I have always had a good sense of humor. I love to laugh. And I am usually delighted when people see
the humor in my behavior. I had a therapist
who regularly told me that I should be a stand-up comedienne because she was so
entertained during our sessions. I took
it as a compliment. During my childhood,
the situation with my Mom was so stressful that I was totally grateful for any
opportunity to laugh. Those
opportunities were few and far between.
But as I got older, I was more likely to see the funny part of any
situation. And so was my family. My Mom used to spend lots of money on things
the family saw as worthless. During one
memorable period she spent a considerable amount on leather and leather
imprinting tools. Then, of course, my
Dad and Mom would fight. And my sister
and I would be watching. So, one time…my
sister told me about her horror when she saw someone who did that kind of
leather work. She acknowledged that this person was probably very
talented. But, for us, leather working
tools were a bad thing. They were
evidence of mental illness. My sister
recognized that might be a somewhat skewed view. After all, an artisan working in leather
isn’t a criminal. But in our view, they
kind of were. So, we laughed. Maybe that doesn’t strike you as funny. But the fact that we could laugh was a
wonderful thing.
I regularly used humor in my work as a case manager. I would gently tease those clients I could
get away with teasing. And when my job
became stressful because of the things that happened in following my clients, I
would laugh about the situations. I had
one client who was a little difficult to handle. I placed him in many housing situations. And he would always do something to get
thrown out of any housing situation I found for him. So, I spent lots of time putting out fires
for this guy. From one problem to
another, I always seemed to be following him around. So, one day I got a call. He was in inpatient treatment. He had put himself there. And he was being discharged. So, I would have to help him get back into
his housing situation. This was not so
easy, because he was usually thrown out because he was a trouble-maker. I checked out the status of his housing. The group home was willing to accept him back
because he had voluntarily gone into the hospital. The theory was that he was taking
responsibility for his behavior. So, I
went to pick him up. And met him at the
hospital in the parking lot. At his
request. It was one of those cold and
drizzly Nashville evenings. I thought I
was picking him up in my car to drive him.
But what I found is that he had a truck.
It was one of those rental trucks that people get when they are
moving. It wasn’t a small one
either. He told me that he was watching
the truck for a friend. And that we
would have to bring the truck back to his group home to allow the friend to
pick it up. And he was counting on the
agency to pay his parking fees. I was
able to do that because he had SSDI. And
we could take the fee out of his account.
I wasn’t sure that I believed this story because, well, he told a lot of
stories. However, I didn’t have the time
or ability to confront him right at that moment. So, I decided to take the story at face value
and just get him to the group home. But
you have to understand that I was thinking that he had not come into possession
of that truck legitimately.
As we were leaving, he had trouble maneuvering the
truck. And he ran into the little
building housing the parking lot attendant.
To my absolute horror, the police were called. And I stood out there trying to pretend that
I wasn’t there. I couldn’t talk to the
police. I was bound by
confidentiality. At least I thought I
was bound by confidentiality. But he was acting like we were old buddies. And when the police arrived, I was totally
convinced that if he was going to be hauled in, so would I. They checked on warrants. Of course, I didn’t have any. (And they DID look at my identification.) But I wasn’t sure about him. I breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t
have any warrants. And I told the police
that he had just gotten out of the hospital. (I could say that because the hospital wasn’t
solely psychiatric.) So, he was allowed to remove the truck from the little
building and instructed to return the truck to the dealer. Which he cheerfully agreed to do. There really wasn’t damage. No one was hurt. And the truck was only scratched up a little.
So, after an hour and a half of standing there hoping I wasn’t about to be
arrested, we got to leave. And I told him to make sure he was in my
office in the morning because we had to talk.
He showed up at my office.
Primarily because he wanted me to take money out of his SSDI account for
him. But the conversation was really the
funny part. He confirmed my worst
suspicions. The truck was stolen. He had taken it from a ‘friend’ so he could
live in it when he was thrown out of his housing. I didn’t know how long ago it had been
stolen, but I wondered about whether the theft had been reported. And why the police missed it. I said a silent prayer of thanks for the fact
that I had not been arrested as an accessory to theft. Or whatever.
And I made arrangements to have the truck returned. In spite of the fact
that he told me that he wanted to keep it.
After he left, I know that I laughed. I still think the situation was funny. I felt so thankful that we had avoided an
even bigger drama…because of course an arrest would have created other
problems. And I told my teammates. Who laughed with me because they knew that it
could have happened to them. And
whenever I think about the absurdity of mental illness, I think about that
situation. And how it felt to stand
outside on a cold and drizzly Nashville evening wondering if I was going to be
arrested.
No comments:
Post a Comment