mental health – delight of my life

How it feels to spend three days in a teen psych ward. Guest post by Luke Maxwell

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I half-opened my eyes to the sound of the heavy door opening, a faint light shining through. A diminutive figure shuffled into my room, slumped onto the only other bed, and sat in silence.

Blinking myself more awake, I whispered to the small boy who I guess was my new roommate, “Don’t be afraid, I’m cool.”

He didn’t say much, but instead made a vague sound of affirmation and lay down. I did the same and wondered how this turn would affect my stay in this dismal place.

I was woken up the next morning by a middle-aged woman opening the door and yelling that it was time to wake up. Pleasant. That’s when I got my real first look at the newcomer. He was just a kid. Heck, who I was to talk? I was barely 16 myself. But he was a real kid. Maybe 13 at most. He stayed silent, as if still in shock from whatever event brought him into this place. In him, I could almost see myself just a few years prior if I hadn’t survived for so long. But like all emotion I had felt for the past four years, I locked those feelings down and tried to proceed along my day as if he wasn’t even there. Loneliness was a curse, yes, but also a comfort to my broken mind.

Nobody said much as the rest of the kids filed out of their rooms and sat to an almost inedible microwaved breakfast. It was just another day in the facility. I almost caught myself laughing at the scene of us trying to eat this mess. We’d have to be crazy to be here. Oh right. Supposedly we are.

I was told to take a pill after breakfast, and after seeing there was no option, I took it. My sci-fi enthralled mind was waiting for a sudden change to come over me, but I was left disappointed. To go along with the pill, I was sent into a room of very professional looking people. You know. The kind of people you can tell have several letters after their name, letters that don’t include jr or sr. The asked me questions which I tried to answer as best as I could, but no matter how hard I tried to be honest, they never seemed to believe me.

After some “school”, exercise, and “lunch”, we were given some quiet time. Sounds nice, right? Well, when your mind is plagued with thoughts of recent events, not such a great idea. I could still taste the powder from the airbag mixing with the dirt and dust. I could feel the panic that set in as I made the decision that would forever change my life. I could see the disgust in the paramedics’ eyes as they tied me to a gurney. I stopped myself before I went down that road again. How about a book? Yeah, that’s much better.

But for some reason I’ve never understood, good things can never last. Right as I was finally gathering some peace in this massively uncomfortable place, a nurse popped her head in and informed me and my silent roommate that it was visiting time…and that my parents were here.

Oh no.

I had no idea what was about to happen. We’ve barely spoken since…it happened. Every shred of peace I had was gone. Shaking and trying to control my breathing, I stepped out of my room to see them sitting at a table on the opposite end of the room. My body and my surroundings felt trapped in slow motion while my mind raced uncontrollably. Guilt and fear flooded my emotions, adding to the chaos of my thoughts. I somehow made my way over to them, and will never forget what they said to me. They told me that they now knew that I was suffering from a disease called Major Depressive Disorder. That they loved me and were there to help me get better. This was not at all what I was expecting. Though, to be honest, I didn’t know what I actually expected. My world was spinning in a tornado of emotion and new information, and I had no idea how to absorb it. When our time was up, they handed me some cards that my siblings had written for me and left with an awkward hug. After the brief interaction, I barely remember what just happened. I had so many emotions, yet so little feelings rushing through me. I was experiencing an overload of senses, yet was completely numb. Only a broken mind, could possible create a situation like this.

One more attempt at a meal and day one was over. Only two more days left to go. But something had now changed. I wasn’t just doing stuff to survive, I now had a goal. Somewhere to be. I now saw that I was sick, and I didn’t want to be sick anymore.

Day two passed mostly like day one had. Eat disgusting food, take a pill, answer strangers’ questions, do some stuff that I believe they thought was school, eat more “food”, exercise, quiet time, parents visit, and dinner. Just another normal day. Haha. Normal. That’s funny. But something interrupted the routine that day. It was right after lunch. One of the boys (let’s call him Mike) was super annoying. This kid obviously had issues unlike the rest of us who were trying to maintain our cool and pretend we weren’t in a psych ward. They let us watch TV after lunch, and we were sitting quietly when we heard yelling behind us. If you’ve never been in a place that’s essentially a prison for teens with severe psychiatric disorders, trust me when I say yelling and conflict do not go over very well.

We all turn around to see Mike arguing with a nurse about probably nothing, and he was not backing down. Immediately we’re forced into our rooms while they deal with this. Oh, and you should know something about me. I hate conflict. Just writing about this half-an-hour long confrontation gives me anxiety. Next thing you know, I hear a thump on the wall followed by what could only be Mike punching the wall over and over again. Alarms are ringing, people are yelling, but finally it all goes silent. I gave a small look at my shaking roommate. He was not doing well.

Finally, our door cracked open, and we were told to come out. To this day, I don’t know what set him off or how they calmed him down. But at the moment, that wasn’t my concern, I wanted to get out of there even more so now. When we finally saw Mike again sometimes later, he played it off like he was a bad boy who just got in trouble. Looking back, I can see how much pain he was in, and I wish I had the compassion that I have now.

I had made it through the second day. Finally. Dinner was over and everyone had left the table except for me and a young nurse who was sitting just a few feet from me. She looked at me is if confused, visibly thought for a few seconds, then leaned closer to me and asked me something that changed the course of my life.

“What’s a good kid like you doing in a place like this?”

I was shocked. I had thought of myself in any way positive in more than four straight years of crippling depression and definitely not attached the adjective “good” to myself or anything I did.

I mumbled some kind of answer along the lines of “I just made a bad decision”, but that question still follows me around. The fact that someone I didn’t know looked at me and told me I was good was unbelievable. I thought everyone hated me. I thought I was a burden who wouldn’t amount to anything. I wasn’t able to focus on the movie or anything else for the rest of the night. The next day was spent seemingly out of my body, not really focused on what was going on around me. I saw the sadness and pain in each of the children around me. We were just kids. Children in horrible circumstances. My roommate was 13 years old. I couldn’t stop thinking about why each of the others were in here, what they had gone through to have this extreme measure of imprisonment taken, and if something could have been done to prevent this.

I was informed that I’d be released the next morning since my three days of assessment were up. They had concluded that I was no longer a threat to myself or anyone else, but they mandated medication and regular therapy appointments.

My parents stood in the hallway that morning and without hesitation, I gave them a hug, collecting my things, and walked out with them. I said one final goodbye to my peers who had known so briefly, but had such a profound impact on me. I was taken immediately to a therapist my parents had found, and as I shook his hand and settled into the couch. I began to share my story.

“I’m Luke, and on December 3rd, 2012, after four years of suffering from undiagnosed major depression, I attempted suicide by driving a 12-seater van at 60 mph head-on into an oncoming vehicle. I want to feel better, and I want to help my peers who are suffering like I am.”

My therapist smiled understandingly and replied, “Luke, I’m so glad you’re still here.”

More about Luke:

Hi, I’m Luke! …and when I was little, I wanted more than anything to be an astronaut. Now, I’ve left such childish dreams behind…for much bigger ones. After suffering from undiagnosed Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) for four years as a teen, I survived a serious suicide attempt (watch my story video for more details). Once I was told I was suffering from a medical disease that I could overcome and that more than 1 in 4 of my peers were suffering like I was, I made it my mission to heal not only myself, but support others along the way. And so on September 7th, 2013, with the simple tagline of “Unashamed. (Period)”, U Can’t B Erased was born.

Check out his website here! https://www.ucantberased.com/

A video of Luke sharing his story on You Tube: https://youtu.be/yM3ayaNaehs

What a prostitution survivor taught me about joy ~ by Jay Stringer

What a Prostitution Survivor Taught Me About Joy, Part One

By Jay Stringer · November 5, 2015

For the next two weeks, we’re featuring an article from Jay Stringer, an alumnus of The Seattle School (MDiv and MA in Counseling Psychology ‘09) who works as both a licensed mental health counselor and an ordained minister. Here, Jay writes about the devastating, paradigm-shifting stories he encountered working at a community mental health clinic, and about what the people there—including a prostitution survivor—taught him about trauma, addiction, healing, and, somehow, joy. This post originally appeared in The Other Journal.

http://theallendercenter.org/2015/11/prostitution-and-joy-1/

I hope you take the time to read the full article, both parts. It’s *so* good!! But here are some salient excerpts:

Without exception, each client had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and some type of chemical dependency diagnosis for cocaine, heroin, alcohol, or meth at some point in their life. For the first time that I can recall, addiction made sense. My paradigm for drug users shifted from a posture of condemnation to a hybrid of relief and lament that they found a substance capable of giving them a brief intermission from all the brutality they had undergone. Those who are traumatized do not choose drugs because they want to be rebellious teenagers or irresponsible adults; they are choosing a chemical that is powerful enough to address the powers of evil that have been unleashed against them and within them. How is it that we have become so judgmental of drug use and so blind to their trauma? **The tragedy, far more than the drug use, is the trauma. Woe to us who forget this.** ….

The angel of the Lord finds Hagar here in this unexpected place and asks her the best questions any friend, spouse, therapist, or pastor could ever ask someone about their life: Where do you come from? Where are you going? The voice of God is curious, and the ears of God incline to hear her trauma…

Hagar is so moved by this encounter and blessing that she is compelled to say, “El Roi,” meaning “the God who sees me.” This is remarkable. It is a stranger, a foreigner, who is the first person to name God in the Scriptures. Although her knowledge of Yahweh is exceedingly limited, Hagar recognizes that this God is concerned with her trauma and will move with compassion toward her.

What a Prostitution Survivor Taught Me About Joy, Part Two

By Jay Stringer · November 12, 2015

In part one of this article, Jay Stringer, an alumnus of The Seattle School (MDiv and MA in Counseling Psychology ‘09), began writing about the devastating, paradigm-shifting stories he encountered working at a community mental health clinic:

“The absurdity and oddness I observed in these men and women were, I realized, not only characteristics of their trauma. They were also estranged because they did not have the access, ability, or desire to bow to our modern idols of capitalism, denial, and power. These gods allow most of us to maneuver our lives away from pain as we settle for surrogate sources of comfort. In spending time with this population, I began to get a sense of something out of a Twilight Zone episode—I began to think that maybe we, the stable ones, are actually the most troubled.”

http://theallendercenter.org/2015/11/prostitution-and-joy-2/

Again, some salient excerpts:

One Friday afternoon, I was covering the front desk after our receptionist went home sick when the most unusual woman came through the doors. Her walk, her clothes, and her face—they were all ancient in a futuristic, Star Wars sort of way. She leaned her arms over the reception counter and carefully examined my face for a good ten or fifteen seconds as she chewed gum with the tenacity of an iconic 1980s aerobic instructor.

She stopped chewing and said, “You must be new here. I don’t believe our eyes have met.”

I nodded with a smile and said, “You are correct. This is my third week. What can I do for you?”

She glanced at the clock. “Well I know you are about to close for the weekend. I just need to know where my party is and I will be on my way.”

I told her I had no idea what she was talking about. She looked at me with a bit of irritation. “Oh, of course you don’t know yet—but the city of Seattle throws me a party every Friday night.”

At this point, I was thinking almost exclusively about the appropriate clinical diagnosis for the woman. My internal dialogue went something like this: “Schizophrenia? Possibly, but not enough disorganization. Narcissistic personality disorder? More than likely—who in the world says something like that?”

I chose instead to be playful with my incredulity and asked, “Now why would a whole city throw you a party?”

Delighted, she stood straight up with a strong and playful dignity and proclaimed, “Well, I used to be a heroin whore, but now I’m clean, I’m sober, and I’m beautiful. Every weekend the city throws me a party to celebrate my life. You should come; it’s the best dancing in the city.”

I googled clean and sober parties in Seattle, and sure enough they existed. I wrote the address of her party on a card and she thanked me, spun around, and danced out of the clinic…

After declining another dance party invitation, I retrieved Stacey’s chart to write a progress note from our session. When I opened her file, chills ran through my body. I had read her file before. This was the woman who was sold into prostitution by her mother on her ninth birthday and had remained in that life for over fifteen years.

Stacey’s life and presence remain completely astonishing to me because I’ve come to recognize that she understands more about the nature of trauma, addiction, and healing than I could ever hope to learn. She knows that her lifetime of trauma and decades of addiction were not grounds for condemnation or alienation; she knows that they were the very events that formed her beauty and invited her to dance in the delight of God…

The mission many churches faithfully commit to year after year is one of service to a broken and hurting world. The complexity of this mission is that it often sets us up to believe that brokenness and sin reside mostly out there in the world and not in us. The result is a patronizing engagement with the people we make the focus of our mission or outreach. We refuse to see ourselves as the sick ones, and we therefore live as if we need no physician. A litmus test for whether or not your ministry falls into this trap is to discern whether you understand yourself to be more troubled and in need of the gospel than those you serve…

Christianity is fundamentally a faith in the trauma and resurrection of Jesus. The powers of evil believed their weapons of torture could defeat God, but paradoxically it is the trauma and death of Jesus that liberates the world. If we want to reveal the story of Jesus, we will be asked to confront the traumas that surround us…

But there are other seasons in which the trauma we confront is of our own doing—the recognition that our control has fractured the relationships with our spouse and children; the reality that we have hated ourselves for decades and it now contaminates everything, from our eating to our buying and the very theologies we embrace; of a gender that is responsible for so much of the degradation and violation of women…

The wonder and wisdom of the gospel is that God’s trauma addresses both these story lines. The atonement Jesus procures for us is the announcement that we are sinners who struggle with lust and anger but also the good news that this sin is {no longer} grounds for separation {because Jesus was our substitute in bearing God’s wrath for us, in our place} ; it is the very soil in which the work of redemption will grow forth.