I spent much of this weekend quietly reading the book “The Day the Voices Stopped…” by Ken Steele. In two days, I read the 200 pages cover to cover. It is a memoir of a man who suffered from Schizophrenia for 30 years. His voices began talking to him at age 14 through his radio. They terrorized him, told him he was worthless and regularly gave him ideas and strategies to kill himself. However, with the proper therapy and medication, he became an inspiring advocate for people with mental illness. As a mental health professional that does not have schizophrenia, his story helped me have a glimpse of the worldview of someone suffering from this illness. The book included the specific terrorizing words the voices said to Ken everyday. It described several near death experiences (some were directed by his voices), a brutal rape and prostitution. He also wrote about the many state hospitals he was involuntarily committed to in different cities including New York City, Hawaii, San Francisco and Chicago. He listed the routine of meeting with the different doctors, social workers and being watched closely by the orderlies. He described the restraints, the seclusion rooms, and the wrong medications which caused him to drool or appear catatonic. Very often, he would stabilize, be discharged to a program, start working, but when things appeared to go well, it was too much pressure, the voices would get louder and he would run away and revert to his homeless lifestyle.
Mr. Steele also talked about his ‘institutionalization’. He had been in so many hospitals and halfway houses, he could write a national directory, he once joked in his book. He wrote about knowing the script to get hospitalized, and knowing the correct behaviors to earn privileges. He discussed his needed “toughness” to manage around other patients in these unsafe settings. Also, he wrote about his fears of getting better after being in the sick role for so many years. Finally, talked about his lack of much needed support from his family and how social support was one of the key factors to his eventual stability.
As I was reading, I was thinking of clients I’ve had the privilege to get to know at a locked residential treatment center for emotionally disturbed adolescents. The book gave me an insider’s perspective on some of the behavior I observed including running away, cheeking meds, manipulation of rules and other institutionalized behavior. I thought about the secret voices they hear and the pressure they have to “be normal” when they are seeing and hearing delusions. Because Mr. Steele narrated his story with both reality and voices, it helped me get a better picture of what someone who appears to be talking to themselves might be experiencing. As I was reading Ken Steele’s story, I had tremendous empathy for him, just as I felt strongly connected to several of my clients.
I began to think of one client in particular who graduated from the adolescent treatment center I used to work at. She was a resident at the facility for over a year. She struggled with a severe drug addiction, delusions and paranoia. In fact, her symptoms were so severe; she had to be spoon-fed when she first entered the program. However with treatment and medication, she evolved into a role model for other residents and positively influenced several other younger girls. She was a staff favorite due to her positive outlook and genuine kindness.
In addition, I was always moved by the support this client’s family provided. She and her family struggled through tremendous hardships. Her mother had difficulty parenting due to her own addictions and mental illness. She and her sisters were placed in foster care and had to be independent at young ages. However, her aunt was always available and attended her treatment team meetings and her sister took her out on passes regularly. At her graduation, I was very moved and inspired by her family’s strength and loyalty to one another. She and her family were special. I felt honored to know them and work with them.
Shortly after Ken Steele finished his book, he died in October 2000 at age 52. In the few short years he found peace from his voices, he had become a strong advocate for mental health patients’ rights, a support for the mentally ill and their families and a spokesperson for Schizophrenia. I went online and read what people who knew him had to say, and how he touched them. (http://www.newyorkcityvoices.org/ken.html) I could never know him, but the book he left behind made a difference for me by emphasizing hope and giving me new appreciation for my clients who struggle with Schizophrenia.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
September 11, 2001
As the 6th anniversary approaches, I wanted to share some of my personal and professional memories around September 11th. Every New Yorker has their story about where they were when it happened. This is mine: In 2001, my office was eight blocks away from the World Trade Center. Although, as a social worker, I did home visits and Tuesdays were my day out “in the field”. I was lucky to be on my way to the Bronx that morning and was about one mile away from the Twin Towers when the subway system shut down. I came above ground among the chaos and I vividly remember my view of the buildings falling. I remember the sounds of the people screaming around me and the ambulance sirens. I won't forget the crowds gathered around cars with their radios blasting the news, the long lines at pay phones and the smell and taste of the smoke and dust that covered lower Manhattan. I walked uptown with the massive crowd up to my cousin’s apartment through Times Square where they broadcasted the image of the buildings collapse on the large screens over and over again. I rode the subway back home to Brooklyn the next day, everyone was quiet, solemn and in shock. I was still numb.
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I noticed how the trauma affected me. I felt myself dip into a semi-depressive state in October. I didn’t need to turn on the news; I had reminders in my daily life that New York City was recovering from a deep wound. The subway did not stop near my office anymore so I had to walk an extra 10 blocks, which let me know my world had been seriously disrupted. Plus, everyday to get to work, I needed to show ID to get past a blockade. Helicopters were constantly flying overhead. I looked down the street and there was a clear view of the twisted metal of what used to be the Twin Towers. The media let the country know that it still may be under attack and NYC was a prime target. People were walking around with gas masks on, as if it were normal. The distinct smell of the smoke was overpowering. It was smoldering for months and I could feel it in my throat. There were bomb threats regularly and we were told Anthrax was going to poison all of us. There were signs posted all over the city by loved ones hoping to find their missing friend or family member. Memorials were everywhere large and small. Whenever a fireman’s body was retrieved, there was a large ceremony and more of the neighborhood was blockaded. Every subway train now had an American flag on it. Signs with little slogans such as “These Colors Don’t Run” were posted all over. Even the rescue dogs were commemorated with dog statues in front of select fire stations. Meanwhile, Rudi Giuliani was king of the world announcing how strong and resilient New Yorkers were. However, I was struggling among most New Yorkers trying to make sense of my environment and what I was feeling.
Nevertheless, I was working hard as a social worker, listening to client stories and trying to help others. I did groups with children, answered their questions and helped them feel safe. I met with my clients and helped them process their emotions around the event. I also began working with a few select families who lost a family member in The World Trade Center. One of the most difficult sessions I had was when a man described his experience searching for his sister’s DNA in a pile of body parts. He told the horrific story with little emotion while I listened and absorbed the feelings that were difficult for him to express. I remember having a terrible headache that night. 9/11 happened to all of us: the whole city, the whole country so it was difficult for me to stay in touch with my personal experience. I was simply grateful to be alive and unharmed. I didn’t recognize how I was affected.
I experienced several emotions that year. I was relieved and grateful, I was scared and vulnerable, and I was sad and depressed. But one major emotion I experienced was anger. I was angry with all the people profiting from tragedy. I walked down Church Street and observed vendors selling booklets with 9/11 photos. They were also selling images of the Twin Towers and NYPD/NYFD hats and T-shirts. Every time I saw a “United We Stand” T-shirt I was irritated. They were even selling banners with the names of the deceased on it. I remember their laptop computers scrolling images of the day with the Jewel song “My Hands” playing in the background so they can sell their merchandise. That made me angry also. And I couldn’t believe the crowd…people were coming from all over the country to get a peek at “Ground Zero”. For months it was a mob scene until the city built a wooden viewing platform. Also, a store actually framed their products with the white dust on it and it became a tourist attraction. I felt angry, angry that it was so sensationalized, angry that it became a source of profit for people, simply angry.
Over time, I was able to let go of some of my anger and come to acceptance. I moved out of New York City in September 2003 and being away from New York has been both difficult and a relief. I miss being around others who were a part of the community I was in, while it was good for me to have some distance from it. Six years later, I have been able to heal and I will forever carry with me the empathy I gained from being so close to a large national disaster.
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I noticed how the trauma affected me. I felt myself dip into a semi-depressive state in October. I didn’t need to turn on the news; I had reminders in my daily life that New York City was recovering from a deep wound. The subway did not stop near my office anymore so I had to walk an extra 10 blocks, which let me know my world had been seriously disrupted. Plus, everyday to get to work, I needed to show ID to get past a blockade. Helicopters were constantly flying overhead. I looked down the street and there was a clear view of the twisted metal of what used to be the Twin Towers. The media let the country know that it still may be under attack and NYC was a prime target. People were walking around with gas masks on, as if it were normal. The distinct smell of the smoke was overpowering. It was smoldering for months and I could feel it in my throat. There were bomb threats regularly and we were told Anthrax was going to poison all of us. There were signs posted all over the city by loved ones hoping to find their missing friend or family member. Memorials were everywhere large and small. Whenever a fireman’s body was retrieved, there was a large ceremony and more of the neighborhood was blockaded. Every subway train now had an American flag on it. Signs with little slogans such as “These Colors Don’t Run” were posted all over. Even the rescue dogs were commemorated with dog statues in front of select fire stations. Meanwhile, Rudi Giuliani was king of the world announcing how strong and resilient New Yorkers were. However, I was struggling among most New Yorkers trying to make sense of my environment and what I was feeling.
Nevertheless, I was working hard as a social worker, listening to client stories and trying to help others. I did groups with children, answered their questions and helped them feel safe. I met with my clients and helped them process their emotions around the event. I also began working with a few select families who lost a family member in The World Trade Center. One of the most difficult sessions I had was when a man described his experience searching for his sister’s DNA in a pile of body parts. He told the horrific story with little emotion while I listened and absorbed the feelings that were difficult for him to express. I remember having a terrible headache that night. 9/11 happened to all of us: the whole city, the whole country so it was difficult for me to stay in touch with my personal experience. I was simply grateful to be alive and unharmed. I didn’t recognize how I was affected.
I experienced several emotions that year. I was relieved and grateful, I was scared and vulnerable, and I was sad and depressed. But one major emotion I experienced was anger. I was angry with all the people profiting from tragedy. I walked down Church Street and observed vendors selling booklets with 9/11 photos. They were also selling images of the Twin Towers and NYPD/NYFD hats and T-shirts. Every time I saw a “United We Stand” T-shirt I was irritated. They were even selling banners with the names of the deceased on it. I remember their laptop computers scrolling images of the day with the Jewel song “My Hands” playing in the background so they can sell their merchandise. That made me angry also. And I couldn’t believe the crowd…people were coming from all over the country to get a peek at “Ground Zero”. For months it was a mob scene until the city built a wooden viewing platform. Also, a store actually framed their products with the white dust on it and it became a tourist attraction. I felt angry, angry that it was so sensationalized, angry that it became a source of profit for people, simply angry.
Over time, I was able to let go of some of my anger and come to acceptance. I moved out of New York City in September 2003 and being away from New York has been both difficult and a relief. I miss being around others who were a part of the community I was in, while it was good for me to have some distance from it. Six years later, I have been able to heal and I will forever carry with me the empathy I gained from being so close to a large national disaster.
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