When she made it to ER they had to pry her girlfriend off. It got so bad, the two of them hugging and sobbing, that Security was called to drag the girlfriend away. She was forbidden to return. I wish I knew everything that occured, or maybe I don't. Pretty common histrionic stuff, though the banning from ER is a nice touch. I mean, you have to work at that. Banning is usually for Gang Bangers or really bad psychotic acting-out. So what had her girlfriend done?
"My best friend in the whole world and THEY won't let me see her. It's not fair. How can that be therapy? My best friend and they won't let me see her. It's not fair. It's not fair." She sobbed so peircingly every head in the TV room jerked around in her direction. She continued, on and on; she was in her late 20's but "They" and "It wasn't fair" still played an enormous role in her world view. She had the reciever wrapped around her lips and her ankles were curled up towards her chest like a little bunny, but got up to turn the TV down. The TV - the only thing the other poor wretches on the unit get to see except for counselors and groups, and it was only videos- no broadcast or cable. The TV.
It had to go. It interfered with her phone call.
I told the staff at the desk they had a sobber on the line and to watch out.
I was in the dining room when I heard the keening wail. I could see through the windows she was off the phone now and on the floor. The sobs were heart wrenching. She could really put them out. Not too loud, not too much yell; just the right combination of destroyed soul and a cruel world too brutal to bear it. Hollywood could tape that wail. She'd only made it 4 feet from the phone and now occupied all the available sound space of the TV room. It was a very large room but she filled it. There was a elderly man visiting his wife five feet away on the sofa. They couldn't hear anything except the young woman. After a couple minutes, the man got up to go. He'd only had 10 minutes to see his sick wife and had to go back to work.
Staff was nestling around the girl. She got her PRN.
"Shit," Leslie said later, "I was in pain and couldn't move I was so anxious, they didn't give me a PRN."
"Next time lay on the floor and cry. I told you you have a noble face. You could really get them with a few tears."
Later that evening the girl apologized to the group, but it wasn't the kind of apology that cost very much. The librium must have kicked in.
"You know," I told her, "the phone has a volume switch. You don't have to turn down the TV."
"Oh. Thank you" she said.
She told the group that she was going to petition the MHP to allow her to see her friend.
"How'd the Montana Highway Patrol get involved in your treatment?" I asked. Everyone laughed.
"No, no; the Montana Mental Health Professionals." She said. "They've forbidden me to see my friend for another 120 days."
"What do you mean 'another'?" I asked.
"Well," She gestured towards her wrist.
I'd noticed some fairly large superficial stratches there, though enough for a bandage.
"I was almost finished with my 180 days but they gave me another 120 for this."
Must be a form of probation. I didn't really want to know. Instead I dug in for the red meat. "Is this friend of yours your significant other?"
If I'd said, 'hey, is this your lesbian lover', I'd have been a beast. But significant other was newspeak for OK with Me. We were all adults here.
"No, she's just a very very dear friend."
"It's good to have friends that close." I said. I meant it, too. I remembered the till death do us part friends of childhood and my twenties. You couldn't make it without them.
So she was the Ward's official drama queen for about a day, until Pricilla one- upped her. Pricilla was in her thirties and had been doing it longer. She was like the horse that held back until the end of the race, but knew how to reach the tape.
Pricilla's husband and son didn't understand her, she told us. They treated her with distain. "I've been diagnosed with clinical depression for 27 years." she was very fond of saying. She'd drop words like 'my diagnosis' and 'depression' into a lot of places where it didn't need to be, to make sure we understood we were dealing with a very sick woman. She used psychological language. She attended every group, even if it didn't apply to her. In AA she told the drunks, "her family had been hurt by alcohol." It sounded good. She should stay. We hurt a lot of people, we alcoholics. One afternoon she admitted to me the only family who were alcoholics in her life were her great Uncle and she'd rarely met him before he'd died many years ago.
Everyone in that ward wanted to be some place else except for those two. No one liked what had brought them there. The drunks were damned sorry they'd screwed up, they hurt for themselves and their friends and families, and were a little sad also they couldn't drink anymore. The meth heads were sorry their health was gone, and so much of their lifespan, all those years spent on the train. Leslie was diagnosed like the other two criers only she didn't cry or try to play games. She wanted to be well. She was sick of being sick. If you could wave a magic wand and make it go away she'd be first in line. But our injuries and disease would not go away. We had to do something about them. Not the Drama Queens. They liked being ill. They needed the labling, the mental health jackets. I don't know that makes them less sick than the rest, but it does make you sicker to have to listen to them. Ah hell. It's all relative. Who wants to listen to the old drunk's stories, anyway? They're all the same too.
When you get down to it, there's nothing new our Sun hasn't seen by now, shining down on the surface of a very brutal and at times silly planet.
Pricilla started bursting into tears at random times. You'd be in the dining room and she'd start crying. I'd talked back to a instructor so she cried. Walk down the hallway and you'd hear mournful sobs coming from one or both of them in their rooms. The doors were left open. Pricilla was slated to leave by the end of the week and she probably didn't like that. She cried some more. She started getting PRN's also.
"You know," I told the nurse, "I doubt this is fair, but I'm glad I'm leaving now. The new crew you have coming in are too histrionic and full of drama for me."
She looked around the room, then turned her face back towards mine. 'Oh, I agree', she said.
(This post is fictional in content and not based on real or living or dead persons.)
munk
"My best friend in the whole world and THEY won't let me see her. It's not fair. How can that be therapy? My best friend and they won't let me see her. It's not fair. It's not fair." She sobbed so peircingly every head in the TV room jerked around in her direction. She continued, on and on; she was in her late 20's but "They" and "It wasn't fair" still played an enormous role in her world view. She had the reciever wrapped around her lips and her ankles were curled up towards her chest like a little bunny, but got up to turn the TV down. The TV - the only thing the other poor wretches on the unit get to see except for counselors and groups, and it was only videos- no broadcast or cable. The TV.
It had to go. It interfered with her phone call.
I told the staff at the desk they had a sobber on the line and to watch out.
I was in the dining room when I heard the keening wail. I could see through the windows she was off the phone now and on the floor. The sobs were heart wrenching. She could really put them out. Not too loud, not too much yell; just the right combination of destroyed soul and a cruel world too brutal to bear it. Hollywood could tape that wail. She'd only made it 4 feet from the phone and now occupied all the available sound space of the TV room. It was a very large room but she filled it. There was a elderly man visiting his wife five feet away on the sofa. They couldn't hear anything except the young woman. After a couple minutes, the man got up to go. He'd only had 10 minutes to see his sick wife and had to go back to work.
Staff was nestling around the girl. She got her PRN.
"Shit," Leslie said later, "I was in pain and couldn't move I was so anxious, they didn't give me a PRN."
"Next time lay on the floor and cry. I told you you have a noble face. You could really get them with a few tears."
Later that evening the girl apologized to the group, but it wasn't the kind of apology that cost very much. The librium must have kicked in.
"You know," I told her, "the phone has a volume switch. You don't have to turn down the TV."
"Oh. Thank you" she said.
She told the group that she was going to petition the MHP to allow her to see her friend.
"How'd the Montana Highway Patrol get involved in your treatment?" I asked. Everyone laughed.
"No, no; the Montana Mental Health Professionals." She said. "They've forbidden me to see my friend for another 120 days."
"What do you mean 'another'?" I asked.
"Well," She gestured towards her wrist.
I'd noticed some fairly large superficial stratches there, though enough for a bandage.
"I was almost finished with my 180 days but they gave me another 120 for this."
Must be a form of probation. I didn't really want to know. Instead I dug in for the red meat. "Is this friend of yours your significant other?"
If I'd said, 'hey, is this your lesbian lover', I'd have been a beast. But significant other was newspeak for OK with Me. We were all adults here.
"No, she's just a very very dear friend."
"It's good to have friends that close." I said. I meant it, too. I remembered the till death do us part friends of childhood and my twenties. You couldn't make it without them.
So she was the Ward's official drama queen for about a day, until Pricilla one- upped her. Pricilla was in her thirties and had been doing it longer. She was like the horse that held back until the end of the race, but knew how to reach the tape.
Pricilla's husband and son didn't understand her, she told us. They treated her with distain. "I've been diagnosed with clinical depression for 27 years." she was very fond of saying. She'd drop words like 'my diagnosis' and 'depression' into a lot of places where it didn't need to be, to make sure we understood we were dealing with a very sick woman. She used psychological language. She attended every group, even if it didn't apply to her. In AA she told the drunks, "her family had been hurt by alcohol." It sounded good. She should stay. We hurt a lot of people, we alcoholics. One afternoon she admitted to me the only family who were alcoholics in her life were her great Uncle and she'd rarely met him before he'd died many years ago.
Everyone in that ward wanted to be some place else except for those two. No one liked what had brought them there. The drunks were damned sorry they'd screwed up, they hurt for themselves and their friends and families, and were a little sad also they couldn't drink anymore. The meth heads were sorry their health was gone, and so much of their lifespan, all those years spent on the train. Leslie was diagnosed like the other two criers only she didn't cry or try to play games. She wanted to be well. She was sick of being sick. If you could wave a magic wand and make it go away she'd be first in line. But our injuries and disease would not go away. We had to do something about them. Not the Drama Queens. They liked being ill. They needed the labling, the mental health jackets. I don't know that makes them less sick than the rest, but it does make you sicker to have to listen to them. Ah hell. It's all relative. Who wants to listen to the old drunk's stories, anyway? They're all the same too.
When you get down to it, there's nothing new our Sun hasn't seen by now, shining down on the surface of a very brutal and at times silly planet.
Pricilla started bursting into tears at random times. You'd be in the dining room and she'd start crying. I'd talked back to a instructor so she cried. Walk down the hallway and you'd hear mournful sobs coming from one or both of them in their rooms. The doors were left open. Pricilla was slated to leave by the end of the week and she probably didn't like that. She cried some more. She started getting PRN's also.
"You know," I told the nurse, "I doubt this is fair, but I'm glad I'm leaving now. The new crew you have coming in are too histrionic and full of drama for me."
She looked around the room, then turned her face back towards mine. 'Oh, I agree', she said.
(This post is fictional in content and not based on real or living or dead persons.)
munk
