Perceptions

Sometimes, I feel like I'm not very good at my job because it's so much fun. I love playing card games with my girls, I love talking with them and coloring with them and telling stories. We laugh, we joke, we have fun. And I know that some of the other staff that I work with misconstrue that as slacking off.

But then I remind myself that no matter how much fun we may have, they listen to me. They respect me and want to do what I say because they want to make me happy. I bring in a bag of games and supplies whenever I work; they know that not many staff do, and the kids appreciate it. I tell stories and teach them games and prepare my lessons in advance; they know I love my job.

But sometimes I catch a glare from another staff when the girls get excited to see me. I know that I seem very laid-back, and maybe I am, but I can say that only twice have I had to get extra staff to help me with a patient who was out-of-control, while some have to call for backup once a month or more. I'd say I just got lucky, but that statistic is too unlikely.

One of the girls I worked with today told me that she liked me as her staff because I listen, and because I have a “good attitude.” I kind of liked that. I don't know if it's true or not, but I go into work with the mindset that every day is an adventure, and feel more prepared for my shift because of it. I absolutely, positively love my job, even when it's difficult. When I get into my car to drive home, I know I've done good work, and I'm proud of that.

If this causes some of the people I work with to resent me, so be it. I am not there to please them (although I am more than happy to support them!), or even to please the patients. I am there to help people, to shift perspectives and to challenge kids to really think, to dig their heels into a concept and study it from new angles. I tell them to believe in possibilities, to hope for the best and work hard toward their goals. Some, I know, will never make it; others will go far above and beyond what anyone thought possible.

Around the other staff, I think I come off as awkward. I am not good at socializing, small talk, gossip, or even going out after work for drinks. I'd rather read a book.

But I think the kids see me as who I am: an introvert with a love of lore and knowledge, ready and willing to share it with anyone who will listen.

And they love to hear.

Their Loss

A little note before this post: I found this while I was going through some old papers of mine. I don't really remember what inspired it, but I felt like it was a good look into the difficulties that can follow those who have suffered trauma. I hope, as always, that it makes you think :)

What if I scared him off?

What if my past, just that small brush of it, was enough to dismiss me from his eyes?

Is being broken really so bad?

Is catching a breath, back to the wall, eyes huge, so utterly disgusting that even we who see it every day will curl our lips in revulsion to see it in those we may yet love?

I do not think so.

I know I need time. I know I'll need patience and understanding.

But give me these small gifts, and I will become sensual.

My eyes, so wide with fear, can glitter green with desire.

My back, once bowed, will curve in delight and arousal.

My breath, released, can slide, smooth and warm, over your skin and send shivers down your spine.

It will not be easy.

I know we live in a world of instant gratification. I know we as humans and as mortals (for there is a difference) have forgotten how to fight, and how to wait.

Trust me, I know.

I have seen interest fade before, a mannerly mask not quite hiding irritated eyes.

“Why didn't you warn me?” those eyes demand.

“I tried,” mine murmur back. “But you were blind.”

So, for you, I warn. For you, while a kitten wraps its purring self about my heart, I offer a glimpse. Before anything serious. Before you find out for yourself, I warn.

And I may have lost you anyway.

But you know what?

I think that your loss is, somehow,

much,

much,

greater
than mine will ever be.

Ghosts

There is one letter, front and center on my cupboards, that haunts me still. This girl, she was seriously suicidal, even as we wrote her discharge. Sure, she claimed she was better, but we knew the truth. That's the sad reality in a world where insurance runs the show: some, many, leave too soon.

Now, I can't say for sure that she's gone. I don't know. But I just have this heavy feeling that since she hasn't come back, it's because she's no longer here.

She was bright, shining on our unit. She had the loudest, biggest laugh and the cheekiest smile. She could get away with so much just because she was just that magnetic. But sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, the smile would fade, and all that was left was loneliness. She'd lived a hard life, and she was ready to give up on it.

I did everything I could to encourage her. I told her a little about my own life, what I'd been through, and she took it in. We talked, she shared a little, but it was clear she was always holding back. Keeping us at arms' length.

She told me she wanted to write a book. I told her that she should give me her autograph so that if she ever did, I could put it in the cover. She told me the title; I Google it every now and again, just to see.

Just hoping.

She did give me my autograph, and a little more besides. It's a short note, scrawled in big letters across a plain sheet of white paper. It ends with “I love you, you are truly amazing. Wish me luck.”

Darling, if you're still alive, if you're still fighting, know that I wish more than luck for you.

I wish you joy.

The Story of Song

I don't normally deviate from my reflections about work. But it's the new year, and a good friend of mine recently told this tale to me. I loved it so much I asked if I could share it here. She agreed, on the condition that I type it up (she told it to me, and hasn't written it down), send her a copy, and add it to the long list of ones I tell at work. Since I was planning on doing all of that anyway, it was an easy deal. So this is the Story of Song. I hope you all enjoy, and have a wonderful new year.

Once, many years ago, there sat a village nestled deep within the hillside, surrounded by emptiness, cut off from the world. And one day, in the middle of this village, an infant appeared. She had hair the color of darkest night, skin so pale one could see blue blood pumping furiously beyond it, and a voice like the wind's song. And that is what the villagers named her: Song.

Some said Song was a child of Wind and Night, a half-goddess. Some said she was the abandoned offspring of gypsies or travelers. All agreed she did not belong to anyone in the village, for no one in the village had coloring like hers. And so the entire village raised her. She spent her years passed from house to house, never having a home. The villagers did their best by her, offering her food, clothing, an education, but they were perplexed by her quiet, still nature and the deep thoughtfulness in her eyes.

Song grew up to stand a full head above the other village girls. Where they were light and bright, she was dark and deep. Where they smiled and shone, she watched in the stillness of the shadows. She was awkward around people, awkward around herself, and eventually as she grew older the villagers began to feel uncomfortable around her.

It was providence, then, that led to the village elder passing on into the other world. He left behind no family, just a small cluttered cottage right on the very outskirts of the village. The townsfolk offered this cottage to Song, and eagerly she accepted. After that, she no longer watched from the shadows—she watched from the windows.

Song spent a long time clearing the cottage out, and in doing so stumbled across a pile of canvases and paints long forgotten. The girl, now a woman, never hesitated—she simply began.

She painted small, beautiful girls smiling up at tall, handsome men. She painted families laughing together, weddings, love, joy. And people began to notice.

It did not take long for Song's fame as an artist to spread, and soon people were traveling from around the country to buy her art. All loved its beauty, and at first, Song hoped that through her art she would become more accepted by the villagers. But this was not to be. Instead, her fame and her success seemed to make her stand out more. No one realized that the scenes she painted were reflections of the intense longing in her own quiet heart. They simply saw beauty.

And then, one morning, just as the sun was rising over the hills, a woman walked into Song's shop. She was small, with hair like the sun and skin kissed by it. Her eyes shone bright like the stars themselves, and indeed, this was what she was called: Star. Star looked around at the paintings, making small noises of appreciation as Song looked longingly at her delicate beauty, her paint-spattered hands twisting around themselves nervously.

Finally, the woman turned to Song.

“These are beautiful,” she said. “But they are not what I am looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Song asked. “I will do my best to help.”

The woman smiled a smile so like the sun that Song was momentarily blinded.

“I want truth. Truth and possibilities. Can you do that for me?”

Song hesitated for a moment, thinking. And then she pulled a piece of paper from the large stack beside her and began to draw.

She drew herself seated before two mirrors. In one mirror, the reflection showed Song how Song saw herself—too tall, with eyes set just a hair too wide, and skin just a touch too pale. In the other mirror, Song drew herself as she longed to be: small, delicate, beautiful. But when she showed this to the Star, she frowned.

“This is not truth or possibilities. This is just perception. Try again.”

A little frustrated, but eager to please, Song took a new piece from the stack. This time she drew herself, still too tall, eyes too widely set, still too pale, a pair of travelers who looked just a hair like her turning their backs, walking away, abandoning her. Just beyond the hills, however, Night herself reached loving hands toward Song, and the Wind was beside her, stretching out toward their daughter, who she loved. Pleased, Song showed the sketch to Star.

But once more, she frowned.

“This is not truth or possibilities,” she said. “This is just perception. Try again.”

Annoyed now, annoyed but determined, Song took another sheet. Over and over she drew. She drew herself rejected, accepted, loved and hated. She drew her parents as Guardians, as mortals, as demons and as angels. And always she drew herself too tall, too pale, and eyes just a hair too widely set. And every time she turned the page toward Star, the women would frown and say:

“This is not truth or possibilities. This is just perception. Try again.”

All day Song drew. She did not even notice night had fallen by the time she reached the last page in what had once been a large stack of papers. She hesitated only now. She was drained of all of her pent-up emotions. To her, it was as though she had nothing left.

And yet, she drew. First with light, uncertain strokes, and then with gaining confidence. She drew herself, still too tall, too pale, eyes too widely set, being pulled downward by grasping, greedy hands. At first glance, these hands were nothing special, but a closer inspection would show them to be Song's own hands, paint-spattered and calloused. The Song in the picture struggled against them, reaching desperately for a huge staircase that spiraled up and out of the picture.

A staircase made of mirrors.

And in those mirrors, Song drew herself.

At first, she crawled, hand over hand, up the glistening stairs, glancing back in fear at the greedy, grasping hands. Gradually she rose, still looking back, her shoulders hunched inward, eyes wide and uncertain.

But slowly, as the staircase rose, so Song's reflection straightened its posture. The shoulder became set, the spine uncurled, and gradually the reflection stopped looking back at the hands and instead upward into the heavens. The chin tilted upward, and a small smile began to form on her lips. And at the final reflection, Song moved proudly, assuredly, ever upward. And in this reflection, Song found herself drawing herself as she was: still tall, but with the grace and poise of a queen. Still pale, but with mysticism, not sickliness. Still with wide-set eyes, but they added an exotic touch to the confidence in the reflection. And Song wondered if maybe she was beautiful too as she laid down her charcoals and turned the page to Star. And Star looked at it and smiled.

“This is truth,” she proclaimed, laying one slender finger on the grasping, greedy hands pulling Song down. “And this,” she continued, tapping the staircase. “this is possibilities.”

And Star looked up into Song's eyes, and there was such depth, such wisdom, such love there that Song wondered how she could ever have mistaken the woman before her as a mere mortal. And the woman's lips parted, and she spoke just three words more.

“Make it so.”

And Song blinked, and Star was gone.

And she was never seen again.

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.