Mental Health Defined & Discussed

           I started my new master's program last month and as such, I haven't had much time to free write. However, this is a response to a discussion question from week one in my current course. I thought it was interesting (and written well enough) to show you all here. Enjoy, and I will hopefully catch up with a true rant soon!

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             “Mental health” as I would define it would be “contentment”. Of course that word alone falls far short of a comprehensive definition. If I were to elaborate I would state that “mental health” is the ability to have homeostatic functioning of the mind particularly in the areas of cognition, and behavior defined by age appropriate socioemotional maturity. This definition would also encompass normative traits such as resilience, stress tolerance and typical response to both positive and negative stimuli.  

            Certainly there are stigmas within the field of mental health. To this day mental health still exists as both terror-invoking and grossly misinterpreted by the public (Kinsella & Kinsella, 2015).  Unfortunately, these stereotypical labels fall on both patients and practitioners. For example, those who are in the field who are all too often referred to by such colorful nicknames as “shrinks” or “quacks”. Most people probably think a counselor who bills competitively for their rate is “money hungry” or “playing the insurance company”.

            Moreover, there are also stigmas attached to those seeking treatment. Such as anyone suffering from addiction issues being labeled a “junkie”, “boozer” or “methhead”. Along with these names come the ideas that addicts are inherently bad, criminalized and deemed by many to be destined to fail. Many authors have pointed to this problem as being one that spans the globe and causes real damage to those that have to cope with the negative connotation their disease brings (Henderson & Gronholm, 2018).

            What I have found personally interesting regarding the idea of stigmas, is that they exist in varying dimensions amongst substance abusers as a sort of “pecking order”. During my undergrad at a treatment facility I met many an alcoholic that would shake their heads in disgust and say, “At least I’m not that guy, he’s got real problems, he’s a heroin addict.” Or the opiate user who lost their job judging another that had their house foreclosed on as more severe, and thus worthy of disdain.

            In reality, I believe we all carry around some measure of these disorders. There might be a gentlemen who has to check to see if he shut his garage as he pulled out of his driveway 3 times before actually leaving for work, and then there’s the gentlemen who has been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder.  The only thing that’s separates “us” from “them” is severity and impact on quality of life. The idea of negatively rooted stigmas being associated with mental health is therefore cumbersome.  After all, we are all walking around with the same grey matter between our ears.

            As far as “why” these stigmas exist, it is simply due to misinformation and ignorance. Often times people fear and thus misconstrue what they do not understand. This of course leads to falsehoods being believed as fact. As professionals in the field of mental health it is a small part of our job to help dispel these myths as we encounter them.

Used from allinahealth.org

References

Henderson, C., & Gronholm, P. C. (2018). Mental Health Related Stigma as a ‘Wicked Problem’: The Need to Address Stigma and Consider the Consequences. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health , 1158, https://lopes.idm.oclc.org/login?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=edsdoj&AN=edsdoj.b88ccbf97dcc476d81c0fff7efae42cf&site=eds-live&scope=site

Kinsella, C., & Kinsella, C. (2015). Introducing Mental Health, Second Edition : A Practical Guide. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers.

A Little Less Snark and a Lot More Action

I’ve never been to an airport that wasn’t busy. Leaving CPH in order to fly back to the States recently was no exception.

My wife and I were flying out of the country via SAS and as we entered our terminal we could both see and hear the hum and hustle all around us. Determined travelers in a hurry to start or end their journey. Airport employees deftly waving in and out of the crowds. The high electronic  drone of endless announcements. All of these things and more cast upon a backdrop of gleaming tile, steel, glass, an a rainbow of instructional signage.

Full disclosure, I will admit that I hate waiting. I despise it. I have no patience for lines (note that patience and respect are two different things). I have no tolerance for crowds. No room for wasted time. This feeling becomes compounded when traveling as there is always that rush of “hurry up and wait” associated with nearly every aspect of air travel.

My wife and I scanned our passports, printed our baggage slips and proceeded to the agent-assisted bag check.
As you might imagine the line was long, but was moving efficiently- at first anyway. Once the line snaked towards the counter a clerk began separating the many travelers into different chutes that then fed into a standalone bag check station with an individual assigned agent.

Patiently, my wife and I negotiated the line and were directed towards a station.

Abruptly, and agent overseeing the station to our right powered down her machinery. A “Closed” indicator lit up on the screen above her as she walked away. There were 5 un-served people still in her line. Most of who looked around in disbelief and annoyance.

As another assisting agent began to get those folks reassigned to an open station, my wife and I finally approached our agent’s station. Bags at the ready, we handed over our travel documents.

The clerk, looking a bit flustered, glanced over the paperwork and then did something surprising; she handed it back. “I’m sorry I cannot check your bags,” she explained, “Anyone traveling to the U.S. has to be asked specific security questions, and I am not trained to do that.”

I looked at my wife, my eyes widened. As I looked around me still, I saw most of the 5 people that had lost their place in line still looking for assistance to no avail.

The word crawled out of my mouth before I could stop it. It was vile, it was elitist, and I felt guilty even as I heard myself say it, “Supervisor.” I looked up at the young agent.

“Pardon me sir?”

“Call me a supervisor,” I repeated slowly. My wife looked at me; also not believing that word came from my mouth. She tried to stop me, but I was already angry at the situation. “I am not waiting in this line all over again.”

My wife and I again scanned the immediate area for a place to go that didn’t mean starting at the back of the line. After a minute or two we spotted another clerk that was directing human traffic. “Hey she can’t help us, where do we need to go?”

He silently pointed us to another, longer, line.

It was at this moment the supervisor finally showed up. As we were walking towards the other line he called out to us, but my frustration had faded. It didn’t really matter to me anymore; I just wanted to be able to get on my way.

“Sir is there a problem?” he called out.

Turning to face him he was already launching into his prepared speech, “You see sir your president has deemed it necessary that we ask all U.S. travelers a direct set of security questions…”. The way the words “your president” dripped past his lips was venomous. It was clearly a subversive way to attempt an insult, or at least get a rise.

Source: NerdPeeps, Amazon

The rest of what he said was a white noise. I simply stared, waited for him to finish and said, “Yes your clerk already explained that. What I don’t understand is why we are standing in a section specifically reserved for people who are traveling to the U.S. to check their luggage and we get all the way to the front of the line, only to be told we can’t be helped. Who’s fault is that?”

The supervisor’s voice changed, it lowered, and the confidence of the canned diatribe faded. “It’s ours.” he admitted.

“Exactly.” I turned my attention away from him to indicate my desire to take the conversation further had waned. He strode away, hollering at another employee in the distance.

I’m sure some will see my response as overreacting, I would perhaps grant you that. I would also point out, however, if no one said anything there would’ve been many more upset customers who would’ve gone through the same experience.

This calls to mind some things I picked up when a great deal of my job was customer service-based. What is key for the supervisor (or anyone in customer service) to understand is as follows:

1.     Upset customers are typically not seeking an explanation for what led up to a problem.

This is usually the time where customer service personnel quote policy and procedure ad nauseam amounting to the ”Why” of the issue at hand. Our time has already been wasted, or we’ve already been inconvenienced, don’t add to that.

2.     When a customer points out a problem, that should be used as a place to start an examination to fix said problem (or in some cases evaluate whether or not a problem exists).

Is the raised issue a valid one? Could a process be done better, more efficiently etc?

3.     Customers don’t want excuses.

Customers want it fixed along with an acknowledgement or maybe even an apology. With the purchase of a service, the expectation is that part of the fee is there to guarantee a smooth process.

4.     Most importantly, customers don’t want your attitude.

We are not your enemy!

Source: TeeSpring

The Job Search Codified

           

            Ahh, it’s that time once again. Time to brush the dust off the old resume and start pounding the pavement, shaking hands and smiling my best smile all in the hopes that I can earn a living like a typical adult.

            But it’s really none of that stuff anymore, is it? You don’t have the luxury of meeting someone (anyone?) face-to-face in order to show off your personality. You have the luxury of “saving time” (or saving someone time) by doing everything via the modern personal computer (Hold applause, no really).  

            Thanks to the advent of the internet, I’ll edit my resume electronically. All the while keeping a keen eye peeled to make sure my key words match their those used in the job description at a rate of 80% or more. From there, before I even meet a prospective hiring manager, I will answer a 100 question “personality test” that basically gauges whether or not I’m a sociopath, likely to steal office supplies, or generally be an unproductive waste of space once hired. And in my favorite part of the process, I’ll get to upload my resume and then on the very next screen, fill in each section of my resume in overly complex little boxes that require the most minute details. If I miss anything, or have any typos, I get to see that glowing red box of idiocy if formatted even the slightest bit outside the website’s parameters.

            I can chose to check boxes that tell a company my ethnicity, military and disability status, or I can keep it a secret. Because maybe I’m afraid I’m too Caucasian, or not Caucasian enough (Just what the in the blue hell is “Caucasian” anyway)?

            Luckily, if I don’t get the job, I’ll get that important hope-crushing email that proudly declares “We have decided to pursue other candidates”. Worse yet, I may never hear anything...ever. In fact, I am still waiting on that mortgage broker gig from 2001.

            Speaking of that, how many high quality candidates, hard working folks, are lost in the information algorithm that is the online job hunt? Do you feel like you’ve missed out on jobs, careers even, because you checked the “wrong” answer in response to a question? Or simply the computer program couldn’t exactly reconcile your qualifications with that of the position you were applying for? I know I often do.

            It has been said that looking for a job is in effect a full time job. And often times it does feel like a full time job, minus the pay, human interaction, and personal sense of satisfaction or accomplishment.

The Less Ordinary Life of Harold: Something Different

                Harold’s room is dark. There’s no lights, no TV, not even the glowing blue power light of his PlayStation. The street lights outside cast a pale amber glow across the floor from the window. It makes the space look sour.

 

 

            The boy who is normally full of whimsical, and yet often profound imaginative qualities looks sullen. He can usually be found doodling or reading comic books, but instead he sits slumped on his bed, staring at nothing, thinking of everything. His cheeks are puffy, red-hot and not quite wet from stale tears.

            After waiting to see if he snaps out of it on his own, Harold’s mom knocks, but opens the already cracked door at the same time.

            “You ready to tell me what happened today?”

            Harold sniffed, a thick snort filled the room. His mother handed him a tissue, and waited.

            “I got beat up.” Harold turned towards the window as he said the words.

            “Really?” his Mom looked him over. “You look fine. Are you okay?”

            Harold shrugged off the hand that inspected his face, “I’m fine Mom, it didn’t hurt,” this he said proudly, as he craned his neck back towards his mother. She could see in his eyes, he meant what he had said. The truth in his words was overwhelming. She wanted to hold him, hug him, but she resisted, knowing that wasn’t what he needed right now.

            “So?” she asked casually.

            Finally, Harold spoke, “Ronnie Danko called me ‘fat boy’ again today.”

            Harold’s Mom nodded.

            “I told him if he ever done it again, I was gonna punch him in the mouth.”

            “So what’d you do?”

            “I punched him in the mouth,” Harold giggled, and his Mom joined him in the laughter.

            “I take it there’s more to the story?”

            Harold nodded, “After I punched him, he didn’t fall. He came at me, knocked me down and kicked me in the stomach a few times before Mr. Rawls broke it up.”

            “Oh honey, I’m so sorry.”

            “The worst part was no one helped me. No one even yelled at him to stop.”

            She held his hand, he let her. Harold’s Mom wanted to cry for her son. She was furious as she imagined the crowd of students staring, mouths agape, fulfilling their role as nothing but spectators. She didn’t say what she was thinking, “What happened after?”

            “I dunno, not much.” Harold’s speech quickened though, “Mr. Rawls carted Ronnie off to the office, Trisha, that student-teacher, took me to the nurse.”

            “And?” the patience in her voice was profound, knowing.

            “When’s it go back to normal?”

            She thought she had been prepared for the question, any question. “Does what go back to normal?”

            “Me?” Harold paused, maybe struggling a bit to find words, which was never a problem for him under normal circumstances. “I feel empty, like he took what made me happy.”

            She could hold back no longer, she hugged Harold, tightly. “Don’t worry it’ll come back in time son, and it will be stronger than ever. You will be stronger than ever.”

            “Thanks Mom.”

            “Thanks for talkin’ to me,” she rose from his bed, and headed for the door.

            “Mom, I thought I had him you know? I just thought I had it figured out, how it would go. Thought, he would fall and not get back up.”

            She paused to look down at her son, “Sounds like you two have something in common. Only difference is he got up and kept going during the fight, you get to do it after.”

            Harold nodded. She hoped he understood as much as he seemed. “Oh by the way, there is one thing I know for sure little man.”

            “Ya, what’s that?”

            “That precise moment when you think you have things figured out, just know you don’t.”

            “So what do you do then?”

            “Something different.”

Play for blood, remember?

There is a lot of junk news out there. And let me be clear, I don’t mean purported “fake news”. I mean- easy to digest, high calorie, low value, fills you up, but still leaves you thirsty-news.

So when a news story catches my eye, it really tends to hold my attention. This very thing occurred when I saw the story of the trio of Portland men that stood up to a man spouting insults to a pair of young women on a train.

It resonated with me for several reasons.

One; because two of the men lost their lives. The tragedy of being a hero, is sometimes you die as one. To Taliesin Myrddin Namkai Meche, and Ricky John Best, I did not know either of you, but I wish peace to you and your families.

Two; I fear this incident, as well as the slayings and injuries that came as a result of it, will discourage people to stand up for others. I pray that it only emboldens people to further rally behind those that do, to make sure that the odds are firmly against the antagonist. To that end, Micah David-Cole Fletcher, I hope that this event does nothing to dissuade you from standing up to the bullies, the bad guys and the blatantly cruel in the future.

Three; I do this kind of thing all the time. It is sobering to see that two men who were on the side of right, paid for that honor with their last breath. You see to me, the greatest honor one can have is to give their life for another. I am not one of those morbid fools that is obsessed with death or dying, but if I have to go out, I’d prefer it be for a worthwhile cause.

Which brings me to my last point...

Four; to anyone that dare utters that these three men acted for nothing, that what they risked, and what two of them ultimately died for was not worth it...I would retort with the firm belief that doing and dying for what’s right is the only thing worth living for.

In closing, I would urge people that when acting in any of these situations always understand that while you may think you are interjecting in a harmless exchange of words, know that things can escalate quickly and turn to violence in a heartbeat. It is not a game, but there is always the potential that you will be playing for blood.

I myself am not an expert in dealing with unstable personalities, or deescalating tense exchanges, so I will not attempt to tell anyone how to handle a similar situation. However, the articles I will leave below do have some useful information. Stand up for others, but be safe doing it.

What should you do if you witness a racist or Islamophobic tirade?

Dealing with Difficult People: 10 Tips for Defusing Toxic Situations

Window Shopping: Kingdom Without a King- Part 9

Asta was now being restrained in the arms of her dead brother. Tears had spilled from her eyes, made their way down her cheeks. She could not wipe at them due to her arms being gripped tightly at her sides. Although, based on the forlorn look upon her face, I don’t believe she would have cared to do so anyway. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if the blank stare signified some level of catatonia.

Kneeling, I quickly searched the guards and found the key to open Old Rufus’ cell. He was padding impatiently in a circle across from us. When I opened the cell and slid the steel door aside, Rufus looked up at me as if to say, What took you so long?

I began to head towards the prison’s exit, for the second time that day.

Praesus’s voice boomed behind me, “We are to leave now?”

I turned behind me with a look that I thought accurately conveyed What else are we supposed to do? But for good measure, I verbalized it for Praesus as well.

“Where are we going to go? The windows, the portals, they are dormant.”

“Shit,” Praesus was right, even if we got out of this dump again, we didn’t really have a destination- at least not one we could currently get to. I thought for a moment, and then whirled to meet Asta’s eyes. “What do you know about the window-like portals that enable people to travel between worlds?”

Asta only stared blankly ahead, I might as well not even been there.

Praesus  stepped in, “Woman, if you can’t tell us how we can get out of here, your utility has just plummeted.”

Though he towered over her, Asta stared through Praesus’ mighty chest. Her eyes were a million miles away, I guessed somewhere dark and cold.

“Then there’s no need for your brother or you, for that matter,” Praesus stretched a threatening hand towards Asta’s neck. She didn’t even blink. With a heavy sigh Praesus turned back to me, “Useless, she won’ budge.”

I looked at Anton, his face was slack, the only energy was in those green pits in his skull he called eyes. I wondered fleetingly what the point of view might’ve from his side might’ve been like. He held his sister in a reverse bear hug. Her body was limp to the point I thought she might’ve slipped through his arms at any moment.

Anton, if it weren’t for your untimely demise, your sister might still be worth something to us.

“Well squire?” Praesus mocking emphasis on the word squire, was particularly evident this round.

I shushed him. “Quiet, listen.”

Faintly coming from the rear of the prison was a strange murmur. I began to follow its source, leading to the back of the cell. Praesus followed, while Anton and Asta stayed unmoving in what was maybe the strangest sibling embrace in history.

Carefully, I traced my hand along the perimeter of the prison hall and listened. The sound was muffled, but growing. It was low and harsh, it was the sound of desperation mated with a whisper.  

Ellen? Yellow?

I could almost make it out now, as we closed in. It was low and harsh, it was the sound of desperation mated with a whisper.

Praesus and I reached the terminus of the prison. We were stymied by a large brick wall flanked by two torchlights, only the right was lit. We, well I, hunkered and waited, listening. Praesus just stood, looking at me like I was mad.

“...Hello help...”

It was coming from behind the wall. “See! Did you hear that?”

Praesus nodded, “They must have a prisoner beyond that wall they do not want anyone to know of.”

I turned, beginning to shout at Asta, “Who’s behind t--” I waved a hand dismissively at Asta, the newly mute.

Old Rufus had followed us inquisitively down the corridor, eager for a hunt.  

“You think we should break it down?”

I shrugged. And then casually pulled the unlit torchlight on the left. With a rumble, almost as great as the arrogant smirk on my face, the wall receded into a space within the floor. Behind it was a man held aloft only by the taught chains that were shackled to his wrists. My eyes followed them as they ended in large metal clasps that were fastened to the wall about ten feet above him on either side. The man lay awkwardly, with his legs tucked underneath him. As if he had fallen that way, and no longer had the strength to change positions. His face was covered in aged bruises and masses of contused skin. These matched the dirty purple robe that had grown too large for him. He had either shrunk, or had been missing meals.

“He’s been tucked away in here for awhile,” Praesus pulled a handkerchief from his vest and used it to cover his nose and mouth.

Old Rufus barked. This time I took it as a warning.

The man, perhaps in is late forties, was in bad shape. And while all the dire details that made up his full set of circumstances were compelling, none drew more of my attention than the splintered crown that lay at his bare feet.