The Hypocrite

I used to work in a psych hospital

and every day I would gently encourage

the patients to make their beds

even if they didn’t want to,

even if they didn’t feel like it

because then they would feel the slightest bit better

having started off

their day already having accomplished

at least one thing.

And I watched them try it

and I watched it work,

watched it help with their depression and motivation

by giving them a small boost in the morning.

And they would report back a week later

how thankful they were that I shared

that tiny tip and awed at how such a simple

thing could do anything to help them.

And that opened the gateway,

sowed the seeds of rapport-building trust

that allowed me to give them deeper advice

and guide them with loving, compassionate

words to a better way of navigating

the stormy seas their lives had been or become.

My patients were all children and teens,

steeped in trauma like tea bags left in a cup too long,

lashing out at everyone and everything

but especially themselves.

And in them I saw a younger me,

--an abused, angry child who just

needed someone to save her

but no one ever came

and so she had to do it herself

so of course the way she did it

wasn’t the best and wasn’t right

But she had no one to tell her otherwise

And she had been doing the best that she could.

And sometimes these kids,

outfitted in scrubs or plain clothes

and slippers,

would thank me,

tell me that I changed their lives

and that they would never forget me

before disappearing from my life forever.

And I would smile and say that I was thankful

to have met them and helped in any way I could.

(To have helped them like I wished

someone had helped me.)

I watched them try it

And I watched it work

And yet I still did not make my own bed

And never had.

But today I did.

Today I did.

I finally did.