My Early Counseling Training

Well over 20 years ago, I worked inpatient for two years. It was considered an ‘open mental health facility.’ That meant the doors were not locked unless we had a ‘runner.’

​Those ‘runner’ nights-days were tricky and hard. I felt the floor change from real to empty; the mental health labels were dished out like candy. Being a psychiatric counselor was a learning for sure, and if I could I’d find each patient and thank them. But laws are such and ethics are good.

Therefore, I hold these abridged memories and have slightly change them to keep privacy true. 

To the gentleman who waltzed with me. Thinking it was 1933; I met him in his mind-space and we danced on linoleum, but it was the finest ballroom. The noisy florescent overhead lights became candles. He heard music and I felt it too. ~thank you~

A certain schizophrenic also found music and played the ratty piano until the keyboard fell in tune. I listened at a short distance because he needed space. 
The magic he played infused ever fiber I knew.

He stayed shy, until one day he shared, “I once played at Carnegie Hall.”

I believed him. He teared and shuffled to get another pill. I cried too.
​
~thank you~​

The sweet woman in room, whatever. I don’t remember but it was diagonal to the nurse’s station.

When I got near enough she reached for my hands and asked, “Braid my hair. Your hands are fine and strong.”

I tried. She laughed.

“My child, you must be white but thank you. Pull up a chair and I will tell you the truth. I see rabbits and chicks and I don’t swallow those pills because I lose my friends each time. I know you won’t tell."

Although she was legally blind, in her dreams I saw what she say too. 

​ ~thank you~

A woman came in completely distraught. I was up for the next intake but before I could finish she was given meds. I cringed because I just knew there was more to her story, but I was so young and unsure. Later I had to try something that felt so strange. I knew enough to try sign language.

I said, “I love you” and my name is…spelled in very slow letters. My fingers forgot what my child-mind had remembered from the encyclopedias I learned from.

She understood and cried and laughed a loud monotone.

She was deaf. Not psychotic.

Within hours we had a translator and that night she went home.

​~thank you~

I could go on.

I share these memories because we all have gifts in what seems to be our weaknesses.

And as I write this I know these stories needed to be told because they taught me.

So many times we are mislabeled and each person treated the same. It can’t be that way.

​Humanity is incredibly beautiful, precious, sacred and real.