People often very reasonably ask me why I chose to work in Mental Health. This question used to annoy me, as I felt that there was a lack of empathy on their part, and ignorance about who then is responsible for providing support to people experiencing mental illness.
I guess that's my answer to that question- empathy and responsibility. Two things i'm pretty good at.
Over the last six months I've been assaulted twice by the same girl, been oggled at continuously by the males on the ward, and generally been subjected to a lot of abuse and yelling over things like takeaway food and cigarettes.
Not surprisingly I am beginning to become that reasonable person who asks me why I chose mental health.
There could be a number of explanations:
- I enjoy the punishment
- I have non-existent self-esteem
- I revel in the dizzying heights of power involved in my role (HA!)
- I use other people's problems as a distraction from my own
- I'm a sticky-beak and attracted to drama
There could be an element of truth to each of these scenarios, unfortunately.
Recently, one of the patients on my ward became upset as she had decided at the last minute that she wanted take-away food, after seeing someone else go and get some fries.
Her and her nurse had earlier made eggs and bacon on toast, which is a not something she does everyday. She began wailing 'But I only knew I was hungry after I made the eggs!' After not getting the response she wanted she yelled 'Take ya damn pills and jam em' up ya ass!' To which I laughed and walked away, not even being able to muster a single fuck about her situation.
I can't stop thinking about how much easier life would be if I had an office job, or if I got paid to do something fun and nice, like painting, massage or feeding tiny kittens.
I know they say the grass is always greener, but a patch of grass that isn't dying or on fire would be nice for a change.
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