The Meaning of "Home"

This morning was cold. Frigid, really. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a sweater, and braced myself for the 10-minute drive to work. I could see my breath in my car the entire way, and the heat didn't even kick in until I pulled into our pothole-filled driveway.

The morning is a whirlwind, as it usually is. I sign in at 8 AM, and my manager is already in. One patient stares at the clock for 10 minutes straight, waiting for the hour to chime so he can get his first cigarette of the day. Two young women need to be driven to their day programs, and the other to her GED class. But first, of course, medication needs to be given out, and the woman who does that isn't even in yet. At the same time, one patient is refusing to shower, saying that she has already even though we all know she's lying; two others want pancakes, and the man is still staring at the clock.

It's only 8:12 AM, and I'm not even remotely exaggerating.

When people ask me what I do, I give the explanation, "I work in a group home for people with mental illness." This automatically gives them the mental image of people in straight jackets, me getting attacked on the daily, and just general bad times. And sure, it isn't all sunshine and daisies. I've gotten my fair share of verbal abuse, had my homemade dinners thrown at walls next to me, and got a lovely reply of, "F*ck you!" when I ask how someone's morning is going. It's hard work, I tell them, but good work.

My first week working there over a year ago was a culture shock. I'm a psychology major, and there is nothing they can teach you in any class that will prepare you for work like I do. The best way to learn? Be thrown right in. My first day I witnessed one patient having a schizophrenia-induced breakdown and calling the cops on herself, and that was in the first hour. I remember my manager just looking at me and saying, "Get ready; this is normal."

Normality is what these patients are striving for, although, sadly, most of them will never fully reach it. Many of these patients won't be functional enough to have families of their own someday, and some even have been ostracized by their own families, or never had them. You realize that family, something many of us take for granted, isn't a universal guarantee. For them, the staff is their family. We do Thanksgiving dinner all together, go on summer vacations, set up a Christmas tree, watch the ball drop on New Year's Eve, and celebrate birthdays. We roast marshmallows on summer nights, go to the beach, and build snowmen. We're surrogates, all working together to give these people some semblance of a family since most of them don't have even that.

Even as a psychology major who has studied the mind, participated in research and gotten a 3.8 GPA in all my psych classes, you never really realize the epidemic of mental health issues until you experience it. 3/5 of my patients have some form of schizophrenia, and all have experienced some form of depression. You never realize how lucky you are to have a sound mind until you witness individuals who have had that stripped away, either by abuse or faulty genetics. However, even with all their faults, we all love them the same. Unfortunately, the specific home I work in is really a last-ditch effort. We're the last stop many make in their treatment journey, and after us, they either go to a high-security state hospital or off to their own apartments. There's no in between, unfortunately. But they make the best of it, and we try to foster that love in as professional a way as possible. They are starved for it, and although we are professionals and this is our job and we do have to give some sort of space, it's a family.

It's 3:45 PM, and the man is back to staring at the clock. I pass him on my way to check the crockpot for the progress of dinner, and he asks if it's cigarette time yet. I tell him no, that cigarette time is 4:00 PM. He knows this, but likes to test the staff and see if we'll cave. Another patient likes to be "snuck" candy, and if you pretend it's like a secret little gift, she'll be happy for the next week, even though the manager told you you could give her a peppermint. It's 3:52 PM and the girl who went to class has cracked open a book and is studying at the table.

She asks, "What are we having for dinner?"

"Turkey soup," I reply. She makes a face, and I have to remind her that it's really good, we've had it before, just trust us. The door cracks open and the other two girls are back from their day program. I smile at them as I gather my things. 4:00 PM and my shift is over. It's exhausting, but it was a good day.

As I say, it's hard work, but it's good work.