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?