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But would I myself live long enough to complete the task? I didn't want
to. I kept thinking, "Why bother living. After all, soon my secret will be out and ruin my life." Even
with all my training, I'm not sure what kept me alive that day. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my unconscious
a voice was whispering,
"Keep breathing and remember your loved ones."
A fellow social worker approached. "What's wrong with you?" she said. "Your mood and affect is worse
than the patients." I was taken back by the comment. Had I been a patient on the unit I would have been asked
"How are you feeling? You look rather anxious and sad. Why don't we talk for a while?" That's what and
how the patients would have been asked, with sympathy and understanding. But a social worker is not allowed to
get sick. I was scared and angry at them and myself. They felt I had no right to act like I did, I thought. The
gray halls became longer, fuzzier.
It's strange now to remember that the patients were coming to me with their problems. Because, on that day, I needed
help too. Many questioned the sadness on my face. I was surprised to find myself feeling closer to the patients
than the staff, and even found them to be more compassionate.
They recognized the symptoms.
My terrible secret was out, I thought. I needed to escape from the unit. I ran to the cafeteria, going off into
a corner to be rid of questions. How was I going to make it until 5:00 p.m.? Did I want to make it? Yes, I thought.
My career was on the line.
After lunch, my supervisor called and requested to see me in her office. Pushing the button for the elevator, I
held my breath. This was the end. I could feel it. I entered my supervisor's cold office. I faced a tall woman
with a cold stare. I didn't know if I'd walk out of there with my job intact, but I was oddly relieved she was
about to find out. I just hoped she'd understand.
Without a hint of concern for me, her student, she said: "Staff on the unit have complained about your performance
and lack of competency today.
They don't understand your change in behavior and are feeling extremely uncomfortable around you." She then
spoke the words that fulfilled my worst possible fear. "The nursing staff has told me that you are looking
and sounding like the patients, and have been for the past week." My world came tumbling down.
"Maybe there was still hope."
I knew I couldn't hold it in anymore. I decided to drop the bomb and confide my secret. My supervisor trained social
work students to be empathetic, respectful and understanding. She had to understand that mental illness was not
a crime. Maybe there was still hope. How could she not care about one of her own? I felt cold, like the temperature
in the room was plummeting.
Why couldn't I get warm? I told my supervisor everything. The bombe xploded in my face. "Go home and call
your doctor," she said. She was openly hostile, I thought. Of course, I knew enough from all my training that
my judgment might be impaired; I might not be reacting to my supervisor but, rather, to my own despair. Was her
aggression real? And yet, even through the black clouds, I could sense her anger. Yes, she was hostile. It was
so palpable that day that I knew it wasn't a figment of my imagination.
I shuffled out, crying. Should I take pills or cut my wrists? That's what I was thinking. The car was on automatic
pilot. Somehow I made it home.
I don't remember who called the doctor, me or my husband. It would have been so easy to take my life. To live was
harder. Suddenly, I found myself in the hospital, a patient, not a clinical social worker. I'd been placed in a
hospital before, but I was an undergraduate at the time and hadn't yet worked with patients. This was my first
hospital stay as a professional. It was humiliating and I tried to let everyone know I wasn't really a patient.
I just needed my medicine adjusted, I told them. I knew as much as they did! But they still treated me badly. They
were condescending.
The experience changed me. I was able to think, "this is how my patients are being treated." I'd never
really understood that before. I learned to question myself. Was I being as condescending as the hospital staff?
Did I ever treat my patients as badly as the staff was treating me? After that troubling week in the hospital,
listening to staff members jingle their keys ready to lock a door at any moment, I was discharged. My medication
had been adjusted and I felt stable. It was time to return to work. I wondered, "Could the social worker and
the patient ever become one?"
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