I've unfortunately failed to update this blog as much as I had initially planned to, and have lost track of my days at the hospital. For this reason, I will begin to date each post as opposed to displaying which day I am describing.
A lot has occurred since I last updated, and far too much to delve into here. I felt compelled to make a post today based on a brief discussion I observed taking place between one of the therapists and volunteers earlier. The therapist confirmed what I feel some of the higher-educated hospital staff must be feeling in their occupation there: they are not being utilized in the way they were trained.
"I found myself, a few months ago, driving to work, and feeling as though I'm dragging myself there," the therapist began. "That's not how I planned for this to be. That's not what I feel all the schooling I went through is for. I have attempted to provide so much reform in the lesson plans for group sessions here, and it seems as though the people making decisions for me don't understand the importance of what type of therapy I should be conducting. I see a lot of lower-functioning patients lately, and the type of work I am assigned to clearly doesn't work for them. It is above their capability of comprehension, but I am not listened to. I used to get satisfaction out my work when I'd see even minimal change, but now, I feel I am trying to teach a new language."
The volunteer empathized, and asked why no one has bothered to allow for change when they have noticed no result in her current work. "Attempting to change anything is like talking to a wall," she said, defeated. "That's why I hope to earn my doctorate and apply myself elsewhere in a few years. I feel my time here is coming to a close."
What's especially upsetting about this is, she seemed so genuinely affected by it. You could tell she has invested so much effort only to be shut out. I am not sure how many other staff members feel this way, and I am sure it depends on the type of therapy they are assigned to, but this conversation upset me deeply. Here is someone who has the capability of leading change in ways that she has been trained to do, but is being channeled into areas that clearly are not beneficial to the individuals or her. Needless to say, issues such as this need to be readily addressed.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Day 14
There are days that keep you smiling for hours after leaving. Today was one of those days. I haven't been feeling too well due to stress and being fairly ill, but I managed to forget it all and have a wonderful time with the individuals in the hospital. I felt like I was of service to people, and that is entirely accomplishing my purpose there.
I have bonded more with Shirley than anybody else at the hospital. Speaking with her is a struggle sometimes, given that her medication fluctuates her mood and ability to interact, but I have managed to have great, uplifting conversations with her. It's disheartening to see her usual smile clouded by a face of over-medicated, blank apathy, and each time I see her, I hope to see her, and not simply an image of her.
Today, however, I noticed she was exhibiting neither a smile nor an expressionless face. She looked sad. I convinced her to get up and shoot some hoops with me, and she expressed rather quickly that she did not feel like herself lately, due to the psychotropic drugs she is taking. She asked me if I would listen to something she wanted to talk to me about, and we sat down and discussed what was making her sad.
After a deep discussion, I could see her mood had been lifted. I felt... therapeutic, in a sense, and did whatever was in my power to bring her to a better state of mind. The serious discussion transitioned into chit-chatting, and soon she decided she'd like to join the ongoing volleyball game. She left me with a smile on her face, and I can't describe how that made me feel.
As she left, Justin took a volleyball break in a seat nearby. Justin has only been at the hospital for a few months. We exchanged hellos, and I could sense he was deciding whether to speak or not. Finally, he began: "Every week, I'm given a taste of freedom when I'm allowed to go out, and it just reminds me more of how much I want to escape this place. I just want to get out. The world outside is so much better."
A moment passed in silence as I took in the disclosure that just took place, and planned what I would say. I couldn't imagine how he must be feeling. "Well Justin," I began, surprising myself, "you seem to have the advantage of appreciating the world outside, knowing what gifts lie out there. That means when you're discharged, you'll never take its beauty for granted, and you'll do everything in your power to not have to return. Is that right?" He paused, staring off. I waited nervously, hoping I hadn't thrown some cliched remark he's heard a million times at him. Finally, he smiled and nodded his head in understanding. "Yeah, you're actually right. Thanks for reminding me. I'll never do what I did to get in here in the first place." He returned to the volleyball game, seemingly more energetic.
These two exchanges may seem very minuscule, but they are world-shattering to me. I see very little disclosure and proactive discussion going on during the outside group, and to acknowledge that I am seen as trustworthy enough to have these sorts of talks with people is so humbling. I came to the hospital with goals of being involved, even though my range is very limited as a volunteer. I quickly learned that volunteers, especially interns fulfilling credit at universities, do not care to do much or have many interaction with patients, and I did not want this for myself. I feel there is a little confusion and surprise on the part of the permanent staff because they see that I am invested in the people at the hospital. I even feel a little hostility from less friendlier staff because of it. Regardless, my goals here are beginning to be realized, and I am happy for it.
Note: I have to supplement this post by stating that I realize my limited power and knowledge as a volunteer. I do not have proper training to be conducting therapy with anybody, so I try and keep my responses as safe as possible. Sometimes, however, all somebody needs is unconditional positive regard and active listening to feel a little better, and I will try to carry this along in my everyday life.
I have bonded more with Shirley than anybody else at the hospital. Speaking with her is a struggle sometimes, given that her medication fluctuates her mood and ability to interact, but I have managed to have great, uplifting conversations with her. It's disheartening to see her usual smile clouded by a face of over-medicated, blank apathy, and each time I see her, I hope to see her, and not simply an image of her.
Today, however, I noticed she was exhibiting neither a smile nor an expressionless face. She looked sad. I convinced her to get up and shoot some hoops with me, and she expressed rather quickly that she did not feel like herself lately, due to the psychotropic drugs she is taking. She asked me if I would listen to something she wanted to talk to me about, and we sat down and discussed what was making her sad.
After a deep discussion, I could see her mood had been lifted. I felt... therapeutic, in a sense, and did whatever was in my power to bring her to a better state of mind. The serious discussion transitioned into chit-chatting, and soon she decided she'd like to join the ongoing volleyball game. She left me with a smile on her face, and I can't describe how that made me feel.
As she left, Justin took a volleyball break in a seat nearby. Justin has only been at the hospital for a few months. We exchanged hellos, and I could sense he was deciding whether to speak or not. Finally, he began: "Every week, I'm given a taste of freedom when I'm allowed to go out, and it just reminds me more of how much I want to escape this place. I just want to get out. The world outside is so much better."
A moment passed in silence as I took in the disclosure that just took place, and planned what I would say. I couldn't imagine how he must be feeling. "Well Justin," I began, surprising myself, "you seem to have the advantage of appreciating the world outside, knowing what gifts lie out there. That means when you're discharged, you'll never take its beauty for granted, and you'll do everything in your power to not have to return. Is that right?" He paused, staring off. I waited nervously, hoping I hadn't thrown some cliched remark he's heard a million times at him. Finally, he smiled and nodded his head in understanding. "Yeah, you're actually right. Thanks for reminding me. I'll never do what I did to get in here in the first place." He returned to the volleyball game, seemingly more energetic.
These two exchanges may seem very minuscule, but they are world-shattering to me. I see very little disclosure and proactive discussion going on during the outside group, and to acknowledge that I am seen as trustworthy enough to have these sorts of talks with people is so humbling. I came to the hospital with goals of being involved, even though my range is very limited as a volunteer. I quickly learned that volunteers, especially interns fulfilling credit at universities, do not care to do much or have many interaction with patients, and I did not want this for myself. I feel there is a little confusion and surprise on the part of the permanent staff because they see that I am invested in the people at the hospital. I even feel a little hostility from less friendlier staff because of it. Regardless, my goals here are beginning to be realized, and I am happy for it.
Note: I have to supplement this post by stating that I realize my limited power and knowledge as a volunteer. I do not have proper training to be conducting therapy with anybody, so I try and keep my responses as safe as possible. Sometimes, however, all somebody needs is unconditional positive regard and active listening to feel a little better, and I will try to carry this along in my everyday life.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Day 13
Thursdays are quickly becoming my favorite days at the hospital. School of Rock is loads of fun for all involved, and everyone gets a spotlight position at least once, whether it be on an instrument or singing.
Shirley was a lot less sedated today and decided she wanted to sing. One of the older staff members on guitar asked her if she knew "Bo Diddley" and began playing the melody. The drummer (an individual residing in the hospital) joined in amazingly. Shirley froze, shook her head, and laughed nervously. "Well, just go along with the music and make something up!" he said. A little hesitantly, she began rocking to the beat and looking around. To everybody's surprise, she suddenly started to improvise lyrics into the mic that were better than what some people could write in hours. She sang about suicide and overcoming those types of thoughts, about having support even when it doesn't feel that way, and more. Her style was a fusion of jazz-punk and she didn't stumble once.
When she was done, the guitar blared out into a solo, leading into the final, diminishing portion of the song. The drummer, who has at least twenty years of experience with a drum set, ended with a spectacular finale. We all broke out in an applause, and I gave Shirley a high-five and a, "Did you really just come up with that on the spot?!" She nodded and asked if it was any good. "Are you kidding me?" I responded. "I couldn't do that if you gave me an hour to prepare!" Shirley was surprised by all the attention she was receiving in the room and went back to her seat behind the keyboard, elated.
This is generally an experience everyone gets to have at some point, and I absolutely love it.
Shirley was a lot less sedated today and decided she wanted to sing. One of the older staff members on guitar asked her if she knew "Bo Diddley" and began playing the melody. The drummer (an individual residing in the hospital) joined in amazingly. Shirley froze, shook her head, and laughed nervously. "Well, just go along with the music and make something up!" he said. A little hesitantly, she began rocking to the beat and looking around. To everybody's surprise, she suddenly started to improvise lyrics into the mic that were better than what some people could write in hours. She sang about suicide and overcoming those types of thoughts, about having support even when it doesn't feel that way, and more. Her style was a fusion of jazz-punk and she didn't stumble once.
When she was done, the guitar blared out into a solo, leading into the final, diminishing portion of the song. The drummer, who has at least twenty years of experience with a drum set, ended with a spectacular finale. We all broke out in an applause, and I gave Shirley a high-five and a, "Did you really just come up with that on the spot?!" She nodded and asked if it was any good. "Are you kidding me?" I responded. "I couldn't do that if you gave me an hour to prepare!" Shirley was surprised by all the attention she was receiving in the room and went back to her seat behind the keyboard, elated.
This is generally an experience everyone gets to have at some point, and I absolutely love it.
Day 12
I found out that a lot of the borderline women in the hospital are addicted to the sedative drug they are injected with upon acting up. It's no surprise, then, to hear that many do crazy things simply to be poked by their beloved shot. And there's no limit to what some will do to feed their desire--- oh no. A psych tech told me about a woman who did everything in her power yesterday to be sedated with no luck. Finally, she felt it necessary to walk around absolutely and entirely naked. She did so, but still was not reinforced.
"If we just keep giving her what she wants," the psych tech began, "we're only feeding into her addiction. That's why we chose to ignore her antics and find alternate ways of keeping her under control. Other units in this hospital wouldn't do that. They'd choose to make their jobs easy by submitting to the patient's addictions, and that's not productive at all." I nodded, and he continued, "And there is no stopping someone when they're out to feed their addiction. Things will be swallowed, body parts will be cut, all in the name of their lovely sedative."
His words were a haunting reminder that while treatment is sought, treatment itself can become problematic. Perhaps sedating people who are out of control is understandable in very specific situations, but it should be a practice reserved only when absolutely necessary, given its addictive nature. I'm glad that at least some staff realize this, and hope it's a practice under close supervision and scrutiny.
"If we just keep giving her what she wants," the psych tech began, "we're only feeding into her addiction. That's why we chose to ignore her antics and find alternate ways of keeping her under control. Other units in this hospital wouldn't do that. They'd choose to make their jobs easy by submitting to the patient's addictions, and that's not productive at all." I nodded, and he continued, "And there is no stopping someone when they're out to feed their addiction. Things will be swallowed, body parts will be cut, all in the name of their lovely sedative."
His words were a haunting reminder that while treatment is sought, treatment itself can become problematic. Perhaps sedating people who are out of control is understandable in very specific situations, but it should be a practice reserved only when absolutely necessary, given its addictive nature. I'm glad that at least some staff realize this, and hope it's a practice under close supervision and scrutiny.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Day 11
Remain genuine.
One difference I have noticed between those that are effective with individuals in the hospital and those that are not is simply genuineness. Are you being real, or are you performing at a bare minimum to keep the green paper stuffed securely in your pocket? Of course money is always a factor with work (you essentially work to receive money), but if you're faking your enthusiasm or concern, people will notice. And no enlightening or knowledge-driven words coming out of your mouth will prove meaningful.
I have mentioned before that workers who are the most genuine in the hospital also happen to be making lower wages. Is it a coincidence? Maybe. But it may say a thing or two about money and its power of corruption, or at least its power of enticing someone away from their original purpose.
The psychiatrist, in particular, amazes me. He has at least eight or nine years of intensive medical training and practice under his belt, but other than renewing prescriptions and upping doses, he has no involvement. His group sessions, which should be health-geared and proactive in nature, simply consist of showing old action movies and making as little eye-contact as needed. Surely this wasn't learned in med school, so what brought it about?
Let's contrast him with one of the social workers. He is making less than half of the amount he was making in his previous career, but carries a smile that cannot be erased. His sessions are focused, goal-oriented, and have led many out of the hospital. He knows everyone in his groups by name, and they are very excited to see him each day. This is where he wants to be and he is doing what he wants to do, and his demeanor shows it.
At the end of the day, being genuine is required, no matter what career or life path you venture down. And you can't be genuine if you dislike what you do. Is success defined by being genuinely involved in a career, or making a lot of money? That's your decision, but Viktor Frankl puts my outlook nicely: "I want you to listen to what your conscience commands you to do and go on to carry it out to the best of your knowledge. Then you will live to see that in the long run-- in the long run, I say!-- success will follow you precisely because you had forgotten to think of it."
Are you the psychiatrist or the social worker?
One difference I have noticed between those that are effective with individuals in the hospital and those that are not is simply genuineness. Are you being real, or are you performing at a bare minimum to keep the green paper stuffed securely in your pocket? Of course money is always a factor with work (you essentially work to receive money), but if you're faking your enthusiasm or concern, people will notice. And no enlightening or knowledge-driven words coming out of your mouth will prove meaningful.
I have mentioned before that workers who are the most genuine in the hospital also happen to be making lower wages. Is it a coincidence? Maybe. But it may say a thing or two about money and its power of corruption, or at least its power of enticing someone away from their original purpose.
The psychiatrist, in particular, amazes me. He has at least eight or nine years of intensive medical training and practice under his belt, but other than renewing prescriptions and upping doses, he has no involvement. His group sessions, which should be health-geared and proactive in nature, simply consist of showing old action movies and making as little eye-contact as needed. Surely this wasn't learned in med school, so what brought it about?
Let's contrast him with one of the social workers. He is making less than half of the amount he was making in his previous career, but carries a smile that cannot be erased. His sessions are focused, goal-oriented, and have led many out of the hospital. He knows everyone in his groups by name, and they are very excited to see him each day. This is where he wants to be and he is doing what he wants to do, and his demeanor shows it.
At the end of the day, being genuine is required, no matter what career or life path you venture down. And you can't be genuine if you dislike what you do. Is success defined by being genuinely involved in a career, or making a lot of money? That's your decision, but Viktor Frankl puts my outlook nicely: "I want you to listen to what your conscience commands you to do and go on to carry it out to the best of your knowledge. Then you will live to see that in the long run-- in the long run, I say!-- success will follow you precisely because you had forgotten to think of it."
Are you the psychiatrist or the social worker?
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Day 9 and 10
I anticipated conflicting feelings about being present at this site. I knew it, but I didn't expect it to come on so strongly. I was aware that I would witness things that I am morally against, but not to the extent that I have. Every day spent at the hospital is an extreme: there are either really bad or really good experiences.
A psychologist who is supposed to be leading a recovery action plan group simply reads stories aloud to patients who clearly cannot focus on her. At the conclusion of her recitation, she went around the room and asked everyone their opinion on what she just read, and reacted strongly when no one could give her anything to work with. "Did anyone even hear my story?!" she said, agitated. A shy man, Arnold, responded apologetically: "We can't pay attention Ms. Faye, we're very sedated." A few others in the room nodded in agreement, hardly able to keep their heads up.
What was probably more disheartening than this was Shirley's state when I saw her. She was clearly heavily drugged, hardly capable of keeping her head up, let alone her eyes open. She was flat, spoke in a monotone, and slipped in and out of focus. It was difficult to keep a conversation flowing with her. She told me that an older lady tried attacking her the night before, but that was really all I could comprehend from her. I tried offering her some encouragement, but she was clearly out of touch. I felt so horrible for her. I wanted to do something, but helplessly realized my futility in the situation.
Just when I felt I couldn't take much else, I joined the school of rock group. It was uplifting, and to see so many people have fun with instruments, singing, and music made my day a little brighter. This group is no joke. We were led into the music room, which houses two electric guitars, one electric bass guitar, two keyboards, a drum set, various percussion instruments, a conga drum, and several microphones. There is a full-on set of musical instruments in there, and I was blown away when I heard the group leader cue everyone to play "Knockin' On Heaven's Door". Before I knew it, the whole room transformed into a rock stadium: guitars were blaring in unison, the drummer was keeping the beat, and multiple singers began harmonizing the lyrics. I was so impressed, I almost forgot to play along with them.
You could tell everyone loves this group. They are eager to assign themselves roles, and many like the attention they get when behind the mic. It's nice to see people enjoying themselves. I'll probably need to make my way in there more often.
On my way out, I was warned never to open bathroom doors for individuals in the hospital. A few days ago, a woman broke a porcelain toilet seat and used the shards to cut herself. This same woman, in her suicidal fury, has swallowed pens, coins, batteries, and whatever she can get her hands on. There really are no bounds for someone who has decided against living, unfortunately.
A psychologist who is supposed to be leading a recovery action plan group simply reads stories aloud to patients who clearly cannot focus on her. At the conclusion of her recitation, she went around the room and asked everyone their opinion on what she just read, and reacted strongly when no one could give her anything to work with. "Did anyone even hear my story?!" she said, agitated. A shy man, Arnold, responded apologetically: "We can't pay attention Ms. Faye, we're very sedated." A few others in the room nodded in agreement, hardly able to keep their heads up.
What was probably more disheartening than this was Shirley's state when I saw her. She was clearly heavily drugged, hardly capable of keeping her head up, let alone her eyes open. She was flat, spoke in a monotone, and slipped in and out of focus. It was difficult to keep a conversation flowing with her. She told me that an older lady tried attacking her the night before, but that was really all I could comprehend from her. I tried offering her some encouragement, but she was clearly out of touch. I felt so horrible for her. I wanted to do something, but helplessly realized my futility in the situation.
Just when I felt I couldn't take much else, I joined the school of rock group. It was uplifting, and to see so many people have fun with instruments, singing, and music made my day a little brighter. This group is no joke. We were led into the music room, which houses two electric guitars, one electric bass guitar, two keyboards, a drum set, various percussion instruments, a conga drum, and several microphones. There is a full-on set of musical instruments in there, and I was blown away when I heard the group leader cue everyone to play "Knockin' On Heaven's Door". Before I knew it, the whole room transformed into a rock stadium: guitars were blaring in unison, the drummer was keeping the beat, and multiple singers began harmonizing the lyrics. I was so impressed, I almost forgot to play along with them.
You could tell everyone loves this group. They are eager to assign themselves roles, and many like the attention they get when behind the mic. It's nice to see people enjoying themselves. I'll probably need to make my way in there more often.
On my way out, I was warned never to open bathroom doors for individuals in the hospital. A few days ago, a woman broke a porcelain toilet seat and used the shards to cut herself. This same woman, in her suicidal fury, has swallowed pens, coins, batteries, and whatever she can get her hands on. There really are no bounds for someone who has decided against living, unfortunately.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Day 8
I must remind myself that, despite not being too happy about a majority of the staff members at the hospital, I am there for the individuals. They make my trips worthwhile, and the discouraging realities that I notice fade briefly when taking into consideration the enjoyment I receive from my interactions with various people.
I've noticed that those who carry higher titles in the ward -- such as the M.D., Psy.D., and Ph.D. holders -- don't take their positions as seriously as they should be. The M.D. and psychologist consistently show movies in their groups instead of conduct discussions (I don't think Batman and Merlin really have any intrinsic value in a therapeutic session). Considering those present do not get much individual therapy, these groups should be held in a higher regard, as it is one of the few opportunities to discuss recovery in a structured setting.
A social worker jokingly asked the doctor a few weeks ago what showing Batman does to help people in his group, and he merely shrugged, laughed, and replied, "It's easier." It's frustrating because those with advanced degrees have the most training and should, technically, be of the most help. Their knowledge is invaluable and hopefully it is being used in areas that I am not seeing. Otherwise, I am severely disappointed.
Putting what is bothering me aside, I was not surprised to find out that one of the individuals I spent much time with at the hospital, Jorge, is being discharged. He was extremely well-behaved, stable, and I always wondered what he was in for. He told me he has big goals for himself, such as going back to school, and making a name for himself. "I better not see you here again," I jokingly said as I shook his hand. "I'm proud of you".
"I've been in the system for over 8 years," he stated. "I've been at this hospital for the last 4, but I'm done. I'm gonna do good so I never have to come back again." We said our last goodbyes and I went back to supervising the hip hop dancing that was taking place.
I really wish the best for Jorge.
I met a girl by the name of Shirley who has also been in and out of hospitals for a lot of her life. She spoke to me of growing up without a family. "I never had parents. I was in a board and care for most of my life, and those people behaved like family. I managed to stay out of mental institutions for many years because of them, but then I went to jail, and now I'm back here." I gave her some encouragement, telling her that if she managed to stay away for years, there is hope that she will be able to leave for an even greater period of time or for good. She nodded in agreement. "I'll leave this place soon," she said, looking off into the distance. There was a brief period of silence.
"People beat me up here," she said quietly and sadly. I was taken back by her sudden disclosure. "Why in the world would they do that?" I replied. "They make fun of my short hair, and say I must be a lesbian. Staff has also beaten me up, too." I became silent, at a loss for words at her circumstance. She lifted her sleeve up to reveal healing cuts and fresh bruises. I had so much I wanted to say at this moment, so much confusion and mixed emotions, but I knew I couldn't say too much. I looked off into the corner to see staff suspiciously looking over in our direction. I encouraged her to be strong, told her she would be out again in no time, and she began speaking about more light-hearted subjects. I stayed enthusiastic with her throughout the conversation, but could not help ruminating about what we had briefly discussed. Why was she attacked so often by other individuals in the hospital? Is staff properly supervising? And why is staff harming her? Is she becoming violent?
Needless to say, I left that day with a lot of unanswered questions, but a hope that my new-found bond with Shirley can prove to be healthy and beneficial to her. She patiently taught me how to do the electric slide, so I'd say we're off to a good start.
I've noticed that those who carry higher titles in the ward -- such as the M.D., Psy.D., and Ph.D. holders -- don't take their positions as seriously as they should be. The M.D. and psychologist consistently show movies in their groups instead of conduct discussions (I don't think Batman and Merlin really have any intrinsic value in a therapeutic session). Considering those present do not get much individual therapy, these groups should be held in a higher regard, as it is one of the few opportunities to discuss recovery in a structured setting.
A social worker jokingly asked the doctor a few weeks ago what showing Batman does to help people in his group, and he merely shrugged, laughed, and replied, "It's easier." It's frustrating because those with advanced degrees have the most training and should, technically, be of the most help. Their knowledge is invaluable and hopefully it is being used in areas that I am not seeing. Otherwise, I am severely disappointed.
Putting what is bothering me aside, I was not surprised to find out that one of the individuals I spent much time with at the hospital, Jorge, is being discharged. He was extremely well-behaved, stable, and I always wondered what he was in for. He told me he has big goals for himself, such as going back to school, and making a name for himself. "I better not see you here again," I jokingly said as I shook his hand. "I'm proud of you".
"I've been in the system for over 8 years," he stated. "I've been at this hospital for the last 4, but I'm done. I'm gonna do good so I never have to come back again." We said our last goodbyes and I went back to supervising the hip hop dancing that was taking place.
I really wish the best for Jorge.
I met a girl by the name of Shirley who has also been in and out of hospitals for a lot of her life. She spoke to me of growing up without a family. "I never had parents. I was in a board and care for most of my life, and those people behaved like family. I managed to stay out of mental institutions for many years because of them, but then I went to jail, and now I'm back here." I gave her some encouragement, telling her that if she managed to stay away for years, there is hope that she will be able to leave for an even greater period of time or for good. She nodded in agreement. "I'll leave this place soon," she said, looking off into the distance. There was a brief period of silence.
"People beat me up here," she said quietly and sadly. I was taken back by her sudden disclosure. "Why in the world would they do that?" I replied. "They make fun of my short hair, and say I must be a lesbian. Staff has also beaten me up, too." I became silent, at a loss for words at her circumstance. She lifted her sleeve up to reveal healing cuts and fresh bruises. I had so much I wanted to say at this moment, so much confusion and mixed emotions, but I knew I couldn't say too much. I looked off into the corner to see staff suspiciously looking over in our direction. I encouraged her to be strong, told her she would be out again in no time, and she began speaking about more light-hearted subjects. I stayed enthusiastic with her throughout the conversation, but could not help ruminating about what we had briefly discussed. Why was she attacked so often by other individuals in the hospital? Is staff properly supervising? And why is staff harming her? Is she becoming violent?
Needless to say, I left that day with a lot of unanswered questions, but a hope that my new-found bond with Shirley can prove to be healthy and beneficial to her. She patiently taught me how to do the electric slide, so I'd say we're off to a good start.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Day 7
Janet was discharged yesterday. She seemed happy to leave, and I am proud of her. Janet, as I've said before, doesn't look a day older than eighteen. She had drug problems, and I hope that her experience and continued recovery process leads her to other means of coping. I also hope she returns to school, as she said she will do.
I was speaking with a social worker before the start of his group today, and he asked me what I plan to do after college. He could probably tell from my replies that I am still confused. He put it frankly for me: "If you're looking for money, go down the clinical/medical psych path. If you're looking for the least amount of schooling and time to begin doing what you love, do social work." He then went on to tell me that he's only been in this field for a few years now, and that prior to becoming a social worker, he was a civil engineer for over twenty years. "I'm making less than half of my paycheck before, but it's easy to say that this is a far, far more rewarding job for me. I actually enjoy coming to work. When it comes down to it, I'd rather have lived my life a little more humbly doing what I love, than hug my riches and look back, thinking, 'Man, that was a drag!'".
From being present in his group, I could tell he takes his job seriously. This was a relief, considering I have attended some group sessions that were less than satisfactory. If I were ever in similar shoes, I would hope to hold myself up to high standards.
Other than that, I played a basketball and volleyball game today, both of which I lost. Everyone is so good at it; I need to catch up to their level before I can even begin to get competitive!
I was speaking with a social worker before the start of his group today, and he asked me what I plan to do after college. He could probably tell from my replies that I am still confused. He put it frankly for me: "If you're looking for money, go down the clinical/medical psych path. If you're looking for the least amount of schooling and time to begin doing what you love, do social work." He then went on to tell me that he's only been in this field for a few years now, and that prior to becoming a social worker, he was a civil engineer for over twenty years. "I'm making less than half of my paycheck before, but it's easy to say that this is a far, far more rewarding job for me. I actually enjoy coming to work. When it comes down to it, I'd rather have lived my life a little more humbly doing what I love, than hug my riches and look back, thinking, 'Man, that was a drag!'".
From being present in his group, I could tell he takes his job seriously. This was a relief, considering I have attended some group sessions that were less than satisfactory. If I were ever in similar shoes, I would hope to hold myself up to high standards.
Other than that, I played a basketball and volleyball game today, both of which I lost. Everyone is so good at it; I need to catch up to their level before I can even begin to get competitive!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Day 6
It was very hard to fight back tears as I was told Nate and Kathryn's stories yesterday. I had noticed Nate very early on in my experience, and noted him as being one of the more severely physically disabled, long-term individuals in the hospital. Nate was in a car accident with his girlfriend many years ago. He survived it unscathed, but she didn't make it out. The trauma of losing her led him to seeing constant visions of her. She would appear in front of him, and it drove him to a point of desperation, where he finally blinded himself using whatever method he could to severely damage his eyes.
Kathryn is a very withdrawn individual that is often spoken to by other individuals in the hospital, but never responds. This leads to frustration on the part of the others who are trying to receive answers from her. When inquiring about Kathryn's avoidant nature and how to approach it, I was told that she was locked in a closet by her parents as an infant and through some of her childhood, until she was finally saved by law enforcement. Now, due to her lack of trust in humanity, she refuses to speak more than one or two words when prompted, and stays as far away from people as possible.
I knew coming into this that a lot of the individuals residing here have been through some of the most horrific traumas imaginable, but perhaps I put the notion of this trauma somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, so that I did not have to accept that so much wrong had been done to them. No one should have to suffer to the extent that they did. It hurts. It hurts to think about how much negativity has made its way to them, but it needs to be acknowledged so that therapists and doctors working to unravel and clear away the clutter of the past can help salvage what remains and restore some sort of normality to their lives. It is the very least that they deserve.
After feeling severely affected by these stories, I realized today that, at some point, you have to stop selfishly thinking about how sad hearing stories makes you, and about the individuals themselves and their recovery process. They don't need another person crying for their tribulations. They need guidance, they need love, empathy, support, unconditional positive regard. They've made it here, signifying the end of an era for them, and they need only positivity and change in the here and now.
I can't say I've reached this objective standpoint yet. I'm only a volunteer that is here for a short period of time, so maybe I won't by the end of my experience. Sometimes, I wish that I were properly trained to do the actual clinical work of helping people in their recovery processes. But for now, if I can provide someone a smile, a moment where they can kneel their head back in laughter and forget how they've been wronged, then I am doing what I have set out to do.
Kathryn is a very withdrawn individual that is often spoken to by other individuals in the hospital, but never responds. This leads to frustration on the part of the others who are trying to receive answers from her. When inquiring about Kathryn's avoidant nature and how to approach it, I was told that she was locked in a closet by her parents as an infant and through some of her childhood, until she was finally saved by law enforcement. Now, due to her lack of trust in humanity, she refuses to speak more than one or two words when prompted, and stays as far away from people as possible.
I knew coming into this that a lot of the individuals residing here have been through some of the most horrific traumas imaginable, but perhaps I put the notion of this trauma somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, so that I did not have to accept that so much wrong had been done to them. No one should have to suffer to the extent that they did. It hurts. It hurts to think about how much negativity has made its way to them, but it needs to be acknowledged so that therapists and doctors working to unravel and clear away the clutter of the past can help salvage what remains and restore some sort of normality to their lives. It is the very least that they deserve.
After feeling severely affected by these stories, I realized today that, at some point, you have to stop selfishly thinking about how sad hearing stories makes you, and about the individuals themselves and their recovery process. They don't need another person crying for their tribulations. They need guidance, they need love, empathy, support, unconditional positive regard. They've made it here, signifying the end of an era for them, and they need only positivity and change in the here and now.
I can't say I've reached this objective standpoint yet. I'm only a volunteer that is here for a short period of time, so maybe I won't by the end of my experience. Sometimes, I wish that I were properly trained to do the actual clinical work of helping people in their recovery processes. But for now, if I can provide someone a smile, a moment where they can kneel their head back in laughter and forget how they've been wronged, then I am doing what I have set out to do.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Day 5
I'm already beginning to recognize each and every person in the ward. The place is becoming more personalized for me, and many of the individuals are coming to recognize me as a recurring face. It feels great to walk down the aisle and greet people based on my individual interactions with them. To reiterate what was mentioned in a previous post, the people I've encountered here are among the most kind and humble I have ever come across. That being said, there are a few I have learned to actively avoid.
I was somewhat disappointed by the group I attended today. It was supposed to focus on coping skills and problem solving, but the discussion leader didn't seem too into the task at hand. He never stayed on one topic, constantly yawning and looking at his watch. The topic of hearing voices came about at one point. Most of the individuals attending the session attested to hearing voices, and some specified what their voices told them to do. One man stated that his voices told him to harm people, but that he did the best he could to suppress it. Another indicated that he was actively hearing voices at the moment, but that he could do a fairly good job of keeping his focus elsewhere. This is a great feat, I imagine, and one that probably takes a lot of effort and skill to master. At one point in the session, nearly half of the people attending began dosing off. This may either have occurred because the leader wasn't too enthusiastic and directive, or because of overmedication.
Though I have encountered people speaking aloud when no one is near them, today was my first encounter with a woman who was actively hallucinating a conversation. Whenever we spoke, she was very attentive and kind, but when left to herself, she began having conversations that involved multiple people and roles. She responded for each person involved in the conversation. At times, however, the voices in her head responded for her, so to the observer, it was like hearing only one side of a phone conversation. She was very sweet and had a lot of interest in talking.
My lesson of the day was learning that many of those suffering from schizophrenia are not completely detached from the world as we are led to believe, but rather, socialize in manners that are very similar to everyone else.
Oh, and don't get involved in competitive volleyball matches if you don't know what you're doing. Bruising is a likely side effect. :P
I was somewhat disappointed by the group I attended today. It was supposed to focus on coping skills and problem solving, but the discussion leader didn't seem too into the task at hand. He never stayed on one topic, constantly yawning and looking at his watch. The topic of hearing voices came about at one point. Most of the individuals attending the session attested to hearing voices, and some specified what their voices told them to do. One man stated that his voices told him to harm people, but that he did the best he could to suppress it. Another indicated that he was actively hearing voices at the moment, but that he could do a fairly good job of keeping his focus elsewhere. This is a great feat, I imagine, and one that probably takes a lot of effort and skill to master. At one point in the session, nearly half of the people attending began dosing off. This may either have occurred because the leader wasn't too enthusiastic and directive, or because of overmedication.
Though I have encountered people speaking aloud when no one is near them, today was my first encounter with a woman who was actively hallucinating a conversation. Whenever we spoke, she was very attentive and kind, but when left to herself, she began having conversations that involved multiple people and roles. She responded for each person involved in the conversation. At times, however, the voices in her head responded for her, so to the observer, it was like hearing only one side of a phone conversation. She was very sweet and had a lot of interest in talking.
My lesson of the day was learning that many of those suffering from schizophrenia are not completely detached from the world as we are led to believe, but rather, socialize in manners that are very similar to everyone else.
Oh, and don't get involved in competitive volleyball matches if you don't know what you're doing. Bruising is a likely side effect. :P
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Day 4
A little history of the hospital came my way today. It turns out the site was big on lobotomies back in the day, but obviously, the practice has been extinct and the building that housed the procedure has long since been torn down. The first generation psychotropic drugs that were in use have also been cast aside, although this occurred not nearly as long ago. The hospital has changed procedures and shed aside (most of) the archaic bleakness that shadows the history of psychiatry. I would like to think the modern standards they hold up for themselves are being strictly adhered to.
I met a nice older man who speaks all of his thoughts aloud to himself. His stream of consciousness is unveiled at all moments. You may think this hinders his focus on the rest of the world, being so verbally preoccupied in his thoughts, but it is quite the opposite. He is very quick to smile, offer nice words, and focus all of his attention on whomever he is speaking with. It is simply whenever he is not interacting with someone that he returns to the recitation of his thoughts.
He is no different than many individuals I have come across. It has become apparent that the fears and hesitancy people have about those with mental disorders are present due to a small, hostile population of those suffering with them. The rest are among the most humble, kind-hearted, and gentle individuals you will ever come across--individuals that are no different than someone suffering from diabetes: they simply can't control the internal processes that are governing them. That being said, they can make efforts to manage it, like a diabetic who takes his insulin and avoids sugar.
I learned another lesson today, a little more major than the last: never take a seat near someone without asking them if it is okay to do so first. Some people just require a very wide space to feel comfortable.
I met a nice older man who speaks all of his thoughts aloud to himself. His stream of consciousness is unveiled at all moments. You may think this hinders his focus on the rest of the world, being so verbally preoccupied in his thoughts, but it is quite the opposite. He is very quick to smile, offer nice words, and focus all of his attention on whomever he is speaking with. It is simply whenever he is not interacting with someone that he returns to the recitation of his thoughts.
He is no different than many individuals I have come across. It has become apparent that the fears and hesitancy people have about those with mental disorders are present due to a small, hostile population of those suffering with them. The rest are among the most humble, kind-hearted, and gentle individuals you will ever come across--individuals that are no different than someone suffering from diabetes: they simply can't control the internal processes that are governing them. That being said, they can make efforts to manage it, like a diabetic who takes his insulin and avoids sugar.
I learned another lesson today, a little more major than the last: never take a seat near someone without asking them if it is okay to do so first. Some people just require a very wide space to feel comfortable.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Day 3
I figured I'd come across a restraints and seclusion room at some point in my experience, but I hadn't expected it to pop up so soon. Little did I know that two of the doors I pass on a regular basis are entrances to seclusion rooms. I peered in to find an eerily empty space, greeted only by a bed in the middle and a long, foggy window, allowing only minimal traces of the sun and outside world in. I froze a little. I began wondering how often these rooms were still used, and figured there were plenty more where that came from upstairs, where the individuals spend most of their time.
In the nurse's station, my suspicions about Joseph were confirmed. There are indeed more reasons than just his rough exterior that keep others fearful of him. He is well-known to be a violent one, as I found out. A few weeks ago, he pushed one of the staff members down in a completely spontaneous moment of action. This left the staff member so injured that he is home bound for the next year. I'm not going to lie; I became a little fearful upon hearing this.
I joined a substance abuse recovery group today. It was probably among my favorites so far. Before the formal beginning of the group, the clinical social worker and one of the individuals were having a conversation about his upcoming birthday. "My birthday is September 18th," he began. "September 18th, 1961. I was born in 1961 and died in 1961," he remarked very matter-of-factly. "So you pulled a Lazarus on us and came back to life, eh?" retorted the social worker with a genuine smirk. The individual merely nodded his head. The social worker never questioned the authenticity of his statement, and seemed to have a very personalized relationship with everyone attending the group.
During the session, a man by the name of Richard was asked: "given the opportunity to leave the hospital today, would you return to cocaine?" To that, he quickly and without hesitancy responded "yes". "So Richard," asked the discussion leader, "you're willing to have to come back here for however long, just to get a two day fix?" "Yes, without a doubt" Richard responded again, very confidently. "Do you like being here?" asked the leader. "No, I don't--" "Then why would you do something that you know will guarantee you to land right back here?" Richard didn't know what to say to this, but never budged on his stance to do cocaine despite any and all consequences.
Witnessing his determination was heart-breaking, but I was sadly not surprised. To Richard, getting his fix would mean however-many-years back behind the fences of a psychiatric hospital, but he didn't care. He lived for his substance of choice, and his only motivation to leave the hospital was to do cocaine. His only motivation for living was to do cocaine. I became sorely preoccupied by the thought that he may or may not be able to break this cycle.
The recreation group lifted my spirits a little, however, and there was one lesson I learned today: do not underestimate the basketball skills of an older man. I lost to someone at HORSE today, and not by a margin either!
In the nurse's station, my suspicions about Joseph were confirmed. There are indeed more reasons than just his rough exterior that keep others fearful of him. He is well-known to be a violent one, as I found out. A few weeks ago, he pushed one of the staff members down in a completely spontaneous moment of action. This left the staff member so injured that he is home bound for the next year. I'm not going to lie; I became a little fearful upon hearing this.
I joined a substance abuse recovery group today. It was probably among my favorites so far. Before the formal beginning of the group, the clinical social worker and one of the individuals were having a conversation about his upcoming birthday. "My birthday is September 18th," he began. "September 18th, 1961. I was born in 1961 and died in 1961," he remarked very matter-of-factly. "So you pulled a Lazarus on us and came back to life, eh?" retorted the social worker with a genuine smirk. The individual merely nodded his head. The social worker never questioned the authenticity of his statement, and seemed to have a very personalized relationship with everyone attending the group.
During the session, a man by the name of Richard was asked: "given the opportunity to leave the hospital today, would you return to cocaine?" To that, he quickly and without hesitancy responded "yes". "So Richard," asked the discussion leader, "you're willing to have to come back here for however long, just to get a two day fix?" "Yes, without a doubt" Richard responded again, very confidently. "Do you like being here?" asked the leader. "No, I don't--" "Then why would you do something that you know will guarantee you to land right back here?" Richard didn't know what to say to this, but never budged on his stance to do cocaine despite any and all consequences.
Witnessing his determination was heart-breaking, but I was sadly not surprised. To Richard, getting his fix would mean however-many-years back behind the fences of a psychiatric hospital, but he didn't care. He lived for his substance of choice, and his only motivation to leave the hospital was to do cocaine. His only motivation for living was to do cocaine. I became sorely preoccupied by the thought that he may or may not be able to break this cycle.
The recreation group lifted my spirits a little, however, and there was one lesson I learned today: do not underestimate the basketball skills of an older man. I lost to someone at HORSE today, and not by a margin either!
Day 2
I was early in the nurse's station. The first group was scheduled to occur around 3:20, and I sat quietly inside with 30 minutes to kill. Being alone, I found it possible to explore a little. I scanned the different folders on one of the desks: "Lesson Plans", "Emergency Procedures", and various other standard protocol lay spilling with paper. There was a very antique-looking intercom system that was laden with dust; I wondered if it was still in use. A cabinet on the other side of the round nurse's station read "restraints" in big, bold letters.
Restraints are almost never allowed to be used in the hospital anymore. According to published reports that date several years back, many safety and health concerns were raised against the hospital by evaluators. The consistent use of restraints was one of them. Since then, the hospital has sought to adopt other, non-physical methods of controlling conflict. Paula spoke to me of a woman suffering from borderline personality disorder who climbed up a tree last week and refused to come down. "The staff spent twelve hours talking her into climbing down," said Paula. "No one was allowed to forcefully remove her." Whether this is in effect in situations other than what has been cited, I have yet to know.
As the time drew near, employees came in. With a list of the daily activities in hand, I decided to find my way to the spiritual group. I wandered in to a friendly pastor playing a keyboard and leading a small group through hymns. Nearly everyone in the room participated and sang earnestly. Next came Bible study. The topic for the day was controlling anger, and the pastor tied his point in with Dwight Eisenhower and his plight to destroy anger and replace it with patience. "Dear Lord," the pastor prayed at the conclusion of his study, "please assist everyone here to work on recovery so that they may be able to leave and return to their families." It was the first time I had heard someone mention recovery, let alone leaving the facility. Many of the individuals in the group nodded, their heads hung low in silence. "Amen!" everyone shouted in unison.
Outside, individuals in the spiritual group were finishing up the maza they had received from the pastor. I became acquainted with Joseph, an older individual who prides himself with street cred. His baggy clothes, tattoos, and chains are a representation of his life before the hospital. Joseph has an air of intimidation about him; he seems to repel a lot of the other individuals at the hospital. Some seem scared off by his look, and if there is more they are afraid of, I had yet to find out.
Joseph decided that he'd play PIG with Jorge, another star basketball player. The competition was on. I was quick to notice that Joseph spoke incoherently; however, every now and then, he would come at you with very clear messages. This was one of those times. "Jorge, my man, you got nothin' on me!" he shouted. The two battled it out until they were both left with a "P" and an "I". Jorge scored from the sidelines, and Joseph was to duplicate his shot. It was game point.
Joseph looked around and seemed to become a little nervous. He muttered something inaudibly and went for the shot. It hit the rim and bounced up, but fell to the side. He didn't make it. Joseph seemed a little shocked by his loss, and walked over to a table where he sat and silently observed the volleyball game that was unfolding. Jorge, also in slight shock, approached his win humbly and continued to shoot the ball until the patio period was over.
I was concerned with how little staff involvement was taking place in the game area on my first day, but this time, I noticed many more recreational therapists, psych techs, and social workers conducting talk sessions and playing games with the individuals. It was definitely an improvement-- one that I hope to be lasting.
Restraints are almost never allowed to be used in the hospital anymore. According to published reports that date several years back, many safety and health concerns were raised against the hospital by evaluators. The consistent use of restraints was one of them. Since then, the hospital has sought to adopt other, non-physical methods of controlling conflict. Paula spoke to me of a woman suffering from borderline personality disorder who climbed up a tree last week and refused to come down. "The staff spent twelve hours talking her into climbing down," said Paula. "No one was allowed to forcefully remove her." Whether this is in effect in situations other than what has been cited, I have yet to know.
As the time drew near, employees came in. With a list of the daily activities in hand, I decided to find my way to the spiritual group. I wandered in to a friendly pastor playing a keyboard and leading a small group through hymns. Nearly everyone in the room participated and sang earnestly. Next came Bible study. The topic for the day was controlling anger, and the pastor tied his point in with Dwight Eisenhower and his plight to destroy anger and replace it with patience. "Dear Lord," the pastor prayed at the conclusion of his study, "please assist everyone here to work on recovery so that they may be able to leave and return to their families." It was the first time I had heard someone mention recovery, let alone leaving the facility. Many of the individuals in the group nodded, their heads hung low in silence. "Amen!" everyone shouted in unison.
Outside, individuals in the spiritual group were finishing up the maza they had received from the pastor. I became acquainted with Joseph, an older individual who prides himself with street cred. His baggy clothes, tattoos, and chains are a representation of his life before the hospital. Joseph has an air of intimidation about him; he seems to repel a lot of the other individuals at the hospital. Some seem scared off by his look, and if there is more they are afraid of, I had yet to find out.
Joseph decided that he'd play PIG with Jorge, another star basketball player. The competition was on. I was quick to notice that Joseph spoke incoherently; however, every now and then, he would come at you with very clear messages. This was one of those times. "Jorge, my man, you got nothin' on me!" he shouted. The two battled it out until they were both left with a "P" and an "I". Jorge scored from the sidelines, and Joseph was to duplicate his shot. It was game point.
Joseph looked around and seemed to become a little nervous. He muttered something inaudibly and went for the shot. It hit the rim and bounced up, but fell to the side. He didn't make it. Joseph seemed a little shocked by his loss, and walked over to a table where he sat and silently observed the volleyball game that was unfolding. Jorge, also in slight shock, approached his win humbly and continued to shoot the ball until the patio period was over.
I was concerned with how little staff involvement was taking place in the game area on my first day, but this time, I noticed many more recreational therapists, psych techs, and social workers conducting talk sessions and playing games with the individuals. It was definitely an improvement-- one that I hope to be lasting.
Day 1
It began with being led into the unit by the volunteer coordinator, Paula. Opening door after door with my magic key was surreal at first-- I was gaining access to a world otherwise unknown to the outside; a mysterious and seemingly endless hallway of sterile white enveloped me. The old, rusted locks were difficult to master, and the silence seemed to engulf the small talk Paula and I were making. Finally, I unlocked the door that gave me access to the ward I would be spending the next few months volunteering in. Here it began.
I was quickly led through an open door. "Laura!" Paula yelled. "Meet another one!" We walked in on Laura hastily typing away on her computer. She didn't seem too happy. "I have another one for you," Paula repeated. She pointed at me and smiled helplessly. The hospital had taken in too many volunteers, Paula explained, but I had yet to encounter any. Laura stared blankly at Paula for a few instances. A few moments passed in silence until Laura glanced over at me, offering a smile and a "hi".
Laura seems to mean well, but her busy schedule as a psych tech and lack of relaxation time gives her an air of apathy and discontent. Along with Eric, also a psych tech, Laura was to supervise me.
Another volunteer showed up at the door. Laura instructed her to lead me to the nurse's station, the main meeting grounds for all employed at the hospital. It could be likened to an office shared by everyone-- it contains all vital documents, procedures, and forms. Eric, supervisor numero dos, soon made his way in and introduced himself. He gave me a brief introduction, and told me to watch out for particular patients. A small, seemingly-innocent Asian woman by the name of Lu was often one to lash out on staff and other individuals in the hospital, so having your back turned to her is generally not a good idea, I was told. I nodded, sucking in whatever information was thrown at me, attempting to make sense of everything until--
A low rumbling sound began from afar. "Here they come", voiced Eric. Soon, the once-empty hallways were filled to the brim with a myriad of faces, all different from the next. Some people walked upright, some hobbled, some made their way down at a snail's pace. They wandered around the all-glass nurse's station, which sits in the middle of the ward, where of the all hallways meet. Individuals who begun to knock on the glass startled me at first, and many motioned with their hands to signify that they had questions for the staff and requested attention. Before I knew it, I was wandering out of the station with another psych tech to one of the group sessions.
Group sessions take place every morning and afternoon, two during each time frame. The first I was to attend was being led by a psychologist. I walked into a small group of individuals, surprised to see that our activity for the hour was to intently watch Merlin. The psych tech I had accompanied began nodding off, later telling me, "I've never, in all my time here, seen the psychologist show a movie during his session! I can't believe I fell asleep!"
The second group involved recreational activity. Everyone was led out to the patio area where a volleyball court and half a basketball court are present. I began supervising and encouraging shooters of the basketball, and was promptly approached by a few individuals who asked me for my name. Jorge, who carries an air of complete stability, proceeded to stun us all with his perfect three-pointers. Janet and Robert were next. They looked very young-- not a day over 18-- and flirted with one another quite a bit. The lower-functioning and older individuals sat on lawn chairs placed all along the corners of the patio area, mostly staring off and lost in thought. A few made rounds, walking around the grounds and nodding "hello"s at others in the process.
Before I knew it, everyone began walking back inside. I was to return the equipment. The afternoon activities had ceased. And with that, my first day was complete. With little supervision and direction, it was needless to say that I was fairly lost. The novelty of the situation had me in a daze, no doubt.
As I left the hospital, I had quickly come to be curious about several "normal" individuals present in the unit. It brought about the question: "what could they possibly be here for?" And that question was to be answered over time, I realized.
I was quickly led through an open door. "Laura!" Paula yelled. "Meet another one!" We walked in on Laura hastily typing away on her computer. She didn't seem too happy. "I have another one for you," Paula repeated. She pointed at me and smiled helplessly. The hospital had taken in too many volunteers, Paula explained, but I had yet to encounter any. Laura stared blankly at Paula for a few instances. A few moments passed in silence until Laura glanced over at me, offering a smile and a "hi".
Laura seems to mean well, but her busy schedule as a psych tech and lack of relaxation time gives her an air of apathy and discontent. Along with Eric, also a psych tech, Laura was to supervise me.
Another volunteer showed up at the door. Laura instructed her to lead me to the nurse's station, the main meeting grounds for all employed at the hospital. It could be likened to an office shared by everyone-- it contains all vital documents, procedures, and forms. Eric, supervisor numero dos, soon made his way in and introduced himself. He gave me a brief introduction, and told me to watch out for particular patients. A small, seemingly-innocent Asian woman by the name of Lu was often one to lash out on staff and other individuals in the hospital, so having your back turned to her is generally not a good idea, I was told. I nodded, sucking in whatever information was thrown at me, attempting to make sense of everything until--
A low rumbling sound began from afar. "Here they come", voiced Eric. Soon, the once-empty hallways were filled to the brim with a myriad of faces, all different from the next. Some people walked upright, some hobbled, some made their way down at a snail's pace. They wandered around the all-glass nurse's station, which sits in the middle of the ward, where of the all hallways meet. Individuals who begun to knock on the glass startled me at first, and many motioned with their hands to signify that they had questions for the staff and requested attention. Before I knew it, I was wandering out of the station with another psych tech to one of the group sessions.
Group sessions take place every morning and afternoon, two during each time frame. The first I was to attend was being led by a psychologist. I walked into a small group of individuals, surprised to see that our activity for the hour was to intently watch Merlin. The psych tech I had accompanied began nodding off, later telling me, "I've never, in all my time here, seen the psychologist show a movie during his session! I can't believe I fell asleep!"
The second group involved recreational activity. Everyone was led out to the patio area where a volleyball court and half a basketball court are present. I began supervising and encouraging shooters of the basketball, and was promptly approached by a few individuals who asked me for my name. Jorge, who carries an air of complete stability, proceeded to stun us all with his perfect three-pointers. Janet and Robert were next. They looked very young-- not a day over 18-- and flirted with one another quite a bit. The lower-functioning and older individuals sat on lawn chairs placed all along the corners of the patio area, mostly staring off and lost in thought. A few made rounds, walking around the grounds and nodding "hello"s at others in the process.
Before I knew it, everyone began walking back inside. I was to return the equipment. The afternoon activities had ceased. And with that, my first day was complete. With little supervision and direction, it was needless to say that I was fairly lost. The novelty of the situation had me in a daze, no doubt.
As I left the hospital, I had quickly come to be curious about several "normal" individuals present in the unit. It brought about the question: "what could they possibly be here for?" And that question was to be answered over time, I realized.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A Disclaimer
Let me begin by describing what this blog is not. This blog is not a location to exploit, make fun of, or deface individuals living in mental institutions. It is not a place to judge them, or relegate them further than they have been by the system. It is certainly not a place to hinder confidentiality, so individuals will be referred to by false names, and no defining features will be made public.
I've created this blog to document my experiences as a volunteer at a psychiatric hospital. I am by no means an expert in the field of mental health; I am merely an undergraduate psychology student who has an itch to explore and the passion to be of even minimal assistance to the lives of these forgotten people. This blog, by no means, intends to isolate these individuals further, but hopes to serve the unifying cause of bringing light and education to an area of health care that is often blinded by misconceptions, prejudices, and fear.
I have my doubts about the ethics of the mental health care system, and this blog will-- alongside my experiences-- highlight the inadequacies that I come by in my journey. It is an opportunity to spread awareness and educate, as well as bring to the limelight horrific issues that are often swept under the carpet.
Ultimately, I hope to become more educated by this experience, and share with you the successes, failures, hopes, and fears that play a role in my time here. Every day brings on new challenges, new pressing situations, and new ways of being of assistance. Come along for the journey.
I've created this blog to document my experiences as a volunteer at a psychiatric hospital. I am by no means an expert in the field of mental health; I am merely an undergraduate psychology student who has an itch to explore and the passion to be of even minimal assistance to the lives of these forgotten people. This blog, by no means, intends to isolate these individuals further, but hopes to serve the unifying cause of bringing light and education to an area of health care that is often blinded by misconceptions, prejudices, and fear.
I have my doubts about the ethics of the mental health care system, and this blog will-- alongside my experiences-- highlight the inadequacies that I come by in my journey. It is an opportunity to spread awareness and educate, as well as bring to the limelight horrific issues that are often swept under the carpet.
Ultimately, I hope to become more educated by this experience, and share with you the successes, failures, hopes, and fears that play a role in my time here. Every day brings on new challenges, new pressing situations, and new ways of being of assistance. Come along for the journey.
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