Wednesday, September 28, 2005
suicide
As I'm sure by now you are well aware, my dear reader, The Wife is in her third semester of a two year program to become a Registered Nurse. This semester she is doing her clinicals, the part of her schooling that provides real world experience caring for real patients in real hospitals, in a local state run psychiatric facility.
Yes, that's right, this semester The Wife is nursing The Crazy.
As this is a state run facility, the patient population is largely, if not entirely, composed of people who's behavior poses a serious and significant threat to the health and well-being of themselves or others. As this is a state run facility, these are typically people who lack the means or support to wind up at a more cushy private insurance fed facility.
So yes, they're The Poor and The Crazy.
So much so that a court has decided to put them there to keep them safe. The patients are generally not in agreement with the judge's decision.
This has lead to many enertaining, interesting and sometimes outright enraging stories about people with serious mental illnesses, along with the follies and failures of the system set up to deal with them.
As they are The Wife's stories, you'll just have to wait for her tell you about folks like the man who walks around all day spitting in a cup trying to get the taste out because in his world E.T. ejaculates in his mouth each night while he's sleeping.
Sorry. It's just not my place, and besides they are not the purpose of tonight's rantings.
This is. . .
Suicide.
Shocking, I know. Not like the title gave up the topic or anything.
During her recent lecture class discussing mental illness and all of its finery, The Wife's instructor made reference multiple times to people who "suicided".
People who what?
Suicided.
You mean people who committed suicide?
Yes, that's right, they suicided.
They killed themselves?
Yes, we are talking about people who suicided. Thousands of people suicide every year.
They "suicided"? What the fuck?
WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!
Whoa, that's the sound of my Liberal Hippie Polictially Correct Bullshit Detector going off.
First off, I'm pretty sure the word "suicide" is a noun, not a verb. I looked it up just to make sure.
"Honey," I sweetly inquired of The Wife, "Who's trying to change our language and why are they doing it?"
The Wife, being as sensible as she is sexy (which is a mighty considerable amount on both counts and of course one of the reasons I married her), asked the instructor of her class the same question earlier today. In response to her question she was told that these people are the culprits.
Okay, that's the "who?", what about the "why?"
Let me take a deep breath before I begin because I'm feeling like I might possibly come unglued and then I'd mind myself in the ironic position of possibly needing the services of those whom I am about to bemoan, belittle, and berate.
Hold on now, let's review: it's the National Alliance for Mental Illness? Hmm. . .
Mental illness? Are they saying that suicide is a mental illness? Well if they are, they're fucking wrong.
Going by what The Wife was told by her instructor. . . well, they’re plain fucking wrong. This is a paraphrased transcription of the conversation:
This subject is not unfamiliar territory.
As perhaps you have, my dear reader, I have thought about it.
Not once, but but twice this year suicide has intruded with its profound ugliness upon my life.
Talk about being kicked in the balls by the steel-toed boots of Fate. Twice. I thought for sure I was through with all that shit. I survived the sickness of Plano in the 1980's. Many of my friends did not.
I know suicide all too well.
Suicide is not an illness. Suicide is an action.
In many, but certainly not all cases it may be the ultimate terminal symptom, but suicide is not in and of itself an illness.
Not a fucking choice? Not a fucking chance.
Curtis made the decision to drive to his parent's house and sit in the back yard with his dad's gun. Chris made the decision to sit in his living room and use a gun paint the walls with his head.
We all make decisions everyday. Then we have to live, or not, with the consequences of those actions. They both made their choices. They made bad ones. Very bad ones. But choices nonetheless.
To imply otherwise, to suggest that they were somehow victims of some sort of mental illness, degrades their lives and insults their memory. Curtis and Chris were not victims.
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Yes, that's right, this semester The Wife is nursing The Crazy.
As this is a state run facility, the patient population is largely, if not entirely, composed of people who's behavior poses a serious and significant threat to the health and well-being of themselves or others. As this is a state run facility, these are typically people who lack the means or support to wind up at a more cushy private insurance fed facility.
So yes, they're The Poor and The Crazy.
So much so that a court has decided to put them there to keep them safe. The patients are generally not in agreement with the judge's decision.
This has lead to many enertaining, interesting and sometimes outright enraging stories about people with serious mental illnesses, along with the follies and failures of the system set up to deal with them.
As they are The Wife's stories, you'll just have to wait for her tell you about folks like the man who walks around all day spitting in a cup trying to get the taste out because in his world E.T. ejaculates in his mouth each night while he's sleeping.
Sorry. It's just not my place, and besides they are not the purpose of tonight's rantings.
This is. . .
Suicide.
Shocking, I know. Not like the title gave up the topic or anything.
During her recent lecture class discussing mental illness and all of its finery, The Wife's instructor made reference multiple times to people who "suicided".
People who what?
Suicided.
You mean people who committed suicide?
Yes, that's right, they suicided.
They killed themselves?
Yes, we are talking about people who suicided. Thousands of people suicide every year.
They "suicided"? What the fuck?
WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!
Whoa, that's the sound of my Liberal Hippie Polictially Correct Bullshit Detector going off.
First off, I'm pretty sure the word "suicide" is a noun, not a verb. I looked it up just to make sure.
"Honey," I sweetly inquired of The Wife, "Who's trying to change our language and why are they doing it?"
The Wife, being as sensible as she is sexy (which is a mighty considerable amount on both counts and of course one of the reasons I married her), asked the instructor of her class the same question earlier today. In response to her question she was told that these people are the culprits.
Okay, that's the "who?", what about the "why?"
Let me take a deep breath before I begin because I'm feeling like I might possibly come unglued and then I'd mind myself in the ironic position of possibly needing the services of those whom I am about to bemoan, belittle, and berate.
Hold on now, let's review: it's the National Alliance for Mental Illness? Hmm. . .
Mental illness? Are they saying that suicide is a mental illness? Well if they are, they're fucking wrong.
Going by what The Wife was told by her instructor. . . well, they’re plain fucking wrong. This is a paraphrased transcription of the conversation:
“Why?” I asked The Wife, “why is this organization attempting to change the language and make a verb out of a noun? Why try to make a disease out of a behavior?”And now I will tell you, my dear reader, exactly why.
“Well,” The Wife explained as she was earlier instructed, “saying someone ‘committed suicide’ implies that person made a decision, that it was a choice, they chose 'to commit’ something. The new official opinion apparently is people who kill themselves do so because they have lost the ability to make that choice."
"Now wait just a second sugar britches. Are you telling me that people who have committed suicide, er, my mistake, 'suicided', did so because they were afllicted by a mental illness called 'suicide'? And that having this mental illness called 'suicide' deprived them of the ability to chose otherwise?"
"Yes. That basically explains what we were taught today in class."
“That’s fucking stupid and makes absolutely no fucking sense.”
"But wait my loving stud muffin," The Wife interupted, "there's more. Additionally, they are trying to remove the stigma associated with suicide."
"Remove the stigma!?" My head almost exploded, "Remove the fucking stigma!" I felt my voice raise in pitch and volume in bewilderment, "what a load of complete and total fucking shit!"
This subject is not unfamiliar territory.
As perhaps you have, my dear reader, I have thought about it.
Not once, but but twice this year suicide has intruded with its profound ugliness upon my life.
Talk about being kicked in the balls by the steel-toed boots of Fate. Twice. I thought for sure I was through with all that shit. I survived the sickness of Plano in the 1980's. Many of my friends did not.
I know suicide all too well.
Suicide is not an illness. Suicide is an action.
In many, but certainly not all cases it may be the ultimate terminal symptom, but suicide is not in and of itself an illness.
Not a fucking choice? Not a fucking chance.
Curtis made the decision to drive to his parent's house and sit in the back yard with his dad's gun. Chris made the decision to sit in his living room and use a gun paint the walls with his head.
We all make decisions everyday. Then we have to live, or not, with the consequences of those actions. They both made their choices. They made bad ones. Very bad ones. But choices nonetheless.
To imply otherwise, to suggest that they were somehow victims of some sort of mental illness, degrades their lives and insults their memory. Curtis and Chris were not victims.
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