to the barricades of Heaven where I'm from

Barricades of Heaven - Jackson Browne.

There’s a reason behind what we do. There’s a reason why writers write, why painters paint & a whole host of others. I found out the reason why people work in mental health this week. There’s a patient on the ward I’m at, who came in suicidally depressed, previous suicidal attempts, with both suicidal and homicidal ideation. She’s a wee woman who doesn’t really take up much room. I had to go through her belongings , de rigueur for mental health, feeling like the worlds’ worst cad as I pawed through her stuff, plucking needles (sewing, not IV) from her bag. She sat in the chair, slumped in it rather, like all the world had fallen in on her shoulders. She didn’t care about anything I was saying & the inane chatter you use to cover up long silences just echoed. I’ve never seen anyone so fundamentally depressed. Anyone who thinks depression is fiction should have taken a look at this woman, it was written in every bone of her body.

As the day went by she laid on her bed, turned her face to the wall and that was it. She cried and slept. A little later she came out of her room but she curled up on a chair and went to sleep again. When she didn’t sleep she cried. I felt sorry for her, it physically hurt to know someone was in so much pain they could react like that. The next day her depression began to annoy me because it wasn’t changing. She didn’t even seem like she was trying. It frustrated me because I was making all the effort and she wasn’t doing anything in return. I wanted to grab her and ask her if anyone was home. Obviously I didn’t.

On the third day I was chatting with another patient, discussing how writing is cathartic. She started to listen in. I was talking about a stream of consciousness & how interesting it would be to read some of theirs. She asked what a stream of consciousness was & startled me. I wasn’t expecting her to initiate a conversation. When I told her, she smiled, laughed and kept talking to me. It wasn’t the fact that she’d kept talking, it was that smile and that laugh that got me. It was like the sun coming out. All of a sudden I could see the person underneath the mental illness, all of a sudden there was hope. All of a sudden someone lifted the cloud on depression & I realised that was the reason why people work in mental health – to see that smile. I’ve never been so impacted by a smile before. It made everything worthwhile to see her grin at me.

I’m a student nurse so I’ve done a few pracs by now. I’ve seen babies born (which is NOT all flowers and beatnik love. There’s blood EVERYWHERE.) I’ve stood at the foot of a patients bed and tried to keep from crying when I knew the diagnosis and they didn’t, not yet. I’ve talked to a man who died three days later. I’ve watched pregnant women with needle marks up their arms ask for a cigarette and valiantly tried not to strangle them ( I ended up walking away from the patient & refusing to deal with her) but nothing hit me as much as that beautiful smile on my patient. That’s the reason why we do it. Everything made sense.

It made me realise there’s a reason behind it. I love mental health because I love that smile. I love writing because it feels like its woven through me. And in moments when I read back over my stuff & wonder if its any good I think about what Paul said to the Ephesians – ‘live the life God called you to live’. I want to live a life of purpose, my friend Denise asked a question on Facebook recently – were we living lives you could tell stories about? I want the life of purpose where you can tell stories. A purpose is a reason. My reasons are falling into place.

Oh & the fact I get to spend hours with a hot gangster doesn’t hinder either.