(no subject)
When we walked in, she was sitting up on her bed. Have you seen my picture? She asked Dr. H. You look wonderful, He said. No, she said, Have you seen my picture? Unrolled a sheet of paper with paint and glitter, the average of a child's Little Mermaid painting and a finger-painted nude; This is from my class on Thursdays. It's too sexy for me, He says in his thick Hebrew accent. His eyes are always smiling. He leaves me with her and says he will be back.
She is in her 50s, looks like she is of the texture of water-balloons; I do not touch her for fear of rupturing her skin. She tells me about how special she is, how beautiful, how her new psychiatrist thinks she's excellent and attractive; amid a half-dozen waterbottles on her bedside table are bright eyeshadow containers and lipstick. The nurse walks in; the sitting patient is hostile, What do you want, Nothing, Then go away. She tells me about the medication she doesn't want to be on, because it's almost killed her; it made her fat, it made her eat all her money. She tells me how awful, terrible they've been, how she wants to sue them, how she thinks they should be in jail, the social workers, the nurse who treats her horribly, her husband, the incestuous monster, the workers who clean her house. She says her lawyer might not come because he can't deal with her not loving him anymore, but if she could sue them, all of them, she could spend all day and all night in court. I am reflecting these statements as neutrally as I can, minimizing them a bit so she doesn't get too flustered, but apparently not nearly enough for her to hate me and throw me out. She designates me as her messenger, so that I can go forth and tell Dr.H. to please not put her on that pill again. She emphasizes her inability to function, says that she has kidney problems and cancer, that she can't go shopping or clean on her own. Tells me her husband is abusive and treated her awfully and didn't take out the cat litter, that she has 2 cats and they are 10. She tells me she's an artist, that she sells her work and people love it, people just see her and talk to her and buy her art without seeing it because she is attractive. She says that she wants to move back to Missouri, where her brother is, but doesn't know how to leave the cats or the apartment, from which she is afraid of being evicted. Tells me about the humiliating time she was thrown out on the street without her shoes. Speaking fast, fluently, continuously; her mouth moves in an augmented way; she looks me in the eye and gesticulates, her massive bangles clanking against one another. I ask her about her medical history; she tells me she was diagnosed with schizophrenia when she was 23.
Dr.H comes back in, asks her when she wants to go home, she asks him how she's supposed to go home when she can't manage the apartment on her own. He suggests a free public service, she protests loudly because they were nasty, he suggests another one, she has similar suspicions about the second organization as well. He suggests talking to the social worker about everything; she says that she hates the social worker, who was cruel to her, throwing her out without her shoes. As we walk out, she screams after him, telling him to listen to me, because I know everything, because I heard her speak.
She is in her 50s, looks like she is of the texture of water-balloons; I do not touch her for fear of rupturing her skin. She tells me about how special she is, how beautiful, how her new psychiatrist thinks she's excellent and attractive; amid a half-dozen waterbottles on her bedside table are bright eyeshadow containers and lipstick. The nurse walks in; the sitting patient is hostile, What do you want, Nothing, Then go away. She tells me about the medication she doesn't want to be on, because it's almost killed her; it made her fat, it made her eat all her money. She tells me how awful, terrible they've been, how she wants to sue them, how she thinks they should be in jail, the social workers, the nurse who treats her horribly, her husband, the incestuous monster, the workers who clean her house. She says her lawyer might not come because he can't deal with her not loving him anymore, but if she could sue them, all of them, she could spend all day and all night in court. I am reflecting these statements as neutrally as I can, minimizing them a bit so she doesn't get too flustered, but apparently not nearly enough for her to hate me and throw me out. She designates me as her messenger, so that I can go forth and tell Dr.H. to please not put her on that pill again. She emphasizes her inability to function, says that she has kidney problems and cancer, that she can't go shopping or clean on her own. Tells me her husband is abusive and treated her awfully and didn't take out the cat litter, that she has 2 cats and they are 10. She tells me she's an artist, that she sells her work and people love it, people just see her and talk to her and buy her art without seeing it because she is attractive. She says that she wants to move back to Missouri, where her brother is, but doesn't know how to leave the cats or the apartment, from which she is afraid of being evicted. Tells me about the humiliating time she was thrown out on the street without her shoes. Speaking fast, fluently, continuously; her mouth moves in an augmented way; she looks me in the eye and gesticulates, her massive bangles clanking against one another. I ask her about her medical history; she tells me she was diagnosed with schizophrenia when she was 23.
Dr.H comes back in, asks her when she wants to go home, she asks him how she's supposed to go home when she can't manage the apartment on her own. He suggests a free public service, she protests loudly because they were nasty, he suggests another one, she has similar suspicions about the second organization as well. He suggests talking to the social worker about everything; she says that she hates the social worker, who was cruel to her, throwing her out without her shoes. As we walk out, she screams after him, telling him to listen to me, because I know everything, because I heard her speak.