Sometimes nasty happens.

So, today got un-slow. I have a new resident, we’ll call her Cathy. Cathy is 69 years old and she is diagnosed with Bipolar D/O although her family seems to think she's schizophrenic. During the usual new resident tour/info-session, Cathy expressed her desire to go for a walk so that she could see where the lake, Starbucks, and Jewel-Osco are located. I like walks so I agreed to go with her because new residents are restricted from leaving the building without a staff member for the first 48 hours after arrival until we deem them stable enough to venture into the city on their own. Anyway- Cathy and I take off on our little adventure. The lake is about a 10 minute walk from our facility and half way there Cathy tells me that she has Crones disease and she has to use the bathroom. We are surrounded by nothing but residential homes. She tells me that she thinks she can hold it until Starbucks so we decide to forget the lake and b-line to Starbucks so that she can go. Crones disease apparently causes incontinence but Cathy told me she doesn’t have accidents, it’s just that when she has to go, SHE HAS TO GO. So we make it another 100 feet or so and she looks at me with a face that I knew meant, “Well, I’m going to shit myself now.”, but instead of going in her pants, Cathy slides behind the nearest dumpster, whips off her pants, has explosive diarrhea for at least a minute, takes her underwear off to wipe with, and then refuses to throw them away. So now, there I am, in utter disbelief because I just met this woman 20 minutes ago and this is some nursing shit that I’ve got myself into. I do my best to make her comfortable though because who likes blowing ass in front of strangers? Not me. So we walk to Starbucks where she gets a bag for her fecal undies, washes her hands, gets a grande coffee with extra cream, and then back to the facility we went. 

Wow.

Erotically

“I have lust for knowledge. It’s the only thing I lust for.” “Do you like erotica?” “What authors did you read in high school?” “Can I read you some of my erotic poetry?” “What’s your favorite Metallica album?” -Things Mark says on an almost daily basis.

Mark is paranoid schizophrenic. He was abused sexually his entire life by pretty much every person he was told to trust. His freaking mother sexually abused him and that shit is rare. His parents were druggies and rumored to also suffer from schizophrenia. Mark was finally taken from them and put into a series of foster homes; all sexually destroyed him. Think about this: when you’re born there are two, sometimes one, but usually two people that you can trust. If your parents abuse you then how are you supposed to trust any one else in the world? Then to have judges keep putting you in homes that are “safe” only to have more and more of what little dignity you had taken away from you. Mark finally ended up in the custody of his Aunt and Uncle who adopted him when he was about 8 years old. Mark didn’t start speaking until he was 12 years old; I assume because no one had ever been willing to listen to him. Mark now resides at the facility I work in and has lived here for 10 years; he is 33 years old. He recently fathered a child. The woman was a resident here and was discharged once she became pregnant because our facility isn’t staffed for that level of care. Paternity tests confirmed that Mark is the father. Mark also has sexual relationships with men around the facility and his Aunt once caught him fucking their dog. Mark has no idea if he is straight or gay but he also doesn’t realize that he should. He doesn’t understand that sex with a dog is wrong. He writes “erotic poetry” by making up his own words and writing them as big as he can on single sheets of paper and when he reads his poetry to you he throws each piece of paper once he’s read the word. His speech fluency is stunted although he’s incredibly intelligent. When you ask him a question you can visibly see him compute it. He’s well read and he’s one of those people who knows something about everything. He’s got really odd facial hair. If you can imagine this: it’s a mustache that is pin straight and sticks out over his top lip like an awning, a long straggly flavor savor, and a very fuzzy chinstrap. He has his good days and bad days. Good days involve greetings such as, “Hi Shea, it’s nice to see your beautiful face today”, and conversations about music and books. Bad days involve the blankest of stares; as if there is literally nothing behind his eyes. If you ask him a question he might answer you but it probably won’t make sense. He writes most of his “erotica” on bad days and reads it to me on good days. Mark is an amazing example of how important it is to have control over your sexuality. Sex is the one thing that is 100% our own. Each person is supposed to have complete control over when, where, and with whom they have sex. Mark has never had that luxury. People at the facility who are higher functioning often take advantage of him because they know he won’t put up a fight. Did you still want to complain about your day?

Body In a Box

"We celebrate the lives of the dead. It’s like a man’s best party only happens when he dies."

I’m sorry, I know it's lame but I love this song. Death is so fucking weird. One day I hugged my Dad and told him I loved him and the next day he was gone forever. No more prickly moustache kisses or watching thunderstorms together. It’s all okay, I guess. I guess the same thing basically happens with relationships. One day you’re telling someone you love them and the next thing you know 6 months have gone by and that love is a thing of the past. A painful little memory; if you will. I’m still alive and I feel like I’m doing more than just going through the motions these days. Somedays I sit at my desk and I have the most amazing conversations with schizophrenic or bipolar people and I feel like this is exactly where I should be but other days I want to sell everything I own and take off across the country and hide in various wooded areas for an undetermined amount of time. I’ve always been such a lover and I literally don’t know what else to do with myself. Too much of my time has been spent on people who don’t give two shits about me. Why? Because I suck. I don’t really think that I suck, though. I think I give the best hugs and I am a huge advocate for forehead kisses. I’ve often thought about my residents and the fact that they are never touched aside from a few of them who are sexually active around here but that’s not the kind of touching I’m talking about. I mean the way it feels when your mom hugs you. These people haven’t felt that, in some cases, ever. A lot of my residents ask for hugs or always reach out their hand to me when they’re in my office and it’s so heartbreaking. I mean, if someone asks me for a hug they’re going to get a hug but we as staff aren’t allowed to just go around hugging everyone. It’s really sad and I wish people could understand how far a simple smile or a kind word can actually go. Sometimes it’s the only thing that helps. Be nice to everyone. Give bums your spare change when you can. Hug each other when you feel like it. Reach out to someone! We all deserve a little more love. 

Max is such a lover.

Max. Oh, Max. Max lives in a room with 3 other men. Their room is diagonal from my office. Max is paranoid schizophrenic and he hears voices almost non-stop. One of his voices is “Cootie”. Cootie was a real person. She was his aunt. Their relationship was a tense one and she messed with his head the way big people mess with little people in a game of tetherball. Aunt Cootie passed away but lives on in Max’s mind causing him endless frustration and sometimes brings along “an army of black women” to sufficiently torture him. Max sits in his room for most hours of the day listening to loud music, mostly pop. It helps him ignore the voices. Sometimes, though, I hear him screaming, “Go away, Cootie!” and if he says it more than 3 or 4 times I will go to his door and talk to him for a minute. He’s always sitting on the edge of his bed and there is usually a large amount of drool coming from his mouth which is a side effect of his medication. The look on his face when he sees me is absolutely heart wrenching. He’s helpless and desperate and there is nothing anyone can do. He is a giant man and could easily end my life out of frustration with his own if he wanted to but he is the kindest soul you will ever meet. I’ll ask him if he’s okay and he’ll always say yes. Always. He is obviously not okay but he doesn’t want to burden anybody. Occasionally he’ll ask me to tell Cootie to leave him alone and I will and he says that it helps. I don’t know if it does. The thing about schizophrenia is that to the person who has it--the voices and the hallucinations are real. They’re actually hearing and/or seeing things that no one else can.  I can’t go into his room and tell him that Cootie isn’t there because she is. Society does not see mental illness this way, though. Max is intelligent and very easy to talk to and if you met him you'd probably wonder why he lives in a psych facility. He'd love to have a job and a family but his hallucinations increase with anxiety plus; no one will hire him once they read that he is mentally ill. Max has completely swept me off of my feet.

*Any names I use have been changed for privacy purposes.

You'd live in a halfway house too.

I’m an idiot. I have to pay rent. I forgot my phone at home. We have another couch surfer coming tonight and I have about zero desire to entertain. I have to go to the stupid doctor tomorrow morning probably to find out I have cervical cancer. Everything is lame and awkward today. I’m drinking skim milk and iced coffee separate and together. 

I watched Religulous the other night and it was snooty but bomb. I hate Catholicism with a vengeance. One of my residents was fucked by his Catholic priest for two years after his dad died, until he graduated, and about 10 years ago (he’s 59 now) men from his school started coming forward who had also been abused. Until that point he thought he was the only one and he suffered from guilt and depression and anger and then a year ago his son dropped dead on the baseball field because of some undiagnosed heart condition. My question: Why are some people given no chance to have a decent life? How can you be okay after something like that? One of my friends has two uncles who were diddled by their catholic priest IN THEIR OWN HOME multiple times while their parents sat downstairs watching TV and thinking about how nice it is that their boys are getting special time to worship God. These poor little boys had no idea that they should've been screaming or even that they were allowed to say no. Now one of them is dead and the other is a self destructing alcoholic. I mean, for fuck sake, celibacy is not human. We are sexual beings; some of us sexual monsters. We all need sex. We need it for reproduction purposes, self esteem purposes, pleasure purposes. Why do you think masturbation exists? I fucking hate sexual deviance. Sex is awesome. It feels amazing and I love experimenting with sex but regardless if you’ve had 100 sexual partners or zero, if someone violates your body you are fucked and please excuse these puns. The most terrifying part of it all is that people still practice and support this religion! The best way to shut people up is to keep them dumb. How do you keep them dumb? Scare them into thinking that if they don’t do A, B, and C, their asses are going to burn for eternity. I was raised Christian, I guess. I went to Sunday school when I was tyke-sized and I loved it because we got to sing, dance, and be crafty. I honestly can’t remember the last time I went to church on my own accord because I never have. Maybe I’m wrong and Jesus is going to come down from the heavens with the locusts and all that shit and in that case I’ll be pissed for having such a curious mind but then again I feel like I’d probably be happier in Hell because that’s where most of my friends will end up and I’m sure that’s where my Dad is. By the way; I’m hungover. I think the most undeniable evidence that God doesn’t exist is that these “holy” priests ruin the lives of young children. What the hell kind of supreme, super powerful, loving God would allow that? Let me guess; it’s the devil’s fault. Well, the whole thing is ludicrous and obnoxious. Why don’t we all start looking out for each other instead of pointing fingers and passing judgement? Cheers.