M.Your grandmother was a caregiver, an artist, and a ruthless bingo player. I was always trying to understand and learn from her how she experienced the world. We talked about just about everything. We had a conversation when I came out as bi+/pansexual. She said her sister could be gay and she just wanted me to be happy. Her love felt strong and unconditional. She had an undeniable sweetness. I loved being in her presence, sharing, playing cards, laughing, always smiling and enjoying the time we spent together.
It was not uncommon for me, too, to share what I was learning in my post-secondary studies, but one time the conversation was different. It was his late ’90s, and as a psychology major in undergrad, I was reading a book on electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). I was appalled to find that psychiatrists were still doing ECT, and I told her grandmother the same thing. she was quiet. She is quieter than usual. She listened, but she didn’t respond when I stopped. I asked her directly. “Can you believe they still do this to people?!?” She shared that she could. She shared that it was done to her.
We’ve talked a lot over the years and I didn’t know she was going through it. probably should have been. Our family was used to mental health symptoms and clinical diagnoses. It was no secret that my grandmother’s sister spent most of her life in a mental hospital. And my uncle was outspoken about how he got drunk because it was too painful to read people’s thoughts. Additionally, most of the family members were in therapy at some point to deal with depression, abuse, or whatever diagnosis they had at the time.
My grandmother explained that a few years ago she went to a mental hospital in the South Central and doctors assured her that ECT was safe and the best treatment for her condition. She said she trusted her doctor because her generation knew him best. Already feeling hopeless and helpless, she followed their advice, but ECT had no effect. When she spoke, she sounded sad, but not out of melancholy, but out of regret.
The doctors were angry with me. Who would do something so violent to a kind and fragile artist grandma? I was angry that my family allowed me to do this. Who would have known this? How bad could something that seemed like a reasonable idea be? Did someone try to stop it? I believed her, but she didn’t believe me.
At that moment, I wished I could recant my words that only compounded her shame and remorse. She wanted to take away the pain she was feeling. I wanted to stand up for her and get her sister out of a psychiatric hospital. I wonder how much pressure her grandmother felt to agree to treatment. She probably felt lucky. She was abused by a psychiatrist, from whom she was released. She had her freedom. her sister did not.
I have benefited from their sacrifice and the advocacy of many who have come before me. I had a lot of freedom and opportunities.I graduated with my colleague‘s and single‘s I have a degree in psychology and a master’s degree in social work. My first job after graduate school was as an intake coordinator at a for-profit residential eating disorder clinic. My boss always told me to ask people desperate for help about insurance before they got healthy. I chose to ignore this awful expert advice. After two weeks, I quit. They happily wished me luck – elsewhere.
My second job was working weekdays at a state university as an Americans with Disabilities Act coordinator. At the same time, I worked as a live-in caregiver for a person with quadriplegia, as an on-call medical social worker and a daily psychiatric social worker during nights, weekends, and holidays. I was swallowed by a disabled world. Regardless of my boss’s guidance, I continued to put humanity and respect at the center of my work, sometimes on the contrary.
I didn’t make a lot of money, but I felt like I did. ‘Hooray‘. As someone from a variable household income bracket (moved from low to medium with the invention of credit cards after my parents filed for bankruptcy), I was proud to work in universities, medical hospitals, and psychiatric hospitals. I had a career. Working a lot was exhausting, but I also felt privileged to be able to take on these jobs. I always worked hard to earn that opportunity and prove that I deserved it.
While I felt professionally successful, I was suffering from chronic post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). At the time, however, he was diagnosed with an adjustment disorder to avoid being labeled as a pre-existing medical condition prior to the reimbursement of medical costs. US law. I journaled, went to therapy, and consumed excessive amounts of cocaine and vodka to deal with the hell I experienced regularly.
Patients in psychiatric hospitals faced their own suffering as well. People were either committed against their will or confessed voluntarily and were usually released within 72 hours of him. The first day, when I was given the keys to the unit, it was incredible. I carefully attached it to the hospital lanyard along with my employee ID card. I remember thinking. D.Please do not lose them.It’s the only proof that you’re not a patient.
because of me and my familyyBased on my experience, I have described and experienced a hospital differently than most employees. I saw my grandmother, my uncle, and myself when working with patients. A few days later I sat across from a young man my age. Police found him unconscious from drug use in the pharmacy parking lot. He had experienced childhood abuse and faced his own PTSD symptoms. I listened intently as he spoke. I nodded and empathized briefly. I was amazed at how our circumstances reflected each other. If I choose left and he chooses right, we switch with Freaky Friday and he has the keys and employee ID.
From holding the strap to holding it. I had to tell myself I could leave at the end of the day. I touched the paper and clicked the pen to orient myself. I tried to validate his experience and ask him what he wanted from treatment.
A very wide range of people came to this unit. Admittedly I haven’t been in a relationship with everyone. One night, a wealthy white woman is taken into police custody. She drank and deposited a large amount of Xanax in her stomach and told her personal trainer, who called the police. The next morning, when she woke up in the hospital, she panicked.
She explained with urgency: I thought, “I have to get out of here. I don’t belong here.” W.hey i’m here?! She thought I shared her worldview because she was on the same level as me. melanin. I told her she would be released but she had to wait her turn.
My boss was listening to our exchange. She ran over with the woman’s chart in her hand and she said, Get your paperwork ready. Then we can leave. ’ she heard this. Patients heard this. The staff heard the words, but seemed unperturbed by the interaction. Being wealthy and white is the key to psychiatry.
The same supervisor said my case notes were written as if I were doing outpatient care. She meant I humanized the patient too much. She hoped the note would read, “Patient survived, attended group, ate at X, went to bed at Y.” Instead, I wrote admiringly about their strengths and insights in order to respect their uniqueness.
It was an act of defiance to write about who they were as individuals. It was a way of putting their personalities at the center. My notes, regardless of length or prose, were always completed on time and accepted for billing, so there were no legitimate complaints. When I asked her manager to explain her concerns, she said, “That’s just not how we do it.” She encouraged me to try harder to integrate into the workplace culture.
I avoided the staff. Pervasive disability discrimination was evident. They called “frequent flyers” patients who repeatedly entered the ward when at risk of death, often from debilitating psychiatric symptoms. The 10th visit should have been free back then. At a management meeting, we learned that medical professionals are focusing on insurance, not disease, when deciding on treatments, and that the hospital was acquired by a for-profit hospital chain. Prioritizing profit over happiness is the key to psychiatry.
It’s hard to do when you can empathize with people who are being devalued. A line between us and them was a requirement, but whose team was I on in the first place? Will you choose your family and yourself, or a new profession? I regretted my degree. As a bi+/pansexual, I prefer not to choose.
I spent as much time as possible with my patients. We talked about their fears, movies, and bad food. We spoke to each other as humans. We joked and laughed. Loved adding laughter to the unit. It was both commonplace and remarkable given the context. I felt the eyes of the staff. I didn’t fit in with their work culture.
My family history of mental illness, my own diagnosis, and my constant desire to peck at the beehive make it clear that I’m crossing a very dangerous line working in a mental hospital. became. I knew how tenuous my sense of sanity was. I eventually quit and moved to outpatient care. My paper case notes were welcomed there and the door was unlocked during treatment time.
When I left, many of the hospital staff seemed happy that they were right and that I hadn’t hacked, but they knew I still had the key to the psych ward. Little did I know. Not in a figurative sense. I stole the key. When I completed my resignation paperwork in HR, it seemed to me that the key was mine as a matter of course, because no one asked for it. It was like a trophy for my family’s victory over the mental health system. I tricked them and ran away. I kept the key on a hospital lanyard in the car’s center console so the thief would know where to use it.
Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at the irony. Hooray when I got to the psychiatrist. My great-aunt would doubtless doubt my sanity. Now I tend to agree too. Most days, I still do my part to create spaces where patients can be treated with dignity and where professionals can be personally involved with their mental health issues. . But there are days when I’m happy to be outside, just like my grandmother.
