Andrea

<p>Counselling was my least favourite part of the career. Listening wasn't difficult, neither was articulating opinions on medication therapies. No. The vexation took place the moment they would break down and cry in front of me, hysterically spilling out every detail about their lives they could not handle. <br/> I heard a range of things fall out of the mouths from patients desperate to find solace during medication conciliations. Most events they endured were heart-breaking, generally unfair or just wrong; I couldn't help but react to such injustice. Something had to change in how we proceeded in providing care for vulnerable patients who were bound to come back. <br/> I had Amanda Presley devote her spare time on the floor to arranging support programs for women in need of shelter. She came through, having the goal completed in two months – a miracle in busy psych wards that functioned with one daily recreational therapist per floor, the rest being assigned to come in twice a week to run groups. It was a catastrophe, the lack of support patients were offered as obligations to get them out of doctor's custody to resume daily life created boundaries. <br/> Thankfully, we are better off at influencing the lives of our inpatients due to the availability of nursing staff – and about twenty signed up for the recreational therapist fast track to be able to run it – most of which run meets or transport patients to them. <br/> It was strange how the strength in numbers go hand in hand with success. My lurking I do alone and feel my finest. How could so many compassionate people exist on the same floor? When I grew up, most nurses had disdain for humans in troublesome situations they didn't cause. Do not even bring me down the road of discussing classic treatment for eccentric individuals. <br/> Anyways. I am stuck in my office counselling patient after patient on floor after floor. Nothing more than desperate cries for help post cutting and your typical drug seeking behaviour today. Andrea, the cutter I just referenced, came forward and admitted needed to be laid. Included that she had heard rumours that the doctors and nurses knew kamasutra techniques at getting people who are in emotional turmoil off. She isn't wrong. But I question her resource. <br/> "This isn't a brothel." I say. <br/> "I know girls from my high school who have been here." Andrea replies with her jaw set low. Her hands remain on her hips as she awaits an answer. <br/> "I thought you were less of a sheep than that, Andrea." I answer. "There is no clinic in this hospital that offers sex as a treatment for depression."<br/> Some days, I must miss out. <br/> Lunch is spent reading emails I didn't have time to check last night for I was gone on heroin. It's gotten to the point where I cannot handle withdrawal; I become dope sick. My muscles ache. My head hurts. It feels disgusting to be a human. You start to ponder if you have muscle atrophy or another disorder related to your muscle mass as you have lost weight doing too many fucking drugs. <br/> Addiction is disgusting. Sickening behavioural patterns you'd never imagine yourself committing to all because only one thing matters to you and that isn't a person. A pet. It is golden powder you viewed at one point in your life and laughed at how possible it was that you could have ended up a junkie who sticks needles into your arms. <br/> Being high on H is the only way I cannot have my thoughts spiral around Melody like a double helix, several thoughts creating layers that whirl around her naked body and in my mind. Whirl, they go. Away she goes from my thoughts. I remember wanting to own her at one point and it now nauseates me to ponder her weakling of a soul. <br/> I love you.<br/> Fuck.<br/> Fuck you, Melody Hewitt. <br/> <br/></p>