A broken people
How do you respond when someone tells you "I feel so broken." How do you respond when someone who prays to God for answers but hasn't received any tells you "what do I do next?" "Why am I feeling this way?" How do you respond when this same person tells you and asks you they want to end it all, they have no hope yet are conflicted with wondering where it all goes from there?
My answer. Nothing. You say nothing. At least that's what I did.
As I wrote on my Facebook yesterday, sometimes you just have to sit in the hallway with a patient and let them cry to you. Usually I offer a rebuttal of some sort, but my honest response was this (I apologize for minor swearing): I'm not going to bullshit you. I don't know. And this patient was ok and appreciative of my honest answer. Sometimes, I don't have the answer. Most of the time I don't have the answer; most of my answers to questions patients have I draw from my own experiences. Very rarely are my replies backed my factual, medical knowledge, unless the question pertains to such. But to be honest I did know how to answer this patient's question and reply to the verbal feelings of brokeness. I too have felt broken before. Read my posts on this blog from last year from May to July; you will see words that are tangible evidence of broken thought patterns and distorted justifications for feeling the way I did and for spewing the words of anger and confusion that I did. The feeling of brokeness...like I stress about mental illness itself, is real. It is so real. Feelings, thoughts and emotions, are real. But because of God and His grace, love, mercy and patience I was able to break the chains of brokeness and overcome them. It's not always that easy for some though. I realized that last night.
In a way, last night's hallway conversation sort of reminded me of survival's guilt. Like when a soldier comes home after seeing his best friend die in combat. The thoughts of "it should have been me" begin, and it's a viscous cycle of cat and mouse with their subconscious. I was thinking of all the ways that God's grace shown through me, but none of the words came out. Instead, I just listened. I think that's the only thing to do in some situations. I had stories of hope from Christ that I could have shared, but I didn't. I let this patient just....let it out. And that's ok, too. Even the strongest people sometimes need a silent listener and a good cry. A comment on my Facebook stated that I was a "good person." But it's not me. It's never really me. It's God. It's God in me, allowing me to be there at that precise moment. The saying holds true that God really is every where.
My answer. Nothing. You say nothing. At least that's what I did.
As I wrote on my Facebook yesterday, sometimes you just have to sit in the hallway with a patient and let them cry to you. Usually I offer a rebuttal of some sort, but my honest response was this (I apologize for minor swearing): I'm not going to bullshit you. I don't know. And this patient was ok and appreciative of my honest answer. Sometimes, I don't have the answer. Most of the time I don't have the answer; most of my answers to questions patients have I draw from my own experiences. Very rarely are my replies backed my factual, medical knowledge, unless the question pertains to such. But to be honest I did know how to answer this patient's question and reply to the verbal feelings of brokeness. I too have felt broken before. Read my posts on this blog from last year from May to July; you will see words that are tangible evidence of broken thought patterns and distorted justifications for feeling the way I did and for spewing the words of anger and confusion that I did. The feeling of brokeness...like I stress about mental illness itself, is real. It is so real. Feelings, thoughts and emotions, are real. But because of God and His grace, love, mercy and patience I was able to break the chains of brokeness and overcome them. It's not always that easy for some though. I realized that last night.
In a way, last night's hallway conversation sort of reminded me of survival's guilt. Like when a soldier comes home after seeing his best friend die in combat. The thoughts of "it should have been me" begin, and it's a viscous cycle of cat and mouse with their subconscious. I was thinking of all the ways that God's grace shown through me, but none of the words came out. Instead, I just listened. I think that's the only thing to do in some situations. I had stories of hope from Christ that I could have shared, but I didn't. I let this patient just....let it out. And that's ok, too. Even the strongest people sometimes need a silent listener and a good cry. A comment on my Facebook stated that I was a "good person." But it's not me. It's never really me. It's God. It's God in me, allowing me to be there at that precise moment. The saying holds true that God really is every where.
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