‘I definitely enjoyed it but can’t see myself doing it’. I gave this diplomatic, yet honest answer to the Consultant Psychiatrist on the last day of my 6 week placement. Truth is I was grateful it was my last day and as we walked to the wards, I couldn’t help but remember all the things which made this such a mentally exhausting attachment.
My first day was vaguely disturbing, a good reflection of how dangerous naivety can be. My firm partner and I thought it was a good idea to clerk someone in the acute admissions unit. It didn’t seem too bad. A few patients loitering around a glass box which ‘sheltered’ the staff. They would bang their fists on it from time to time, asking to be seen by someone. We picked out the least rowdy person from the crowd and decided to speak to her in the kitchen as there was no other room available at the time.
My partner and I were confused. This lady seemed perfectly normal, almost pleasant to have a conversation with. Why was she here? She didn’t seem to know. All of a sudden, things decided to get pretty sinister. A man spotted me from outside the kitchen and rushed towards me. He put his face an inch in front of mine and stared into my eyes. I was perplexed. Now what? I told myself to keep calm. He smelt awful. My eyes darted around the room in the ridiculous hope something would magically intervene. This didn’t please him at all. He told me not to move my eyes off his as it disturbed him.
So here I was, locked in an epic staring contest with a man in full invasion of my personal space and sense of smell. Meanwhile, the patient we were speaking to was being accused by another patient of being a spy. This didn’t go down too well. The shouting attracts another patient into the room, my saviour. This newcomer, almost randomly, prods my invader in the back and claims he owes her 20 pounds. He answers the accusation with a right uppercut to her face, which she dodges by falling into the fridge. Chaos ensues as the glass box of nurses empties into the kitchen. My saviour comes up to me saying I should act as a witness when she takes the incident to court. I look at my partner and we flee the scene.
The subsequent days were far less dramatic but just as confusing. I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t talking to people or even ‘patients’ on the ward but to the conditions they were afflicted by. I was talking to Schizophrenia, Bipolar Affective Disorder and Depression. It was like speaking to a puppet whose strings were tangled. The confusion eventually resolved into a chronic sense of helplessness. I am a heavily empathetic person, and empathising with an irresolvable emotional façade had become a terribly exhausting, guilt-ridden experience. I remember in particular feeling terrible after speaking to an elderly suicidal lady. All our efforts to encourage her fell flat in front of an eerily rational approach to suicidality.
What I should have realised at the time was that my naïve attempts at understanding these people were both futile and frankly patronising. My feeble mental stamina is not worth an iota when compared to what they are going through. You can’t empathise either. Saying ‘That must have been difficult’ is an offensive statement to make. It is impossible for someone of my background to imagine what their experiences must feel like.
It wasn’t always like this though. There was always an intellectually challenging patient. One day I was trying to figure out why a man in front of me thought he was the Messiah. His indefatigable belief mixed with outrageous and plausible theories made me question myself and whether this man was indeed ‘The Awaited One’. It was that surreal an experience. You only really appreciate how blurry the definition of reality is once you speak to someone who can’t tell the difference.
So it was with relief that I finished the attachment. Safe and sound in a world where ‘normal’ was far easier to define and less guilty to be.
My first day was vaguely disturbing, a good reflection of how dangerous naivety can be. My firm partner and I thought it was a good idea to clerk someone in the acute admissions unit. It didn’t seem too bad. A few patients loitering around a glass box which ‘sheltered’ the staff. They would bang their fists on it from time to time, asking to be seen by someone. We picked out the least rowdy person from the crowd and decided to speak to her in the kitchen as there was no other room available at the time.
My partner and I were confused. This lady seemed perfectly normal, almost pleasant to have a conversation with. Why was she here? She didn’t seem to know. All of a sudden, things decided to get pretty sinister. A man spotted me from outside the kitchen and rushed towards me. He put his face an inch in front of mine and stared into my eyes. I was perplexed. Now what? I told myself to keep calm. He smelt awful. My eyes darted around the room in the ridiculous hope something would magically intervene. This didn’t please him at all. He told me not to move my eyes off his as it disturbed him.
So here I was, locked in an epic staring contest with a man in full invasion of my personal space and sense of smell. Meanwhile, the patient we were speaking to was being accused by another patient of being a spy. This didn’t go down too well. The shouting attracts another patient into the room, my saviour. This newcomer, almost randomly, prods my invader in the back and claims he owes her 20 pounds. He answers the accusation with a right uppercut to her face, which she dodges by falling into the fridge. Chaos ensues as the glass box of nurses empties into the kitchen. My saviour comes up to me saying I should act as a witness when she takes the incident to court. I look at my partner and we flee the scene.
The subsequent days were far less dramatic but just as confusing. I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t talking to people or even ‘patients’ on the ward but to the conditions they were afflicted by. I was talking to Schizophrenia, Bipolar Affective Disorder and Depression. It was like speaking to a puppet whose strings were tangled. The confusion eventually resolved into a chronic sense of helplessness. I am a heavily empathetic person, and empathising with an irresolvable emotional façade had become a terribly exhausting, guilt-ridden experience. I remember in particular feeling terrible after speaking to an elderly suicidal lady. All our efforts to encourage her fell flat in front of an eerily rational approach to suicidality.
What I should have realised at the time was that my naïve attempts at understanding these people were both futile and frankly patronising. My feeble mental stamina is not worth an iota when compared to what they are going through. You can’t empathise either. Saying ‘That must have been difficult’ is an offensive statement to make. It is impossible for someone of my background to imagine what their experiences must feel like.
It wasn’t always like this though. There was always an intellectually challenging patient. One day I was trying to figure out why a man in front of me thought he was the Messiah. His indefatigable belief mixed with outrageous and plausible theories made me question myself and whether this man was indeed ‘The Awaited One’. It was that surreal an experience. You only really appreciate how blurry the definition of reality is once you speak to someone who can’t tell the difference.
So it was with relief that I finished the attachment. Safe and sound in a world where ‘normal’ was far easier to define and less guilty to be.
