First Day of the Rest of My Life?

Orientation at a new place of work (or of volunteering) is never usually a riveting, glued-to-the-edge-of-your-seat kind of experience. The orientation at the mental health hospital wasn’t really any different, except when they took us on a tour of the hospital and brought in people who have suffered from mental illness themselves. That stuff was awesome.

As we walked through the halls of this new building, I was shocked at how bright and modern it is. There are no announcements being made for doctors, no stretchers in the hall, and no uniformed nurses walking the corridors. On the contrary, there are huge windows that face the lake, designed to give the patients a view of nature that is meant to be calming and serene (I kind of think it would give the illusion of the possibility of escape). Nurses and doctors are in plain clothes and the patients walk around freely in the halls, greeting visitors and workers as though they are welcoming you into their home. The layout strongly discounts the stigma of mental hospitals, physically representing the statement of the hospital that promotes patient recovery and reintegration into society. Gone are the days of strait jackets and padded rooms, a la Shutter Island. Patients are free to roam the grounds, taking in the serenity of the lake or interacting with workers and peers during a game of pool or foosball (something missing? Dart boards – I guess for good reason).

In the lobby, there is a large piano for use by those patients with musical talent or who desire creative expression. A great idea for those patients who take solace in the calming notes of their favourite song. A not so great idea for a volunteer who was seriously disturbed by the movie Patch Adams, where the mental patient played Fur Elise right before he killed his nurse. If he had been playing that song, I would have been out of there faster than if someone had told me there was chocolate cake in the next room.

My mom has said that her biggest fear is getting trapped in a mental hospital with no way to escape. I somewhat understood that fear my first day at the hospital. I was leaving my appointment with the nurse after getting my blood taken (worst thing EVER) and was walking back to the conference room where the session was taking place. I kept walking. And walking. Nothing looked familiar because I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was during the tour. I was too busy smiling at all the people.

I didn’t think to read the signs and all the halls look the same. Seriously. Why do all the halls look the same? To confuse the patients? Call me crazy (actually, don’t), but wouldn’t it be better to have halls that are, like, recognizable? Because I’m pretty sure it’ll freak the patients out if they can’t find their room, and that’s not good for anyone.

I walked past the forensics unit (criminally mentally ill) talking to myself in an effort to calm myself down, and it went something like this (not at all politically correct, might I add): “Oh, my God, the criminally insane. Walk fast. Don’t run, though.” “Oh! A patient. Smile. Or not. Shit, he looked mad.” “Maybe I should stop talking to myself in a mental hospital.” “MY PHONE DOESN’T WORK!”

That last thought provoked a mild panic attack as I tried to text my mom to share my terror. Also, I didn’t yet have my pass to show that I was an employee there and one very nice worker had already used “that” voice when saying hello to me. Perhaps the fact that I felt as though I could be easily mistaken for a patient should be a cause for concern for me, but it really isn’t.

I thought for sure that I was going to be attacked and, without my phone, I was imagining myself screaming “I’m not CRAZY!!!” in a padded room.

Managed to escape my fate that time, though. Can’t say I’ll be so lucky next time.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella