22 Feb Together
The man I’m talking with is convinced the room we are in is bugged and that people are listening to our conversation. He doesn’t want to talk.
He is seated on the couch with his hands clasped together and his fingers intertwined. His legs are bouncing up and down. His eyes are scanning the room nervously.
It was my internship year and I was working at the inpatient behavioral health unit at the Veterans Administration Medical Center in Albuquerque. People there are usually admitted because of serious mental illness and often arrive in a state of acute crisis.
The man pushes himself up from the faded blue couch. He stands and peers into the light switch. He is certain something is there.
I watch him for a moment. I think about saying, “No, there’s no one listening. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Please sit back down and let’s talk.”
But he’s worried. And that worry is real and distracting. So, instead I suggest we look together. We look under and on top of the desk. We make sure the computer is turned off and that no green light is glowing. The chairs and couch are examined as is the small table between us. We peer into the plant in the corner. We check the outlets along the baseboard.
Satisfied, he sits back down. His legs are no longer bouncing. His arms are unfolded and calm in his lap. His eyes look at me.
“It looks okay. Thanks,” he says.
And then we talk.
I think about this sometimes. I wasn’t following the latest evidence-based practices with this approach. You wouldn’t find this in a treatment manual for working with people who are living with schizophrenia. At times, depending on the person and the situation, this would be an unhelpful way to proceed.
But I still remember the way his eyes lit up when I said I would look, too.
Being heard, seen and believed is so often where helpful conversations begin.