Vacation Time

Ginny was 24 years old and had three kids, ages 4, 2, and 1. Her husband was an alcoholic and she kicked him out a month ago. Ginny was going ‘nuts’ (to use a very official psychiatric term). So she handed her kids to her Mom, headed to the emergency room, made up a story that she would kill herself by walking into traffic, and within no time she was admitted to the psych ward. When I met Ginny the next morning, she readily told me that she lied about being suicidal: “I just needed a vacation. My kids were driving me crazy and I needed a break. I couldn’t afford a hotel so here I am. It’s vacation time for me. Vacation!” I must admit I don’t much like that word, ‘vacation’. To my strange ear, it implies ‘vacating’, as if there are gaps and holes in our time. And time is our most valuable commodity. Don’t get me wrong - certainly times of rest, or of just being, or ‘chilling’ (as my kids like to say) are a necessary part of life; we need those times to restore our energy. And in that way this chilling is directly connected to when we are active, to our mission and purpose. So to me the verbiage ‘vacation’ could just be tossed aside. I prefer ‘holiday’. Of course, I shared none of this with Ginny who was in her own world. She was too busy enjoying herself on the psych ward, happy to be away from it all. It was clear that she had no interest in my meanderings about gaps and time. Sure enough, the next morning I daringly asked Ginny how her ‘holiday’ was going and she smiled and laughed and said: “great, doc, vacation’s over now! Can I go home?!”

"An Officer And A Gentleman"

The story goes that a young man was running through the market place. A rabbi asked him why he was rushing so. The young man said: “I’m running after my livelihood”, to which the rabbi responded, “how do you know your livelihood is in front of you? Maybe it’s behind you and you’re running away from it.” Where are we going? That is the question. Patients in a psychiatric hospital are always asking when they can leave. But where are they going next? We the doctors, nurses, and social workers certainly make sure that our patients will have a place to live and a place to continue their mental health treatment after they leave the hospital. But that is only in the physical sense. The larger question is: where, ultimately, are they going? In fact, where are we all going? What do we do with our time? With all our rushing about, are we moving in the right direction? I am reminded of the powerful 1982 film,“An Officer and a Gentleman”. In my mind, the most poignant scene is when the tough Seargent Foley puts officer-to-be Zack through hell and then torments him to quit the naval aviation training: “You’re out!”, Foley yells. Zack’s response is intense and we, the audience , are drawn into his emotion, his frantic desperation. Feeling lost and alone, Zack breaks down and cries out: “I got nowhere else to go.” These words, “I got nowhere else to go” are the same words I hear from my patients. They are words that I suspect we all cry out at one time or another. They are part of our journey, and hopefully we find our way.

"F... you, doctor

Jimmy was 31 years old and during his first week in the psychiatric hospital, he yelled the same thing at me every day: “F… you, Dr. Guterson. Get me out of this sh..hole.”

When one works in a psychiatric hospital, words like these are commonplace.

The words we use. Speech. The sages tell us that the entire world was created through Divine speech. G-d ‘spoke’, whatever that means, and then there was light and vegetation and stars and fish and animals. Words that create physical reality.

But there is more to this. If the world was created by way of Divine speech, it follows that G-d wants to dialogue with us and us with

G-d, to have a relationship. That’s what our soul is all about. That’s why prayer, as research as shown, is such a powerful part of positive mental health.

We humans crave connection, not just with G-d but with others. Through speaking our hopes, our fears, our dreams with others, we can open up beautiful gates of communication, of closeness.

Jimmy’s primary words were expletives. They shielded him, protected him. It was his way of venting his anger. I asked him if he could try different words but he insisted that this is how he talks, how everyone he knows talks. He said he would never change.

He then asked me to try saying some swear words, to see what it feels like to talk that way. I thanked him for his kind offer, but declined - and this led to him swearing at me some more.

You win a few, you lose a few.