fiendishness
The naked guy from the intake room turned out to be a homeless epileptic alcoholic guy named John. He was a hard core street dude. His top teeth were missing or decayed. He had a considerable underbite that gave him the appearance of a pirhana with fetal alcohol syndrome. He looked like the stereotypical carny at the local county fair, manning the tilt-a-whirl under the influence of crystal meth and Jack Daniels. It was clear right away that John had no interest in his health. He used the hospital like a spa or resort; for a respite from the street. The entire staff knew him. With the appearance of John, there came a renewed vigilance for the unit rules. Every morning after Personal Care Time (7-8) and Breakfast (8-9) there was Community Group. This was the time for residents to express concerns about conditions(The shower in our room is freezing cold), ask for clarification of policies and procedures(Can my visitors bring me food?), be reminded of unit rules (You must always wear socks or slippers), and set a goal for the day( I would like to complete my written patient history/autobiography for review by my doctor and counselor). In the days Before John (hereafter referred to as BJ) the counselor in charge of Community Group would refer to the written rules posted on the wall and say, "The Community Rules are posted. They should have been reviewed with you upon intake. If you are not familiar with the Community Rules, please take a moment to review them. If you have any questions about the rules, please ask any member of the unit staff and we will be happy to go over them with you." In the days After John (hereafter referred to as AJ), the staff would carefully and painstakingly read and give examples of each rule. They were especially hyper-vigilant in their explanations of Rule #4 (Patients are allowed to be in the rooms to which they are assigned. Patients are not allowed to be in any other room to which they are not assigned. Patients are not allowed to "visit" or socialize in other patients' rooms.), Rule #5(Patients are not allowed to have physical contact. Touching is prohibited.), and an entirely different poster dedicated to all of the rules and regulations pertaining to smoking was read to us verbatim and elaborated upon ad nauseum.
"Wait...Smoking?" you say. "I thought you were in a hospital; a health facility; a facility that should be promoting health; meaning discouragement of smoking."
County Central was one of the last units in the state that still maintained a smoking facility for in-patients on the Psych Unit. BJ, patients were allowed to co-ed smoke; males and females could use the facility together. AJ, the sexes were segregated, which caused a near riot due to one Ashley, the 18 year old "emo" cutter briefly referred to in the previous entry, "me! me!" It seems that smoking in the facility gave some of the male patients the only close proximity they would ever have to the unit ingenue. They were not pleased. Despite her penchant for mismatched thrift clothes (combos of which she wore without washing for days on end) and covering her face with her hair (which was luxuriously thick and blonde and hung to her waist), Ashley was gorgeous. She could have been a model or actress. The best way to describe her would be a blonde, light green-eyed Helena Christensen. She occupied the room with Pearson and I and can only be described as a force. She was on a veritable cocktail of psych meds and made it her mission to be put on more. She spoke in slow motion with a trace of a California accent. "He-ey guy-uys, you-ou know-ow wha-at? I-I'm go-nna te-ell the do-octor that I-I felt be-etter whe-en I-I was on Zo-oloft. I-I be-et he gi-ives i-it to me-e." Sure enough, she would come back from her daily visit with her Psychiatrist with a 'script for her new drug du jour. Ashley was also a non-stop laugh riot. Mid-conversation, she would stand up, wrap her tie-dyed t-shirt around her head, and announce,"Le-et's have a ra-ave!" She would turn the bathroom light on and off rapidly, creating a strobe effect and jump up and down, shaking her ass while imitating a pulsing electronica song, human beat-box style. Pearson and I would be convulsing with laughter in our beds. She aspired to be a writer in the style of Augusten Burroughs. She showed me her journal full of stream-of-consciousness style poetry. She had real potential. When she found out I came to the hospital with no belongings and had nobody to bring any to me, she insisted I use her toiletries instead of the nasty hospital-provided ones. During group, we were somewhat on edge in anticipation of what Ashley might say or do. Once, when asked what she was thankful for, Ashley replied in a faux Georgia accent, "My beautiful ass, my big rack and my gorgeous face!" I will probably never have children, but if I did, I would want a daughter just like Ashley(minus the criminal record). I often think of her and hope she is taking care of herself; not throwing her life away on drugs and boys and her generation's strange brand of trisexuality.
John proved to be an annoyance and a pariah. He knew no boundaries. He would approach the visitors of other patients and ask for favors, such as, "If you're coming up here tomorrow, could you bring me some cigarettes?" This was a blatant violation of the smoking as well as the unit rules. In fact, most of his free time was spent in pursuit of cigarettes. He was like a man obsessed.
Decaffinated coffee was provided in a thermal carafe in the dining area. Patients were allowed to partake as they wished. John drank cup after cup and would ask any unit employee who happened by, "Hey, we're out of coffee here, D'ya think you could get us some more?" as if he was a patron of a diner and these over-burdened degreed mental health professionals were his waitstaff. Toward the end of his stay, we discovered he was leaving group sessions under the guise of getting more coffee or using the restroom, waiting until the counter staff was not looking and sneaking into patient rooms to steal. I knew something in my mind was shifting when I was capable of wanting to punch this asshole in the face.
"How do you feel?" asked gentle Karen.
"Something's going on, my meds must be kickin' in 'cause that fucker's startin' to piss me off." I nodded toward John who was deep in some kind of untoward conversation with Angela. There was something going on with John and Angela's visitors. I had a feeling they were bringing in more than cigarettes for John.
To be continued.
"Wait...Smoking?" you say. "I thought you were in a hospital; a health facility; a facility that should be promoting health; meaning discouragement of smoking."
County Central was one of the last units in the state that still maintained a smoking facility for in-patients on the Psych Unit. BJ, patients were allowed to co-ed smoke; males and females could use the facility together. AJ, the sexes were segregated, which caused a near riot due to one Ashley, the 18 year old "emo" cutter briefly referred to in the previous entry, "me! me!" It seems that smoking in the facility gave some of the male patients the only close proximity they would ever have to the unit ingenue. They were not pleased. Despite her penchant for mismatched thrift clothes (combos of which she wore without washing for days on end) and covering her face with her hair (which was luxuriously thick and blonde and hung to her waist), Ashley was gorgeous. She could have been a model or actress. The best way to describe her would be a blonde, light green-eyed Helena Christensen. She occupied the room with Pearson and I and can only be described as a force. She was on a veritable cocktail of psych meds and made it her mission to be put on more. She spoke in slow motion with a trace of a California accent. "He-ey guy-uys, you-ou know-ow wha-at? I-I'm go-nna te-ell the do-octor that I-I felt be-etter whe-en I-I was on Zo-oloft. I-I be-et he gi-ives i-it to me-e." Sure enough, she would come back from her daily visit with her Psychiatrist with a 'script for her new drug du jour. Ashley was also a non-stop laugh riot. Mid-conversation, she would stand up, wrap her tie-dyed t-shirt around her head, and announce,"Le-et's have a ra-ave!" She would turn the bathroom light on and off rapidly, creating a strobe effect and jump up and down, shaking her ass while imitating a pulsing electronica song, human beat-box style. Pearson and I would be convulsing with laughter in our beds. She aspired to be a writer in the style of Augusten Burroughs. She showed me her journal full of stream-of-consciousness style poetry. She had real potential. When she found out I came to the hospital with no belongings and had nobody to bring any to me, she insisted I use her toiletries instead of the nasty hospital-provided ones. During group, we were somewhat on edge in anticipation of what Ashley might say or do. Once, when asked what she was thankful for, Ashley replied in a faux Georgia accent, "My beautiful ass, my big rack and my gorgeous face!" I will probably never have children, but if I did, I would want a daughter just like Ashley(minus the criminal record). I often think of her and hope she is taking care of herself; not throwing her life away on drugs and boys and her generation's strange brand of trisexuality.
John proved to be an annoyance and a pariah. He knew no boundaries. He would approach the visitors of other patients and ask for favors, such as, "If you're coming up here tomorrow, could you bring me some cigarettes?" This was a blatant violation of the smoking as well as the unit rules. In fact, most of his free time was spent in pursuit of cigarettes. He was like a man obsessed.
Decaffinated coffee was provided in a thermal carafe in the dining area. Patients were allowed to partake as they wished. John drank cup after cup and would ask any unit employee who happened by, "Hey, we're out of coffee here, D'ya think you could get us some more?" as if he was a patron of a diner and these over-burdened degreed mental health professionals were his waitstaff. Toward the end of his stay, we discovered he was leaving group sessions under the guise of getting more coffee or using the restroom, waiting until the counter staff was not looking and sneaking into patient rooms to steal. I knew something in my mind was shifting when I was capable of wanting to punch this asshole in the face.
"How do you feel?" asked gentle Karen.
"Something's going on, my meds must be kickin' in 'cause that fucker's startin' to piss me off." I nodded toward John who was deep in some kind of untoward conversation with Angela. There was something going on with John and Angela's visitors. I had a feeling they were bringing in more than cigarettes for John.
To be continued.
posted by katherine at 11:46 AM
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