existential security.
This post was written in two different periods of time. One, in my first week here. The second, as I'm about a month in.
It's 4:43 AM and I'm sitting on a minor-aged psychiatric unit, fighting back tears.
This is my 3rd night on the job, and 1st night by myself.
I'm fighting back tears because a client that was having night terrors just told me pieces of their story. A story that is laced with abuse, neglect, abandonment, betrayal, and [all of this has led to], no longer having the will to live.
There are about 1,000 reasons I applied for this job. I wanted to receive further [unconventional] training for youth ministry that a textbook couldn't teach me. I wanted to love those that have never been shown love, haven't had a steady home, etc. (This list goes on and on, and I would love to grab coffee and talk more about it.) Within the first couple of hours shadowing a couple of weeks ago, I realized that I was about to receive training like I could have never imagined as I made up a handshake with a client that is under the age of 14, and their arms were covered in scars.
What.
These are things you expect, working in a psychiatric facility. These are things they told us to expect in training. However, when you actually see it...man.
We have been trained to not react to anything, only to respond. How do you not react to someone proclaiming deep pain through self-harm? How do you not react when clients tell you how terrible people have been to them? I don't know. I'm pretty sure I have failed in this area multiple times.
This client was sitting here, telling me this story. They were completely dissociated from the words coming out of their mouth. I found myself wondering at one point, "How is this client awake right now?"
Some of these clients are heavily medicated to be able to sleep throughout the night.
Then, it hit me.
Trauma is so much stronger than medication.
I found myself to be in a place of borderline hopelessness as this client went back to sleep. Whenever the medication wasn't even strong enough to trump trauma for 9 hours of sleep, what's next?
Then, the Lord so gently whispered to me, "This is why you're here, to tell them of the hope that is stronger than trauma."
Now, I've been here for around a month or so. I can't put into words all that I have learned here...partly due to HIPAA, and partly because there are truly no words.
I've begun incorporating some spiritual disciplines into my shift. Things such as praying for my clients as I'm doing room checks every 15 minutes. If I have a one-to-one (which means they're suicidal and have to have someone within arms reach at all times), I do whatever I can to encourage them, but mainly, I listen when they're willing to speak.
I pray for their day shortly before they wake up.
I try to be as happy and cheery as I possibly can be whenever they awake, so as to try and start their day well. (Anyone that knows me knows that talking to me before 10 AM can be a risky scenario.)
I write notes for them to wake up to.
All of these things.
But more than anything, I want for them to know that there is hope beyond description. There is hope in and beyond their diagnosis. There is hope even though most people have given up on them by this point.
One of the greatest things that I've learned, is that this job isn't all that different from life outside these walls.
Yeah, there are some technicalities.
Do I have to constantly watch over my shoulder while at Walmart? Not usually.
However, is it really all that different of how I am to live inside these walls versus out? I am to live into the reality of hope wherever I am, no matter who I am with. Contextually, that may look different.
However, the body of Christ is to live in constant awareness of the Holy Spirit.
This is why we are here, friends.
To tell them of the hope.
It's 4:43 AM and I'm sitting on a minor-aged psychiatric unit, fighting back tears.
This is my 3rd night on the job, and 1st night by myself.
I'm fighting back tears because a client that was having night terrors just told me pieces of their story. A story that is laced with abuse, neglect, abandonment, betrayal, and [all of this has led to], no longer having the will to live.
There are about 1,000 reasons I applied for this job. I wanted to receive further [unconventional] training for youth ministry that a textbook couldn't teach me. I wanted to love those that have never been shown love, haven't had a steady home, etc. (This list goes on and on, and I would love to grab coffee and talk more about it.) Within the first couple of hours shadowing a couple of weeks ago, I realized that I was about to receive training like I could have never imagined as I made up a handshake with a client that is under the age of 14, and their arms were covered in scars.
What.
These are things you expect, working in a psychiatric facility. These are things they told us to expect in training. However, when you actually see it...man.
We have been trained to not react to anything, only to respond. How do you not react to someone proclaiming deep pain through self-harm? How do you not react when clients tell you how terrible people have been to them? I don't know. I'm pretty sure I have failed in this area multiple times.
This client was sitting here, telling me this story. They were completely dissociated from the words coming out of their mouth. I found myself wondering at one point, "How is this client awake right now?"
Some of these clients are heavily medicated to be able to sleep throughout the night.
Then, it hit me.
Trauma is so much stronger than medication.
I found myself to be in a place of borderline hopelessness as this client went back to sleep. Whenever the medication wasn't even strong enough to trump trauma for 9 hours of sleep, what's next?
Then, the Lord so gently whispered to me, "This is why you're here, to tell them of the hope that is stronger than trauma."
Now, I've been here for around a month or so. I can't put into words all that I have learned here...partly due to HIPAA, and partly because there are truly no words.
I've begun incorporating some spiritual disciplines into my shift. Things such as praying for my clients as I'm doing room checks every 15 minutes. If I have a one-to-one (which means they're suicidal and have to have someone within arms reach at all times), I do whatever I can to encourage them, but mainly, I listen when they're willing to speak.
I pray for their day shortly before they wake up.
I try to be as happy and cheery as I possibly can be whenever they awake, so as to try and start their day well. (Anyone that knows me knows that talking to me before 10 AM can be a risky scenario.)
I write notes for them to wake up to.
All of these things.
But more than anything, I want for them to know that there is hope beyond description. There is hope in and beyond their diagnosis. There is hope even though most people have given up on them by this point.
One of the greatest things that I've learned, is that this job isn't all that different from life outside these walls.
Yeah, there are some technicalities.
Do I have to constantly watch over my shoulder while at Walmart? Not usually.
However, is it really all that different of how I am to live inside these walls versus out? I am to live into the reality of hope wherever I am, no matter who I am with. Contextually, that may look different.
However, the body of Christ is to live in constant awareness of the Holy Spirit.
This is why we are here, friends.
To tell them of the hope.
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