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.