Personal Narrative-Home

If there was anything more terrifying to a shy, introverted, teenage girl than the idea of being a in crowded room full of strangers, it would to be actually in one. Yet, there I was, surrounded by a numerous amount of impatient, jet-black cars that illuminated the dark streets, rows of musicians rehearsing their piece by playing a dissonance of sounds, and the expectant, motley crowd of people lining up on the sidewalk for the veteran’s parade.

The door glided open to reveal the rest of the room. A mother sat in bed, holding her newborn baby in her arms. She smiled as if everything were right in the world.

"More than anything, I just want you to know that there is more than one person you can lean on. You may have someone up their who you are relying on, but you have two incrediably strong sons who would never wish to see their mother in pain like this. Whatever the outcome we finally get your boys will be strong for you and in return I'm sure you will be strong for them."[/b]

Did you plan thoroughly? The interaction was unplanned as the patient sharing their feelings was spontaneous.

“Dad!” Was the only word that had rushed out of Russell’s mouth the instant he saw his father enter the room. And, once he finished hugging Cary he then added, “Have you found him? What did those people you arrested say?”

I don’t get why my sister is sending me here, sending me to rehab. Its not like I have a problem. Ok, I have a slight problem but that doesn’t mean I need to go to rehab for it. She thinks it will help me “get better”. I get so annoyed with her when she says that. All she ever says to me now is do this and you’ll get better, try harder and maybe things would work out. Try harder. You don’t think I’ve tried my whole life to fix the things that are wrong with me. I have. I fought every single day and nothing ever changed. I’m still the same way I was since I was little. I’m still messed up. I know I am but she can’t honestly think that rehab is going to help can she? I highly doubt it.

“Tell me, how does a pathetic, worthless, but yet intelligent person get into this mess and end up here?” Seymour asks, not really expecting an answer, but to dignify his still anger, uses his carved, smooth surface of his wooden baseball bat to strike her left knee, which has fell off for the fifth time now, since she awoken in the mysterious room. She was tired, hungry, thirsty, homesick, and yet so furious the adrenaline pumped bitter life into her and she sat, ropes to her chest, arms, and legs, thinking about life before this moment. “She gets the million dollar questions correct, but only by taking wild guesses,” she manages to say, hoping this sacred fuel will last forever. Before taking another swing at her leg, he chuckles, and then

is smiling which invites the patient to approach her and ask any questions or for help.

When she passed by him minutes later, he stepped out from behind the lockers, his fingers forcefully latching onto her wrists. She yelped as she was pulled into the restroom alongside him, a hand quickly pressed to her lips, muffling her cries.

The nurse gestured for me to come closer. I took a few steps forward and she leaned towards me and whispered, “Try holding her hand. You’ll help her feel more at ease.” I was a little hesitant but I did as I was told and took the patient’s hand. I felt her hand mold into a strong grip around mine without hesitation. While the patient’s grip never lessened on my hand, sometimes it would clench up for a moment before slowly relaxing again. The rest of the staff was busy following the surgeon’s directions, moving quickly around the room. I felt uncomfortable being the only one standing still, doing nothing. So I glanced at the patient. She was breathing hard with her eyes closed, her hand still securely around mine. My hand was starting to hurt, so I tried to ease it out of her grip. But as the patient winced in pain, she grabbed my hand even more strongly.

She walked toward the basement, the restless spirits parting so she could pass. But the spirits watched. They waited.

She looked outside the window and saw freedom. Piles of dirty laundry began to consume her. It had been three days since she showered. Waking her into reality, a threatening howl made her skin crawl. She grabbed the pillow beside her, covering her ears as her eyes winced so tightly that tears began to stream.

Dr. Ward, the psychiatrist at the Mental Health Resource Center, walked out of her office and greeted both of us warmly. Dr. Ward welcomed us into her office, and knowing little about psychiatry I

who don’t expect to see smiling faces, warm greetings, and, of great importance, compassion. They expect to be greeted in a professional manner that is cold, uninviting, and at times, devote of feelings; almost robotic. It has always been my mission and challenge to greet every patient with a smile and ask them how they are, knowing that if they were “feeling great,” they wouldn’t be there. I still ask and, to my pleasant surprise, I see people light up because “it’s not as what you’d expect. And there’s something joyful about it” ((Seckel, 2004, Feb.). I frequently receive comments regarding the kind and compassionate care they received from us while we took their images for the day. They can see our expressions and in return we get to see the joy that, for that moment, allows them to forget about their pain and

As I go down the narrow and twisted country lanes, leaving the dirt and fumes, of the urban built up area of Odd Down behind me. I can see the vast open fields of corn and dense wooded forest filled with life along with the occasional prodigious country mill.