a brilliant and wonderful girl; I wish her every happiness, as I do with all of the children I work with.

And next time I find a girl sobbing in her room, reopening her old wounds and hysterical, I will remember this girl, and I will listen.

And I will hope, as always, that I can make a difference.

Legends

I said goodbye to one of my most challenging girls today. I know it's likely that she'll be back (we see a lot of the same kids over and over again), but I really hope she lives a full and happy life. Her world has been rough and cruel to her; I am glad that I was at least able to make her smile.

I get weird looks from my fellow staff when they find out I tell stories. They don't understand what the point is of fairy tales once you reach a certain age. They forget that legends and fables have lessons within them, and those who are open to it will learn that lesson far better than any other way. This girl was one of those.

Every time I was her staff, she would ask eagerly for what kind of story I would tell, and spend the rest of the day wondering about it. She would rally the other girls around her, and send them all into silence when I dimmed the lights and sat. She'd drift off into the land of legends, and return with a faint, happy smile. For her, I wrote a list of books to read. I want her to continue that wonder even after going back to reality.

People who say that people who read or tell stories just do so to escape reality don't understand the point of that at all; we read or tell to make reality that much clearer. The grains of truth within each tale are the grains that will take root and grow; to understand that life, that reality, does not begin and end with your birth and death, but continues in one continuous, endless loop is both terrifying and freeing. Stories take the pressure off us to be the best; instead, they simply encourage us to hope.

And hope then will flourish into dreams, dreams into goals, goals into reality. The strongest, most successful, happiest people in the world may not always be the richest, but they will be the ones with heads stuffed with lore and hearts singing with hope and promise.

And for this girl, hope was all she wanted.

What Was

I walk slowly down the halls of my old Residential Unit. It is filled with adults now, and in the distance I can hear their conversation. Down what was once the Boys' Hall, I inhale the faint scent of women's perfume, and am mildly surprised to find I miss the stench of sweaty gym socks and body odor.

To my right is the nurse's desk, where once our supervisors sat and surveyed the unit, a radio on hand always in case of emergencies. Now, two staff sit and chat with the patients, handing out water, crackers, and juice.

Where I once taught my kids about life and hope, women watch television, their eyes glued to it, resentful when we shut it off for groups or discussion. I smiled faintly at the indelible swear words scratched into the wall by persistent children; even now, they have left their mark.

One of the doors that leads to the classrooms always sticks; I was there when a boy punched it, bending it slightly. I mention this to a coworker, and they look vaguely horrified; I simply smile sadly. I miss him. I miss all of them.

Our classrooms have been converted into counseling rooms and a small cafeteria; bare walls have replaced clumsy drawings and cheerful posters, tables and chairs lined where once desks scattered.

As a whole, the unit has not changed much. The murals are still on the walls, the view is still quite lovely, and the windows offer plentiful sunlight. But the soul of the place has changed. There is no longer a sense of wonder that children, even children as jaded as the ones I loved, bring to a place they call home. There is no piles of colored pictures, no picture books, no Disney movies. It is almost spartan, compared to what it was once.

True, this new unit is far smoother; we rarely, if ever, have to do physical managements, and I don't think we've ever used the seclusion rooms, but we also never sit and play Magic, or talk about parents and siblings. The women here are pleasant, kind even. The kids were unpredictable at times, uncertain, tremulous and wild.

I guess I miss the suspense.

I know I miss the wonder.

I hope they're happy.

I hope they're free.

Fatherly Love

One of my favorite girls was discharged today. She was always so bright and cheerful, open and honest. She smiled as she packed her bags, excited to go home, but nervous too. I helped her get everything together and felt a little sentimental as she left my unit, beaming.

She came back 30 minutes later in tears.

Unbeknownst to us, her father had come to pick her up. The problem was that her father did not have custody of her, and the minute he saw his daughter he began to swear and curse at her, calling her names and mocking his child. The nurse discharging her simply turned around and took her back.

I talked to her, and all she said was “I don't know why I expected anything different. He's always making fun of me, calling me fat or ugly or stupid.”

It was terrible to see her lose her smile. Even though technically it was bedtime, I set her up with a movie while we waited to see if her mother would be able to come and get her. Every time I did rounds, I poked my head in to make sure she was okay, and she would give me a wan smile.

When we finally got word that her mother would be able to pick her up, I was relieved to tell her—and checked to make sure that she was comfortable going home with her. She nodded, looking a little less distraught. She asked if she could lay down while waiting for her, and of course I agreed.

Not everyone who has children deserves them. This girl was bright, smart, popular and beautiful. She was ambitious and practical, and I watched everything she had learned here dissolve under the insults of her father. I hope her mother offers more support, but I have seen a great many kids come and go here; it's almost like a revolving door. There are some kids who act out right before they are set to be discharged just because they're scared to leave. If they tell us why, we try to help, but sometimes they are so used to silence they don't know anything else. In that case, all we have is a vague sense of something being wrong, and we can't report that to CPS. We can, however, pull their social workers aside, and hope that they are able to glean more information.

And for this girl, all I could do it hope that her mother will help her grow and thrive—and that she'll never have to talk to her father again.

Impact

Today was a good day until about 10:00 pm. That was when the sobbing and screaming began. At first, I didn't think much of it; as strange as it seems, this is commonplace in a hospital like mine. But as I was putting away paperwork, about to start my break, I could hear the nurses talking frantically about rearranging everyone. I told one of them I was going on break, and offered to postpone, and she gasped in relief and shipped me off to sit the the new “unofficial AL” girl.

“AL” means arms-legnth. It is for patients who are high, high risk for hurting themselves. She was unofficial because a doctor hadn't ordered it. I realized with a shock it was a girl who had been on my group that evening, and wondered what on earth she could have done in the hours since bedtime to demand such care.

I walked in the door, and a nurse was sitting cross-legged on the floor across from the girl, who I'll call Erica. Erica was trembling visibly, eyes red. The nurse looked quite relieved when I came in. Erica offered me a wan smile, and I returned to her a genuine one. I sat in the same position as the nurse, and asked her what was going on.

“I did a bad thing,” she said flatly.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I thought I had 15 minutes.”

“15 minutes to do what?”

“I tried to strangle myself. But Miss Cheryl walked in!! I thought I had a whole 15 minutes!”

I was shocked, but I didn't say so. Erica had been hiding under the desk when I first came in the room, but once I sat down she had joined me, and we had played cards and talked and laughed. I thought everything was as well as it could be. But I was wrong.

I didn't know what to say. What can you say to a girl only 14 years old and already determined to die, a girl who is pulled into herself, shivering from adrenaline and terror?

“Would you like to hear a story?”

A half smile, a small nod, and she buried her head in her arms and cried as I told a tale of love and patience. When it was over, she had a tiny, real smile on her face.

“How do you do that? I can't even believe I'm smiling,” she said, ducking her head, touching her face.

I just smiled, and we talked. Now that she was more settled, she was more willing to open up. She told me about how she'd been planning it all day, but how some of her plans went south. She'd wanted to be isolative all day, to make everyone annoyed by her.

“But then you were my staff, Miss Miri,” she said ruefully. “Lots of people, they come in here negative, and I can feed off of that, but you never do.”

I just laughed a little and gestured for her to continue.

She told me about her father, who had just died mere weeks before. Today was his birthday. She laughed, she cried, and I listened. We talked about God, about faith, about books and taking time to care for yourself, and she listened, and I rather hope she heard me too. I tried to give her hope. I don't know if I succeeded.

“Sometimes I just think you're all actors,” she told me, leaning back. “That this is all one big play I'm not a part of. I know it's not like that, but sometimes I wonder.”

I nodded in understanding. I told her a little of my own life, of watching my friends struggle with different mental disorders and some overcome, some, sadly, refuse to accept any help. And she listened.

And, after an hour of talking, of sharing, of tears and laughter, she sighed, stretched, and stood.

“I think I need to go to bed,” she said as shift change began and a new staff appeared at the door to watch over her.

“All right.”

“Thanks, Miss Miri,” she said quietly.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Erica. Feel better—and sleep well.”

And I left her, half-asleep on her bed, no longer trembling, a new staff at her door, and I wondered and hoped and prayed that that mere hour made a difference.

To Hear

It was her first time here, her third night, and she was scared to death. I found her hiding in the bathroom in her room, sobbing hysterically and scratching open the cuts on her legs. Calmly, far more calmly than I felt, I shepherded her into our dayroom and sat down across from her. She was hysterical, practically incoherent. All of a sudden, the story spilled out: her mother, a woman diagnosed with bipolar disorder, was rapidly deteriorating, yelling, screaming, and she was terrified that she would start becoming physically abusive soon. The details changed but that core stayed the same.

“I don't belong here—she does! She's crazy!” she sobbed over and over again. “I've told people but no one listens!”

As she talked, a nurse leaned against the doorway, listening. We exchanged glances and tried to comfort her, but she would not be settled until after the nurse left and another thirty minutes had passed. Finally, I was able to ask her to help me clean up the dayroom to distract her, and after a while, she finally went to bed.

As I went into the conference room, the nurse saw me and strolled over to touch base.

“She was very erratic, wasn't she?” the nurse said conspiratorially. “Her story kept changing.”

I nodded noncommittally and grabbed the report. Since I was the one she'd first opened up to, it was my job to write it down.

I left out the inconsistent manner of delivery, and wrote down what parts had remained consistent. I hoped her social worker would take her seriously.

Before I left for the night, I poked my head into the girl's room again. She was fast asleep, exhausted.

As I walked out to my car, I sent a prayer that we could help her.

And that I could show her that some adults, at least, will hear her.

Unity

When I normally think of teenage girls, I usually wince. I think of cliques, judgement (both on themselves and others), gossip, and general malicious. Who could blame me? The reality is, that is what a lot of high school is: unnecessary cruelty. I remember being in high school, wondering why the 'in-group' girls would just shove past anyone in their way, making cruel comments and dismantling the humanity of others. There were exceptions, there always are, but even within those there was a trace of resentfulness, of suspicion of others. No matter what, I thought, girls in particular are cruel.

That perspective changed a little bit yesterday.

I was alone with all of the high school girls who did not have visitors; there were probably 17-20 of them in this one small room, with just one staff. Not our normal way of doing things, to be sure, but for the most part they were getting along well, split into smaller clumps and talking and laughing, or playing games.

And then a new girl walked in.

She was tiny, nondescript, with huge scared eyes, her shoulder bowed in against her heart, as if to protect it from the heartbreak of exclusion. The talking, the laughter, stilled.

"A new girl!" one cried.

The newcomer hunched smaller into herself.

"You're so pretty!" another called out with a huge smile. "What's your name? We need to introduce ourselves--join us!"

And I watched with joy as she blinked, straightened a little, and hesitantly walked over and sat down at a chair one pulled up for her. Within minutes, she was laughing too.

And when another girl came a few hours later, she received the same eager greeting.

And I learned something.

I learned that unity has nothing to do with history, race, socioeconomic status, appearance, or any other possible separation. Unity is not about being alike, or even agreeing on the same topics. Unity is greeting someone new with a smile, welcoming them in without hesitation, and offering them hope. Unity is a hand to pull you up, no matter who you are. Unity is listening, understanding, patience. Unity is a group of teenagers who all accept each other, who protect each other and support each other, even when that might get them in trouble or may make them stay longer. I have seen so much beauty in this place that many would call ugly, and this is by far the most beautiful thing of all: Acceptance.

We could all stand to learn from teenage girls.

Worth It

Tonight, a girl handed me a letter she had written for the staff. I loved it, thought I'd share it here. This is why I do what I do.

"To ALL Staff:
When I first got here I wanted to be here but when I came [onto the unit] I didn't. I was made that I couldn't leave before I even got put [in my group]. But when I started to meet new people and I've made friendships that I will never forget. I've seen Nurses and other staff that truly love their job and care about all of us here regardless of why we are here. I'm leaving tomorrow but I've enjoyed [Hospital] so much because I've learned how to relieve some of my stress and different ways to cope.

There aren't enough words in the world to tell everyone how grateful I am that everyone has helped me not only with my mental illness but with my self-confidence as well. So all I can say is Thank You! Thank you for everything! And I hope that I can work at [Hospital] one day, because I love everything about [Hospital].
Love: [Name]"

Survivor

Have you ever had a panic attack? It's a terrible experience. Everything around you is pitch black, you can't see, you can't think, all sounds come from a distance. All you hear is your harsh breath and the thoughts that torture you, saying you should be stronger than this, that you're worthless, that all you've ever tried to accomplish isn't worth a thing. And most times, all you can do is lay still and hope to God it'll be over soon.

This is what I walked in on at work yesterday. A woman, buried under the blankets on her bed, sobbing and hyperventilating. I leaned against the window by her bed, and talked to her softly, telling her to breathe in time with my counting as I counted to ten and back again. At first, there was no reaction, but after a few seconds, she began to follow.

"Deep breaths," I said. "Focus on the air going in and out."

Slowly, her breathing slowed and she pulled the blanket off of her head. And we sat and talked. She told me her fears, her memories, her secrets. I listened, praying I'd have words to offer. She sobbed and asked me why this was happening to her, how could God let it happen to her, and all I could tell her was what brought me comfort once: that God gives his toughest battles to His strongest soldiers, and that she was so, so strong to have survived what she had already experienced. I told her she wasn't a victim, but a survivor, and she looked at me, and the light dawned.

"I'm alive," she said.

"Yes," I answered.

"Wow."

And then, a small, half-formed, half-hopeful smile slipped across her tearstained face.

Together

Usually, my job doesn't affect my private life. I am very good at compartmentalizing, after all. But yesterday there was a girl who looked just like my sister. And around her neck were bruises from where she tried to hang herself.

Now, I don't believe my sister would ever attempt something like that, but it was a bit of a jolt. To look at her, she seemed so cheerful, so ready to encourage others and smile. I wondered how much of it was faked, and how much of it was just relief to not have to hide anymore.

There is some controversy in putting a bunch of suicidal teenagers in a room together to try to help them. Some people believe that it's just asking for trouble. But, having struggled with depression for years, it's something that I find hope in. For once, these girls don't have to hide. For once, they can share openly, and have someone nod and say "I've been there. I understand."

We live in a somewhat egocentric society; we are raised to think that we are all unique and special, but the reality is that we are all, at our core, human. Still, we believe that how we feel and experience life is 100% unlike anyone else's, and so how can anyone identify with us? But here, in a psych ward, the barriers are useless. There are scars, bruises, track marks, identifiers we as staff recognize well, and the girls know too. They talk, they laugh, they cry. It seems cathartic.

Wouldn't it be such a relief to be so open in the real world? To never have to hide, to keep your emotions open and clear...this is an impossible dream. There will always be shadows. But, sometimes, maybe a cloud will dissipate, and the sun will chase away our secrets.

I could use that right about now.

Emotions

It's sometimes weird to me how much my job has affected my everyday life. When I said goodbye to my brother, who I would not see again for nearly 4 months, I went to give him a high-five instead of a hug. I knock on bathroom doors before going in them. I keep my pens in my pocket instead of my hair, and I am ALWAYS aware of where they are. I can read a person and determine the most efficient way to deal with them. I always sit facing the rest of the room.

My brother likes to tell me I'm paranoid. He laughs at my reactions to tense situations, and thinks that I'm exaggerating. To the everyman, I am. But you learn VERY quickly that everyone is just one bad day away from being admitted.

"You shouldn't feel ashamed to be here," I tell the adults I occasionally work with. "You're sick; you're here to get better, and if you're willing to work on it, we can help you."

I don't know if they believe me or not, but they seem to appreciate it that I believe it. They tell me all the time that so many staff just ignore them or pander to them, but I listen. I just smile and tell them that everyone here has a lot going on, and sometimes, we forget that the patients are people too.

"It's okay to be scared," I say. "It's okay to be nervous or unsure or depressed. You don't need to feel guilty over how you feel."

I wonder sometimes if my life would have been any different if someone had told me that when I was young. At 14, there were a lot of life events that triggered me into a depressive state; I was trapped. It took 4 years (4 years) for me to admit it to my parents, who then made an appointment for a psychologist. Not long into our meeting together, he told me it was okay to feel the way I was feeling. Me being me, I tried to argue. There were people involved in the events that had triggered me that deserved to feel like that, and I, a bystander, shouldn't feel like this. He smiled and said:

"Says who?"

And I didn't have an answer. That night, I realized he was right, and in that realization, I found hope.

I don't know if I have any readers. I don't know if people care about my tiny corner of the world. But if you do, if you're reading this, please know that you do not need to justify your feelings to anyone. It's okay to feel depressed or stressed, even if, comparatively speaking, you have very little to feel depressed or stressed about. Don't ever compare your emotions to others', because what you feel and what they feel are both unique. It's like trying to compare colors. Take your emotions for what they are, be they red, blue, purple, green. Try to understand them; get help understanding them.

And know that there is at least one person who doesn't even know your name cheering you on.

Paper

The other day, I taught a 13-year-old some basic origami. She was thrilled. Beyond thrilled, actually--borderline ecstatic. She told me "I didn't have a childhood growing up--I'm getting one now!"

This was a 15-minute lesson on folding paper, but apparently, to her, it represented a lot of what she missed out on while she was growing up. She danced around the room, showing off her creations. It was very sweet. And sad.

We all have goals and dreams, things we wish we had or could achieve one day. Some are grand; I would love to travel. Others simple, such as paying the bills. But I can't think of anything that would make me as happy as that piece of paper made that girl. To realize a dream forgotten by a difficult childhood--that's amazing. I wish I had known sooner; I would have started off the shift with it. But as it was, we made every single thing I could think to make. And was so happy and so excited.

When people hear about my job, their response is almost always the same: "Wow! You must see some crazy stuff!"

And I think about that girl, and the children like her, little things so easily delighted by parts of my life I just take for granted, and I smile.

"Sometimes," I answer. "But for the most part, it's the most amazing job in the world."

And that's my truth.

Her (cont'd)

The world I enter when I clock in is dark. Not because of the staff, not because of the mental illnesses, nor the location, the families or even the patients themselves, but their stories. When I work, I set aside a large part of myself at the door, or I would become so bitter during the hours I live in that world that I would forget the beauty beyond the hospital walls. I love my job; it brings me joy. But when you have a child so little she can't even tie her own shoes (not that she has laces to tie them with here) telling you in a matter-of-fact tone about how Mommy gets mad sometimes and ties her up and locks her in the closet with tape over her mouth, well, you begin to wonder what the point of trying to help is, if they're going home to that. Almost every child that I have worked with has been abused in some way. They are the forgotten ones, and they know it. They know no one cares; they don't even look up in hope during visiting to see if anyone has come for them. They lash out at anyone and everyone, become oppositional, they become cruel. But inside, they're terrified.

"I'm scared to go home, and I'm scared to stay."

That is their reality.

And yet....

And yet they smile, and yet they laugh. And yet they hope, they grow, they learn.

And if they can do these things, then it is only right that I, blessed as I am, do the same.

Her

When a six year old sits on a chair that's far too big for her, swinging her tiny feet back and forth, tucked into herself, her blue eyes huge with fright, your stomach twists. Those eyes stare at you in hopeless confusion as you keep up a chain of bright, cheery chatter, trying to chase away the gloom of a hospital, trying to cover the silence of the night. It is late, and you wonder what she must have happened to cause the parents of such a little thing to admit her at this hour. Her small hands are wrapped around her stomach, her fine hair falling in her eyes. She watches, silent, tears brimming, as you pull clothing out of her bag, searching them for contraband, and you wish you lived in a world where you could trust a six year old not to hide needles in hemlines. You stare in some dismay at the stuffed animal; technically, toys aren't allowed on the unit, but it is clear this is her safety blanket. You sigh, hunt down the charge nurse, and bend the rules just a little.

She smiles when you give it to her, a soft, tentative smile full of nervousness and fear. She buries her little face into the animal's fur, and you long to wrap her in your arms. But you can't, of course you can't. But you still want to. Another staff shows her to her room as you take up the rounds; by the time you reach her room, she is fast asleep, her brow pinched with worry even then. You wonder if she is having a nightmare. You wonder if she'll think she's still dreaming when she wakes up surrounded by strangers. You wonder if she'll still be there by the time your next shift rolls around, of if she'll be home again.

Based on past experience, you're not sure which is better.

3/4

Sorry I haven't written in a while...I have not been working as much since our census is very low. The reason why is kind of sad.

We get about 3/4 of our kids from school referrals. Think about that for a moment. 3/4. That means that for every 4 kids, there are 3 whose parents are so out-of-tune with their children's lives that they don't realize that their child needs help. It's the schools that notice, the schools that send them our way. These parents (or foster parents) are so wrapped up in their own lives, maybe believing the lies their kids tell them, that they don't even notice that their child is trapped in their own minds until they get a phone call from the school. And we don't even have statistics on the parents who refuse to send their children to us.

Isn't that tragic?

I'm rather old-fashioned, for all that I have a blog, so part of me wants to blame technology. "Those smartphones and iPods and computers--they're making it so families never actually interact!" But that's not really it, is it? Not completely.

The reality is, we live in a society that praises busyness. We live in a world where the busier you are, the wealthier you are, and therefore the more accepted you are. Parents struggle to "Keep up with the Joneses," shuttling their children to soccer, dance, etc. while trying to keep up a perfect lawn, perfect house, perfect family. We become so concerned about the outward that we forget about the importance of the inward. We forget that our souls matter more than our stuff, and thus are shocked and horrified when we have a message saying that maybe not everything is as right as it should be.

I would rather be a poor woman with joy in my heart than wealthy and miserable. And I would much rather have an empty day of silence than a busy day of noise.

I want to teach my children that being alone isn't a bad thing; that taking time out of a busy schedule to be alone is a blessing, not an annoyance. I want to teach them the futility of facades.

And I want to be sure to thank their teachers personally, every year, for the unknown number of lives they have saved.

Education means more than you know.

Anxiety

The other day, I was assigned to watch one girl. Just one.

This happens sometimes. It happens when a patient is considered a threat to themselves or others, and as such has a staff assigned to them at all times. This includes using the bathrooms, showering, changing, sleeping etc. For privacy, usually we just put a foot in the door and look the other way. I hate to say it, but these kids were used to it.

This girl was midway into adolescence. She was cheerful, bright, glowing. Technically, when they're in the Quiet Room, we are not supposed to talk to them. It's considered "too stimulating." I don't really agree with this kind of "treatment;" a lot of us don't.

So I came in, sat down, and greeted her with a smile. She beamed back. And for more than six hours straight, we talked. I told her stories, she sang me songs, we played games and talked about books and movies and hopes and fears and dreams. I learned she had grown up thinking abuse was normal; so normal that, when the staff at the hospital asked what happened to her, she said "Oh, my aunt hit me." She was surprised when they called Child Protective Services.

Of course, the entire day was not blissful. Towards the end, she began to get restless. I could hardly blame her; she had been penned up in one room all day. She began to pace, punch mattresses, mutter under her breath. A few times, I got her to smile, but she quickly returned to punching the mattress hard enough that she made contact with the boards underneath.

I wasn't really sure what to do at first; she wasn't acting out bad enough to warrant a PRN (tranquilizer of sorts), but I didn't want her to get hurt. So when she threw herself onto the cot and began repetitively hitting the sides, I sat down, glanced away, and started humming a lullaby.

Sure enough, the impacts gradually slowed to match the beat of the song, then slowed more, and finally stopped. I didn't look at her until the song was over. She smiled sleepily back.

"That was pretty."

"Thank you...sometimes I think singing helps when I'm stressed," I answered.

"Were you stressed then?"

"No, but you were. I thought maybe it would help."

"It did. You're insightful," she told me.

And I smiled and began telling her more stories, softer ones, gentle ones. The rest of the day passed peacefully, and as I watched her sleep that night, I wished that all of us could forget our anxieties in favor of a song.

Love

Today was the 5th anniversary of the death of the Beloved of one of my good friends.

I never had the chance to meet her; she was killed before I knew him. We met about three or four years ago (has it been so long?), when I was barely out of high school and he was working steadily through his Master's program. It was on this day, actually; I saw him sitting under a tree, head tilted toward the sky, and he just looked so sad, I asked him what was wrong. And he told me.

He loved this woman so much. They had tragically similar pasts; abuse, trauma, death. She grew up cold and hard and strong; he became shy, afraid, quiet, but with a depth and understanding few people could even hope to comprehend. He realized everyone, even those we perceive to be our enemies, have their own fears, loves, dreams. She thought he was crazy.

"She saved me," he says with a soft smile. "And she probably regretted it after."

I don't feel comfortable sharing the details of their first meeting, but after the lease ran out on his apartment about six months after they had met, she offhandedly suggested he move in with her while looking for a new place. And he woke up to her screams.

Trauma is a funny thing; for some, it locks them up, traps them and corners them and never lets them see how much they are loved. That night, love trumped trauma as he ran to her side, and she let him stay.

They never made love, never even voiced their feelings, but they had some sort of understanding beyond words. They slept curled up in her bed, keeping each other's nightmares at bay. He cooked, she worked, and together they were their own brand of happiness.

"The only feminine hobby she had was sewing," he tells me as we walk among the trees. "Some nights, we would sit with the windows open, and she would sew, and I would read stories out loud. Those were the best nights."

I asked him once if he didn't feel taken advantage of, and he stared at me, taken aback.

"No! She loved me, in her own way. We made compromises for each other. We were happy."

And then she was killed, suddenly and tragically. He didn't go to the funeral. He watched the sky, her diary on his lap, the forest just within eyeshot of their small apartment. She loved that forest. And, in her diary, in her crabbed writing, he finally got a peek at her thoughts, was able to see just how much she loved him too. Only after reading it through did he go to her grave.

"She wasn't there--still isn't. She's here; I feel her all around me," he tells me as we walk through the trees. "Sometimes, I swear I hear her laugh. She's happy. But I kind of hope she misses me."

And a light breeze picked up, and I swear to you a thought flittered through my head, in a voice I had never heard before.

"Of course I do."

I didn't ask, but I think he heard it too.

Beauty

"My goal is to lose weight and be skinny and beautiful."

This poor girl. She wasn't even all that overweight, and she was already beautiful.

"What is beauty?" a fellow staff asked.

And thus began a conversation about a very common topic, but with teenagers who had an unfortunate amount of experience. Specifically speaking, from young women who struggled with eating disorders.

Listening them talk candidly about their past and current struggles, I wondered if the perspectives of society would shift if it had a chance to listen in. These girls were beautiful, smart, and honest. They talked about how society demanded so much of them, how they knew it was wrong but it was easier to follow along than stand out. For nearly an hour, we talked.

We talked about gender-specific stereotypes ("like a girl," "Make me a sandwich," etc.), about Victoria's Secret models, tv shows, movies, magazines. We talked about objectification, anxiety, and healthy ways to lose weight. I told them that according to the scale, I am obese. They stared at me; at a dress size 8, I do not in any way look it. I became a living example of how much muscle weighs more than fat.

After our discussion, we watched the Disney movie "Brave." As some of you may know, "Brave" is the only Disney princess movie where the princess (Merida) does not fall in love. So we talked about that too. They all agreed it was really nice to have that difference, and then we talked about why.

I don't know if these girls' perspectives on beauty and expectations are changed due to those conversations. I do know that, for a little while at least, I got them thinking.

And I got them asking "Why?"

Success

Last night, I dreamed that I ran into one of the boys I used to work with. He was very happy to see me; heck, he was happy, period. Living a good life, excited to be out and exploring the world. He had a friend with him, and we talked for a bit. It was a really good dream.

Everybody deserves a happy ending. Everybody. But the unfortunate reality is that we live in a world where most people have forgotten what it even means to be happy. I walk past a park and see mothers, fathers, babysitters all texting or reading on their smartphones while their kids try desperately to get their attention. I drive and am surrounded by people going to fast they never think to look back and see what they left behind. We have abandoned happiness in favor of success.

According to Dictionary.com, success means "the attainment of wealth, position, honors, or the like." There is nothing there about happiness. It explains the rampant diagnoses of depression and anxiety in our society; to be so consumed by monetary gain that all else is forgotten leaves us feeling hopeless, forgotten, and unloved.

Don't get me wrong, I do not harbor hatred toward success itself. But I certainly disagree with today's definition. To me, to be successful is to be happy where you are. I would consider myself successful, even though I am half broke, constantly on the move, and sleep deprived. I love my life. I love the goals I have for the future, of course, but I also love this moment. I am happy.

And because of that, I'm pretty sure I'm richer than Bill Gates.

People Speaking

One of my favorite books growing up was Goose Girl by Shannon Hale. I still love that book, and read it often. I won't ruin it for any would-be readers, but in this world, some people can talk to animals, the wind, water, etc, etc. It was wonderful and beautiful and for years afterward I was secretly convinced I could control the wind, and all I needed to do was develop my power.

In that book, in the entire series actually, the main antagonists have the gift of People Speaking. Basically, their voices are so soothing and pleasant they can bend people to their will. I knew better than to fully believe that the rest of those abilities were real, but I was pretty sure People Speaking was. I thought of Hitler, able to convince armies to do his bidding, and thought that that amount of charisma could only be explained by something like that. Years later, I was talking to my sister about that, and she agreed. And then she said something else.

"I always thought you had that," she said. "You made me believe the most impossible things. You still do. I was really angry with you for a long time because you didn't become a published author in high school. I really believed you would."

To her, it was a little anecdote. To me, it was a sucker punch. Me, like Hitler?!

Confused, concerned, I asked a few friends who had read the book what they thought. Their responses were instant.

"Oh, for sure. You were always so good at it!" one said.

"I want to say no, but yeah, you do," another admitted.

"You just have this way, people want to listen to you."

And on and on, to the point where I could no longer dismiss it as coincidence. My new coworkers would even comment on it sometimes. It terrified me. I felt that I was not evil, (at least not murderous, scheming evil) and that somehow, I would end up that way. Looking back, I could see situations where I had coerced my friends to do things they had no desire to do. One prime example is that I convinced a good friend to break up with her (abusive) boyfriend. She fought and fought, but I swayed her. She admitted years later she always resented me for it, even though she knew it was a terrible relationship.

That was scary. I had not intentionally 'forced' her to my will, but here we were, years later, and the bitterness she felt towards me had grown to the point where it destroyed our friendship. There were other situations, many more than I care to remember or admit, circumstances that at the time I had thought merely odd but now, looking back, I could see it. It just made sense.

So what could I do? I mean, I was not consciously holding sway over these people. I just...talked. And people listened.

Maybe that was the reason I went to work in a psych ward. "Calming aura," "Soothing voice," "Charm," these were traits I was told I had. So I went to work in a chaotic, messy field with kids who hardly listen to anyone.

But they listened to me.

Oh, not always. I am hardly that skilled. But enough. Enough so that I could talk a boy down from a fight, settle a girl's angry spirit. I pulled their greatest fears from them with kid gloves, treated them with respect. And maybe, somehow, that helped them. Maybe me telling them, with this supposed voice that can coerce many, that what happened was not their fault--maybe they began to believe it.

I can hope. I can believe that these qualities I share with many charismatic people who led thousands to their doom may save the souls of a few. I pray, and I hope.

And I talk.

It's the Little Things

I was checking out at a local Christian Bookstore today (buying a Bible for my sister). The saleslady began a little spiel about this "new online resource" the store was offering.

"It has something for everyone!" she said, showing me a sheet full of examples of content for families, students, kids, parents, men, women, etc. "And it has all these great contributors!"

Now, I had already decided not to buy it, ("It's only $4.99 a month!" is still $59.88 a year I could spend on something else) but I dutifully looked through the list.

Under the heading "Men" were subjects such as: "Health and Fitness," "Balancing Your Career and Family," "Being a Man of Integrity," "Loving Your Wife," etc. All good, positive things. So I moved on to "Women." And stopped. And stared. And stared some more.

You see, while the "Men" heading had a variety of categories, "Women" had these: "How to Balance Your Budget," "Debt," "Meaningful Spending," and "Tithing." That's it. All about money.

So I pointed this out to the saleslady. She laughed, agreed it was weird, but that the site had other topics for women too.

"That's great, but I find is disturbing that they chose to focus on such a superficial subject for women, while men have a whole variety to choose from," I answered.

Another employee (also a woman) overheard me.

"Well, it's because women have more struggles with money than men," she claimed. "There are articles on balancing a budget with kids, that sort of thing."

"But what about careers?" I asked. "What about single women, or women's health? Why are men given a variety and women aren't? That doesn't promote autonomy at all! It's unfair!"

"That'll be $25.47, ma'am," interrupted the saleslady.

Demons

One of the girls on the new unit was telling me about a new demon that visited her that day. She said he had no eyes, no nose, no ears, no mouth, just blood pouring down his face. She screamed and punched a wall. When I asked her why she didn't punch the demon, she laughed at me.

"You can't punch a demon!" she said. "If you try, all Hell will rain down on you!"

I asked her if she tried talking to him, asking what he wanted.

"I've tried. They never answer. They just try to stab me."

We all have demons. Hers are, in her mind at least, physical, real creatures that personify some greater disorder that, unfortunately, it is unlikely she will ever break free from. For most of us, ours are different, more vague. They haunt our steps, tinge our dreams, curl like wisps of smoke around our best memories. Sometimes, they loom so large they threaten to overtake our entire lives. Sometimes, they are forgotten--but only momentarily.

We gather demons as we go through life, picking them up here and there as we wander around, either purposefully or aimlessly. Sometimes, we are to blame for our demons; our own choices and decisions have led to their existence. Other times, we are the victim of life, of another's actions that now haunt us for the rest of our lives.

But demons can be dispelled.

In the Bible, of course, there are cases of actual spirits inhabiting the bodies of humans, spirits that flee with a commanding word. Whether or not you agree that the Bible is real, this solution does seem appealing; one word, one order, and--BANG--everything is okay again.

Unfortunately, the demons of our time are much more difficult to shake.

Another Bible reference is Matthew 12: 43-50: 
"43 “When an impure spirit comes out of a person, it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it. 44 Then it says, ‘I will return to the house I left.’ When it arrives, it finds the house unoccupied, swept clean and put in order. 45 Then it goes and takes with it seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they go in and live there. And the final condition of that person is worse than the first."

In struggling with my own demons, I have found this to be incredibly true. Any attempts to shuck them through ignoring them or just trying to solider on just made me more miserable in the end. That is partially why I started this blog; as a way to pass time, to open up my thoughts and distract me. So far, it seems to be helping.

We all have demons. We all have things that could destroy us if we allow them to have too much leeway over our lives. But we also have hope. Hope for tomorrow, for today, for the next beat of our heart. I believe I will end this with one of the few poems by Emily Dickinson I actually enjoy:

"“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me."

Father's Day

I had my first shift on the new unit today. I expected chaos, but there was significantly less of it than I anticipated.

Instead, I sat with a little girl who was devastated that he wasn't able to spend Father's Day with his dad. She sat there, silent and still, clutching a hand-drawn card in both of her small hands. Her lower lip trembled, her shoulders were hunched. She was not in my group; I didn't even know her name. But I sat with her, talked to her about her drawings, which slowly began to turn into a conversation about her favorite kinds of shows and movies. She began to smile, just a little. Five, maybe ten minutes passed, and I had to rejoin my group. I glanced back, and she was gone--back to her group, sorrow lessened somewhat.

Someone told me once that "taking care is a cure." Looking back, I realize it's true. To take a little bit of time out of your day to brighten someone else's will only serve to bring you joy. Seeing a faint smile on her pale face made me smile in return. By the time that I return to that unit, that little girl will probably be gone, sent back out into the world. But maybe she'll remember that one moment someone took the time to talk to her, to share with her a little encouragement. As always, I hope she does so well in life as to forget me, but I would like her to remember my actions, and, maybe one day, reach out to a hurting person herself, and brighten another's day just a little. I hope this little girl one day learns to care for others as others have cared for her.

If you ask me, that would be the greatest gift any father could ask for.

Healing

"You're a Christian, aren't you?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the Christians are always the nicest people here. They really care."

That kid had me pegged within an hour. I, obviously, couldn't deny or agree with him, even though his statement was true. At the time, I was new, maybe only a few weeks in, and still unsure with what I could or could not share.

I was born and raised in a Christian, two-parent household with a stay-at-home mom and a dad who made enough that we were comfortable, and occasionally able to splurge. Not too much, not too little. I have an abundance of siblings and pets. My parents are still deeply in love with each other. They actively encouraged us to go deeper with our faith, to ask hard questions, to really LOOK at why we believe what we believe.

There are pieces of my past that are blank. That might not be a bad thing, in truth. But that is not the focus of this post.

My faith became my own when I was 14. At the time, I had a lot of serious losses happen at once, and I sank into a very, very deep depression. I hid it fairly well,  but I was lost and hurting. And yet, not hopeless. I would pray, cry myself to sleep praying, begging God to send me a friend.

And he did. God granted me a friend who was a few years older, who had experienced what I was going through, and could encourage me. After high school, we parted ways, but by then, my moods had stabilized.

Continually throughout my life, I find that God has granted me my prayers. Not always, but often, often enough that I know that it's Him. Many times, they are granted in unusual ways. Sometimes, because of where I work, I am questioned by those who have never experienced a psych ward how I can keep my faith even with all the terrible things I see.

The truth is, I don't see terrible things. I see children laughing, joking, playing, thinking. I see staff that truly care, both for each other and the kids we work with. I see joy, happiness. Of course, there are days when the kids lash out, or experience flashbacks, but they will come and talk to us, share with us what they are going through. What an improvement!

I'm sure there are those who would work where I work and say that it's devastating, seeing the ghosts of these wonderful children's pasts. But I don't see it that way. I see kids who, yes, have experienced trauma and hardship, but are soldiering on. I see them slowly improve, to see more of themselves than just their scars.

Where others see pain, I see healing.

And for that, I praise God.

Waiting

I am now in that terrible waiting period between jobs. It will take a while for my hospital to work through the lengthy list of people who need training, and until that happens, I am expected to wait.

In some ways, I am very good at waiting. "A man can never be bored if his head is stuffed with lore," after all, and I would say that indeed, my head is stuffed with lore. I love the glimpses of magic we see beyond the borders of our world, and I love to draw them, write them, revel in them. I have many things that I could do while living out this uncertain waiting game, and yet here I am, updating a blog I am not certain anyone reads or finds beneficial in any way. Why? Some would say vanity, others, boredom, still more, desperation.

I say hope.

I began this blog to write about what I saw at work, what I felt and experienced. For me, this blog is a way to process through what I now consider routine and what many would consider extraordinary. I want to offer a chance for others to see a psychological hospital through the eyes of a staff there. I want to change the perspectives of even just one person, show them that beauty is found even there, in what many would call an ugly place.

And I want to keep writing about it.

I want to keep writing about the silly things, the heart-breaking things, the things that make me smile or think or laugh or cry. Maybe, someday, my words will cause some reader to do the same. I love my job; I love the staff I work with, and the children whose lives I have the chance to touch. There is so much negativity associated with what I do, but the reality is that we do great things. We offer stability, caring, and yes, love to those who have none, even if it is for a brief moment. It is as beautiful as it is heartbreaking, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

If you are reading this blog, maybe for the first time, maybe not, I would appreciate some indication that you are out there. I want to know if I am making you think, or maybe given you hope. Some small encouragement for me to keep writing, even now, when I am waiting.

After all, aren't we all waiting?

Handcuffs

There was a boy who I never really got to work with, but still managed to have a bond with. We share a love of reading fantasy, and so he recommended to me a certain series. I checked out the first one, and started reading it. When I told him, he asked me what it was about, and his face lit up. He did not believe that I would actually read it just because he suggested it.

I finished reading it a few days ago; it was hardly the best book I have ever read, but it was enjoyable and a simple diversion from the more intense novels I usually partake of. I returned to work, eager to share with him that I had finished it (he had never read the ending of the first book). When I got there, the staff told me he had been escorted out just a few days before.

Returning to Juvy.

In handcuffs.

This boy, he had a temper, no doubt. He could fight, and fight well. But he could also be sweet and funny and clever. I don't know why he was arrested, or why he was going back (the joys of court, is my guess), but I do know that he should not be in a place where there is no one who will read the same book as him. In taking him away in handcuffs, the government did this child a grave disservice. He was in a psych ward for a reason, and he was improving.

Now, he'll no longer have a reason to read, because there will be no one to talk about it with him.

I want to make a great metaphor, comparing the handcuffs to love, how we as humans can suddenly be locked away from all that we care and love because of our mistakes or, sometimes, the mistakes of others. But my heart isn't in it. All I can think about is this boy, a tiny, skinny thing with a mouth the size of Texas, going away in handcuffs.

And I didn't even get to tell him I finished that danged book.

Forgotten.

Across from where I play Monopoly every week, two boys wait patiently. They have promised to teach me the card game "Magic," their current obsession. I have never had any real inclination to play, but they are delighted to have the role of teacher for once, instead of dismissed as lessers. Sitting across from each other, they look very, very different; one is tall, well-muscled with the face and casual confidence of an athlete; the other, slender, soft-spoken, with the tired gentleness about him of an artist. But they are the same age, and they share a very similar story. They are here for a reason, and by now they have moved past denial and have settled into the task of improving. They're doing well, but I worry sometimes. I see their flashes of anger, at themselves and others, and wonder if that anger will ever spark anything more dangerous.

These two are unlikely friends, boys that would never have crossed paths under any other circumstances. But here, they are friends. They take turns being the dominant personality, swapping it back and fourth in some unspoken, agreed-upon order. They are good kids.

One says that in five years after he's been discharged, he'll find me. He says it, laughing, and I laugh too.

"In five years, you won't even remember me," I say, and he disagrees.

But I hope it's true. I hope that, in five years, he'll be off in college, thriving, happy. I hope that if any memory of me remains, it's a faint one, a possible 'What was her name?' that drifts across his mind whenever he watches one of the movies I brought in that he loved, a faint spark of memory, nothing more. I want to be forgotten by these wonderful, broken children.

I want to be forgotten because I want them to live such full, wonderful, amazing lives that the time that they spent in a psych ward is nothing more than a faded memory, something, perhaps, to remember only if they stumble across their Goodbye Book, full of letters and well-wishes from those who were their families for the few months to a few years they spent there. I want them to skim those letters, smile faintly, put it down, and go off into a wonderful life where they live happily ever after.

Will it happen for all of the children that I have worked with? Sadly, no. Some of them will likely struggle with their inner demons for the rest of their lives. Some of them may disappear too soon, others may flash bright just briefly, then stumble and fall. For those children, I hope that they do remember us, we staff who loved them and cared for them and, sometimes, cried for them in our cars before we drove home.

But for those who, years from now, will be happy and laughing, I really, truly hope that they will forget me.

And I? I will never forget them.