A Dose

There was no way that I was going to sit out this game.

“I can do it,” I told myself,  “It’s only one hour of basketball that you have to play. You love it. You can go home later, play (NBA) 2K11 all you want. Just finish this game. It’s going to be epic.”

It was my senior year at UC Merced. My intramural basketball team was scheduled to play in our six-feet and under league. I usually don’t go through this kind of motivational self-talk, but this game wasn’t like any other. Less than 36 hours earlier, I felt nauseous after eating the Seafood Po’boy at Big Will’s. I immediately knew it was food poisoning.

There was nothing particularly special about this game. It wasn’t some big rivalry, nor did it have any type of playoff implications. There sure weren’t any girls to impress – hell, there was only four people watching this game.

After scoring 10 points in what felt like an eternity, the final buzzer  sounded. It was freedom. I run to a trash can, dry-heaving so desperately to get that Louisiana garbage out of my system. I could barely stand up straight. My calves were on fire. My brain felt like it had been put through a pressure cooker.

I can’t even say I remember the outcome of the game, but it didn’t matter. I made it. I proved to myself – I am invincible!

Moments like those are ones that I draw upon for inspiration. I use it as motivation – a reminder to myself that, if I push myself beyond my perceived limits, I can accomplish anything.

This time was different though. Something was wrong. I’m reeling through personal inspirational moments trying to get myself out of bed and to get to work. Hell, I even tried the good ol’ football motivation YouTube video to get myself going.

I can’t do it. I’m just laying there in my bed. Dumbfounded.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I thought, “I was able to go to work the last two days. I should be fine by now.”

As I debate whether or not to ask my boss for the day off, I play out how the day would unfold. It sinks in. I would have to get out of bed, change, brush my teeth, make the 10 minute drive into the city, take the MUNI, and go through an entire day of work. It seemed too daunting that day.

“Fuck it,” as I text my boss.

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It was less than two days since my client had sucker punched me in the face. I was not seriously injured. I had a couple cuts inside of my lip, nothing more.

“Freak situation,” I rationalized it in my head, “Nothing more than that.”

He hadn’t been doing well. A day earlier, he tells me that his voices were telling him to kill himself. They weren’t getting better.

My co-worker and I went to his home to check to see how he was doing. If need be, I would have to send him to the hospital. No chances were going to be taken if his life was in potential danger. After all, he’s tried to kill himself before.

I wanted to give him a chance, a chance to learn how to control the voices. He said he was fine but didn’t look it.

“We are going to need to bring you to the hospital,” I told him, “I’m really worried about you.”

Barely responding, he ushers my co-worker and myself from the house. It’s time for us to leave. I don’t want to be caught in some altercation and get trapped inside the home.

I call for an ambulance. He really needs to go to the hospital. I wasn’t going to give him a choice in the matter. There’s no way these voices are going to subside without medication.

As I’m writing the 5150 form, the client walks out, still not having said anything. I can’t tell if he’s sad, scared, or angry. It’s a scary situation after all.

The client walks up to me. I look up. BAM! My head cocks back. I feel a force, which my mind processes as being a punch. I couldn’t feel it immediately, maybe due to the pure shock of the situation, but I see blood on my hand. I was in no position to protect myself. I didn’t know the position of where the client was standing.

“I’m going to outrun this guy,” I tell myself, “I’m good.”

I go down half a block, and I turn back to see the client is about 15 feet away from me.

“What the fucking shit? He’s actually chasing me.”

I hear the client’s mom running after him, yelling at him to stop.

He pulls up from his running stance.

Just as the sense of relief came when he stopped running towards me, it quickly subsided when he starts running back in the direction of the house where my co-worker was still standing.

“Oh shit. Is he going to attack her too? She’s only a couple months pregnant. Holy crap this is going to be bad. I’m going to have to run after him.”

Luckily this story didn’t become a full on catastrophe.

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I had a lot of internal debate whether to write this story or not. This story could be perceived in different directions: 1) I’m doing it for the attention and Facebook likes 2) Inappropriate confirmation about the fears of those struggling with mental illness 3) Who the hell knows?

In the aftermath of this incident, I tried extremely hard to keep my poise. I didn’t want to be that person that was “traumatized” from this. I could stay at work. I didn’t have any broken bones or limbs dangling. I’ve done this before. I didn’t need a day off. Being hurt or playing basketball with food poisoning is worse than this. It was a freak accident, after all.

I also didn’t want people coming up to me telling me that they felt sorry for what had happened. I’m not dead. I’m not a wounded animal. I could certainly appreciate the support from my co-workers, who kept asking if I was okay. I just didn’t want people thinking I could be traumatized from it. That’s not me. I’ve dealt with tougher things.

Not being able to go to work after the incident was a slice of humble pie. Here I was, a professional in the mental health field for the past five years, sitting on my bed, not at work on a Friday morning.

I couldn’t help but imagine that this is what life is like for my clients. I felt trapped, even when I’ve worked hard at keeping my body right, my mind wasn’t complying.

I feel extremely fortunate that I was able to force myself to go back to work the following Monday. I give credit to God, my wonderful family, my awesome friends, an amazingly supportive girlfriend, and advantageous socioeconomic background.

It comes to mind that, I could easily be someone on the other side of the system. In fact, over 1 in 5 Americans suffer from mental illness (NIMH, 2015). This number only includes those that even report experiencing such.

Mental well-being is something I feel like many people can take for granted. We often have compassion for people with cancer and other physical diseases. But the tone switches when we see people on the street, talking to themselves, rambling nonsensically – who also suffering but from diseases of the brain. We also talk about depression like it’s something you need to just get over and put on football pads to face life. I could go on with endless examples.

I do not harbor any ill-feelings towards my client. He had been experiencing a lot of things for the first time and having voices in your head is one of the most difficult things to cope with. He has since apologized, which I have accepted.

I could certainly not understand what it would be like to have voices in my head. Honestly, I don’t know what I would do if someone/something kept telling me to kill myself. I would imagine it to be reexperiencing the fear of watching The Ring over and over again – a constant rerun in your head without the ability to turn it off.

Ultimately, I got a small dose of what it would be like to have a mental illness and was a real eye-opener. I had this arrogant mindset to say to myself that I wasn’t going to be negatively affected by this incident, which I am fortunate to say that I am at peace with all that transpired. When I got a taste of what it might be like to be on the other side of it all, I realized that I had gotten it all wrong, even after five years of preaching it. It’s time to get educated about this field, and for those who are reading this who are suffering from an illness, there are people who do understand.