The Face of Christ

The Face of Christ

Danica is often waiting for me on the steps of the clinic when I get to work. Our county’s mental health facilities are housed in historic old buildings throughout this quaint little Pennsylvania town, so Danny is perched on steps leading to a wide, old fashioned veranda with lacy gingerbread trim.  Her warm brown eyes are troubled, and she hastily stubs out her cigarette, as I hold out a hand to help her up. I ignore the cigarette, and smile, asking how she’s feeling today. At more than 250 pounds, Danny needs help getting up and down stairs, and can’t walk more than a few steps without running out of breath. Danny admits she might have asthma, but keeps putting off a visit to the doctor.

Other consumers drift in to the adult partial hospitalization treatment room (once the main parlor in this old Victorian house) as their vans arrive. Some take an hour to get here, coming from tiny hamlets up in the foothills. Joe rummages in the little fridge for half-and-half, and checks if there are any doughnuts left over from yesterday. I put the coffee on. The pharmaceutical companies bring us a feast of goodies every Wednesday, and we share them with everyone in the building.

When I first came into group, I told them I hadn’t worked in mental health before, so they would have to be my teachers. I had spent several years working with hospice in a community outreach program, but nothing prepared me for what I heard in the next few months. My new consumers responded eagerly, telling me their stories of hurt, loneliness, abandonment, neglect, everything that led to the one, two, three or more times they had tried to kill themselves and ended up in the community hospital behind a locked door. Most of the people in group have tried killing themselves in a myriad of different ways: drugs, knives, car crashes, deliberately putting themselves in harm’s way. The stories are enough to curl your hair, and most of them are true. Liars don’t last in group; talking to each other day after day, the truth always comes out.

No matter what they said, I told them they were loved. “Maybe you weren’t loved before,” I told them, “but you are now. Get used to it. Expect it from others, give it to yourself.” Soon, they started using that language with each other.

“Has anyone seen Amy?” I ask, as we sit down at the big table. Amy hasn’t been to group for almost a week. A former psychologist diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, she always had a glib excuse for her many absences.

“Um, I think she’s using again,” Joe offers. “I saw her last night, by the courthouse.” Ironically, the favored spot for drug pickups is the lovely little park by the river, which runs right behind the county courthouse, once a lavish 19th century resort hotel.

“I’ll give her a call,” Randy says decisively, “if she’s not at the Laundromat tonight, I’ll call her and ask her to come down. My mom gave me a whole roll of quarters yesterday, so I have plenty of money.” Randy and Amy live in the same apartment building. Randy, whose diagnosis is mild mental retardation plus PTSD due to child abuse, considers Amy a close friend. Randy’s mom lives a few blocks away and checks up on her daughter every few days. Despite years of repeated rapes by an older sibling, during which time she lost her ability to speak, Randy has reached the point, at age 23 where she can form friendships and work a few hours a week. She is in group for a suicide attempt last year. Her brother, a soldier, came home on leave and raped her again. Randy feels safer in her own apartment. Her mom has promised not to tell her brother where Randy lives. The brother is in jail (after a dishonorable discharge) for six months. Randy lives in fear of his return. She often sucks her thumb in group, and chews on her hair.

Randy’s caseworker and I have discussed her safety concerns; the caseworker wants Randy to move into an assisted living facility in the next town. I’m supposed to persuade Randy to at least take a look at the place. Other consumers have been there. Some liked it, some did not.

Randy cries softly whenever the other women talk about her.  Wendy and I split the group about once a week to give the women a chance to talk about sexual assault or feminine issues. Every woman in group has been raped more than once, and so has Mike, our youngest member at eighteen years old. Mike was in group for three months before he signaled for a one-to-one, saying he was ready to talk about it.
This is why everyone in group considers the other members their friends. We talk about all kinds of personal stuff, all day long. New members are given some papers to sign, and we emphasize the importance of confidentiality, in every session. People in my group are there because they’ve tried to commit suicide, been hospitalized and released. The consumers decided their group needed a special name: NOSH. It means No One Suicides in Here. Their goal is to get healthy in body and spirit, and not think about committing suicide any more. No one wants to end up back in the hospital. And, honestly, they say, none of them really want to die. It’s just that they can’t think of anything better to do, when everything hurts bad, and those negative voices are saying “do it.” 

Often a new person comes in feeling really down on themselves. They usually don’t say much the first day or so.  But everyone else does.  New consumers learn quickly that everyone listens, and everyone cares.

We’re big on survival techniques, and my favorite one is love. I will tell a perfect stranger how much I love them, how good they are, full of life and hope.  I get around the taboo against Christianity by using words that are still permitted in a secular society. Love is one of them. I don’t even have to tell them I’m a Christian. Officially, I’m not allowed to use the “G--” word, unless the consumer “actualizes their own spiritual component (That’s a direct quote from our company brochure.).”
My co-therapist, Wendy, an RN who comes in twice a week, has put up slogans all around the room. One of the consumers will pick a slogan, either from the wall, or from a book. They’ll start by discussing that slogan, what it means to them.

Consumers talk about what is going on in their lives, and what steps they are taking to help themselves, or, what has happened to hold them back. Wendy also does med checks once a week; all our consumers are very knowledgeable about their diagnoses and the drugs they’re on: interactions, side effects, etc. As her co-therapist, my job is pastoral; I listen, say just enough to affirm that consumer and keep the conversation going. Then, I listen some more. We exercise twice a week -- when Wendy is there, because they know that’s Wendy’s thing. I guide them in meditation and breathing exercises on the other days. After our morning focus talk, we break for a snack, stretch, then talk until lunch. Then we go into our afternoon session, usually some art or music therapy. 

Some sessions are more exciting than others. Greg, who has epileptic seizures, ran out into the road the other day. Fortunately, I was able to keep the cars away and coax Greg back into the house after a few minutes. He didn’t come out of his stupor until he was slumped in his usual chair and realized everyone was looking at him. He looks at me anxiously, pale blue eyes pleading, “not again.”  Greg gets so embarrassed when he seizes. 

A very pretty nineteen-year-old girl joined us recently. Eva was assigned to group as part of a plea bargain to keep her out of jail. She had been raped at age five, given drugs to keep her quiet, used by relatives and strangers alike, until she had no sense of self-worth and a long list of diagnoses to explain her violent outbursts.  Eva started by screaming at everyone in her first session. Then she calmed down and asked why I was smiling. “Because you are such a sweetheart,” I said, not missing a beat.  She broke down and cried. The others crowded around, giving hugs and pats on the back. Group is real and open to every emotion; they’ve all been there. It’s easy to see Christ in every single person in that room. There is no judgment, only love, the most powerful weapon of all.

Some consumers are more of a challenge than others, but each one has taught me so much about who we are, the Body of Christ. These are my teachers. They are the face of Christ.