The rain is pouring down and the only thing flooding more than the streets are the front doors of Psychiatric Emergency Services. I sit in my office with my door open and listen to the chaos of altered and disordered minds filtering through the locked outer door. Over the loud buzz of conversation, there is a voice ringing out in song. The rich alto voice of a woman, singing melodically, albeit loudly, of her belief in God and his goodness ebbs and flows through the chaos. Her joyful adulation intermittently pierced harshly by the hysteria of a young female voice sobbing out her anguish and pain to any one willing to listen. Children run by, pounding on the locked outer door, kicking at the walls, slamming helter-skelter into the piles of human refuse curled damply in the standard issue waiting room chairs. Laughter bubbles out of their mouth, cascading across the room and falling in torrents like the rain that has been falling for days from the overcast skies. Screeches and sobs, laughter and song, laughter and sobs, screeches and song fill the air. Angry voices raised in threat and sorrowful voices lowered in pain, all of the hurt and sick and empty people file into this place hoping for a touch of magic to help them cope with their wet, bedraggled lives.
The office next to mine is occupied by various mental health caseworkers and I hear the man that is in it today step to the outer door and swing it open. The sudden silence that whooshes through the door is deafening. A little wisp of sorrow flows to the open doorway. Into the silence a low wave begins, crescendoing upwards, louder and louder until reaching its zenith, it breaks and bellows after the wisp, only to slam hard against the barrier of the outer door. The soft sigh and click as the door locks into place punctuates the tower of babble like a knife slicing through soft cheese. Little wisp follows the caseworker into the office and he closes the door. I listen to the soft murmur of her voice rising and falling. At first it seems that she is being comforted and the magic will run true for her. Then the voice begins to climb into a sorrowful howl, warbling her anguish at the unfairness of the system and the desperate need for help. Ushering her into the hall and out the door, the caseworker closes it behind her waiting for the lock to snick closed. He turns to me and asks how someone who is “using drugs” can possibly think their psychiatrist will approve their mental health medicines. He tells me considering her behavior, he doesn’t think she is a "good use of the resources" so he won’t let her see her doctor. I say nothing as he turns, shaking his head, and enters the hole of anguish he is occupying this afternoon. He closes the door behind him.
I hear the unremitting tide of terror and pain filtering through the door and feel my soul rise up to meet it, unsure how I can help, but knowing I must, I brace myself and go out the door.
~Kaj '06 ~
