Whumpee drifting in and out of consciousness, back and forth, over and over. Sensing that Caretaker is waiting by their side, wanting to wake up and stay alert for a proper reunion, but their exhausted mind and body just keep dragging them back down.
When the whumpee and the caretaker aren’t talking because of an argument, and the whumpee gets captured by the whumper. The whumpee getting rescued by the caretaker and the rest of their team a few days later, and thinking that the caretaker still won’t want to talk to them. The caretaker surprising them by hugging them the first opportunity they get, and the whumpee breaking down crying, realizing that the caretaker was far more worried about their wellbeing than the stupid fight they’d had. The caretaker proceeding to fuss over them for a few days as they start to recover, and then the two of them talking about their fight once the whumpee is feeling up to it.
- The Mumble: Whumpee is semi-lucid at best, so close to being unconscious and pain free but oh, it hurts, and they groan and mumble nonsense under their breath as the pain keeps them from passing out
- The Fight or Flight: whumpee is definitely out but is dreaming about the fight/injury/event; twitchy fingers and tossing their head because the danger is gone but the trauma continues to play out in their head
- The Lazarus: Whumpee is finally safe and on a whole lot of drugs (the good stuff) and manages to wake up from their heavy sedation. Caretaker, baffled, tells them to sleep. whumpee basically goes ‘alright peace’ and immediately passes out again
- The Park and Fly: whumpee gets whacked across the head, sits down to recover thinking its fine, promptly passes out without warning
- The Good Stuff: “Hey did you say there was a sedative in this? I don’t think its-”
- The Blink and You’ll Miss It: Whumpee gets clocked and wakes up what feels like seconds later having missed the entire fight
- The “I Got This” : whumpee does not have this
- The “Oops” : well that was stupid but there they go
I saw this post from one of my favorite artists. It reminded me that, even as a therapist, my role is not to “fix” someone or alter their emotions. I can simply sit and offer support.
Adj: (of a person)weak and delicate Easily damaged, fragile.
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Looking at the prompt for @inktober day 8, frail, I’m reminded how I used to equate frail to introverted. It’s often seen as a negative to be less talkative or “shy”. Over the years as a therapist, I’ve learned being introverted does not equate to being frail. Introverted is (for myself) more in line with being empathetic and an attentive listener while still being able to advocate for myself and clients.
I’m twenty-one-years-old and I’ve swallowed half a bottle of acetaminophen. The nurse had given me a cup of charcoal to neutralize the acid in my stomach. My vomit is the color of midnight. My body is ejecting a nightmare.
One of the nurses tells me, “You’ve been Baker Act’ed.” Like it was a gameshow. It’s a seventy-two hour hold. I get moved from the hospital to a mental institution called Bay Care or Bay Pointe or Bay Life. It might as well be Bay Prison. By the end of three days, I lose thirteen pounds and one of my socks.
The patients and I go to this group meeting, and the lead counselor passes out these giant rubber pens and circular sheets of paper. He asks us, “What’s your goal today?” One of the guys pulls the fire alarm and yells that he’ll never stop doing favors for crack. “It’s a free country,” he yells, while two nurses sedate him and drag him across the linoleum. He’s still yelling but the fire alarm drowns him out. The counselor asks again, “What’s your goal today?” I write down, “To get out.”
That night, my bunkmate wakes me up. He’s the same guy they dragged out of the meeting. He’s spinning his mattress over his head and he tells me, “Roaches in my bed, my veins, come on, it’s true, it’s really true!” I know my options. I can grab a counselor to stop him. I can ask to switch rooms. I can tell the guy, “It’s not true, you’re hallucinating, that’s why you’re here.”
“Hey,” I tell him. “I know. Let’s look for them, you know? If we don’t find any, we can sleep, how’s that? Let’s look for them together.” My bunkmate likes this plan. We get on our hands and knees to look for cockroaches. After thirty seconds, he gets back on his mattress and falls asleep.
I touched upon something that has since informed the way I treat people. The way I treat their mental health. The way I treat their feelings of loneliness, of being unheard, of being a minority, of being silenced.
If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. If it’s real to you, it’s real to me. If it hurts you, it hurts me. Your pain is my pain.
