Butterflies

Well, so much for promises n' resolutions n' stuff. One week, one month. . . what can I say.
In my defense, I did write something between my last entry and this one. Unfortunately, it was in desperate need of a fine tooth comb-through. . . and, well, that never happened.

So yes, I am on psych. And yes, this is one of those rotations that affords me with quite a bit of free time. It's also one of those rotations that is rich with stories. These are ridiculous, unbelievable stories. They are incredible, fascinating stories. They are heartbreaking stories and they are not my stories. These stories belong to other people. Without a doubt, the stories that I have told during other rotations are other people's stories too, but there is something more intimate about the stories of the mind.

For one thing, the majority of the patients that I am working with do not have the capacity to understand their own stories, at least not in the way that the rest of us understand them.

For another thing, these are difficult stories. The insane trace paths that are frighteningly close to the sane. In the beginning, the stories sound and feel the same; their potential is limitless. But somewhere they split. More than just diverging away from each other, they come to exist in a completely different reality. Indeed, I'm beginning to find that the sane and the insane seem to live parallel lives in entirely different universes. And sometimes it is so easy to see how they jumped into their reality. This scares me because it makes sanity seem so fragile. It makes me wonder what will set me off. Other times it is impossible to dissect a patient's movement into psychosis. Their stories are indecipherable, completely obscured. These patients underscore the tragedy of a psychotic break because it is impossible to tease out the person inside their illness.

For a third thing, these stories are funny. Devastatingly funny. It's hard not to laugh, but I feel guilty for laughing. I don't know how else to cope, because I am depressed by what we, "the healers," are forced to force the patients to do. So I laugh. I'm not sure if that's fair to the patients. I am laughing at them, for they do not have the ability to laugh with me. And so I tell the stories to those who are capable of laughing with me - and we laugh together. I am fairly certain, however, that we do not laugh out of humor. The laughter seems to come from a place of uncertainty, discomfort. I think we laugh out of disbelief.

And so I tell these stories out loud and the little conscience butterflies I keep in my stomach flutter self-consciously. Which is why I have yet to be able to write them down. But I'm working on it.