A Box Beneath the Bed

I have dreams of my childhood home, whereas I can see myself walking through the front door. I can see my home, exactly as it was. All is bright in this dream, like it would be somewhere around midday, summertime, and what I can only assume would be the weekend.
I am looking for everyone but no one seems to be home. I suppose the dream is my way of telling everyone, “I’m home” or “I’m back,” only, it’s too late and everyone is gone.
I check every room and each room is beautiful, but hauntingly empty.
Did you ever have a dream like this?

I do say that we take what we have for granted. I do think that it’s easy to forget that there are those around us who have less. There are those who have nothing, or worse, there are others in this world who saw terrible tragedies.
I am going to share a story and, yes, I admit this is not an easy story to read about. However, I am going to do my best to turn this around and share this as an emblem of love and hope. If nothing else, I see this story (and our current life) as a wakeup call that life has to change, at least for me.

I recall an exercise that took place in a treatment facility. I was invited to be part in this with a patient of whom I was to accompany for a weekend visit to his home. I recall the professionals in the room, the counselors, myself, the patient, and his mother.
The exercise was to help us shape the need for clarity as to what took place, what happened at home, and how this would impact the patient during his home visit.

I recall the patient explaining where he would be on a usual day, which was in his room, of course. He explained where his mother would be, which was either in her room, or in another room in the house. His brother was elsewhere, and his sister was in another room. All of them were family and all of them were separated.

I was unaware of the history because no one told me. I was unaware of the story of what took place the last time the patient saw his father.
I had no idea that the father held everyone at gunpoint with a shotgun. I had no idea about the father shooting out the televisions in the house nor did I know about the police standoff, or anything about the final shot that ended the situation, or how the patient screamed, “NO!” when the father turned the gun on himself.

I listened to the details of what the young man saw and how the wall looked afterwards.
This was one of the first times that I ever thought about becoming “something” in the mental health world.
But who am I?
At least, this is what I thought.

This story is far from the norm. This is far from something that one could ever forget or unsee. I can remember when I accompanied the young man to his home. I can remember the kindness his mother extended to me. I can remember the shame on her face, as if this was all her fault, and as for the patient, I can remember the way he described the house, or the way it looked before the incident happened.

I thought about me and my life. I thought about me and my pitiful complaints. I did not flinch. I did not look at anyone with judgment nor did I express pity or shame but instead, I listened. I inquired to gain clarity in a way that allowed the patient or his mother to tell me their story.

I was younger then. I was trying to consider if this is what I wanted to do with my life.
Do I want to help people?
Do I want to be a counselor?
To be fair, I hardly liked the counselors I had.
I hardly liked the clinicians that worked with me on my case. I remember my contempt with some of them.
I was young and needed help too, no differently from anyone else. At the same time, similar to how I assumed no one would ever care about what I wrote or said, which is why I never explored my writing as something serious, I assumed that no one would listen to what I had to say when it came to mental health.
I assumed that I was too far gone, myself, and that I was too fucked up as a person to help anybody else. But guess what, clinicians are people too. So are counselors, doctors and as people, we are all human. The fact remains that everyone has their own story and everyone has their own skeletons hiding in the closet.

I move ahead and fast-forward, decades later.
I lost the calling. I lost the drive to help other people and somehow, I was reintroduced to this when I became a specialist. Not to mention that I lost my way a few times and no, I cannot say that I lived the life of a good man.
But I am trying to improve and change that for the better.
I was sitting in a class for a three-day workshop. I remember there was an invited guest to speak to the class. This man was a clinician.
For some reason, he and I did not get along.
He and I had a conversation that went poorly before the class. In my best description, I was told to stay in my lane and let the professionals handle the rest.

I sat in his class and listened to his lecture about medications and detox and the aftermath of what happens when someone “cleans” up.
He took a stance on the fact that I refer to the people I worked with as “clients” instead of patients. And he openly addressed this to the classroom.

“They are not clients. They are patients.”
“I’m not a doctor,” I responded.

I could tell this man never had to kick or go through withdrawals. I could tell that he did not go through half of what he preached about. And I was not alone with this opinion. For the record, this is not my way of saying how I went through everything and came out alive.
No, that’s not the case either.
I just prefer treating people with dignity before using labels and terms to define them with weakness.

I inquired about a specific medication during this man’s lecture. The clinician scoffed at me in a way that was not only inappropriate, but unprofessional. In fairness, I will admit that this man hit a nerve.
I don’t like being embarrassed or humiliated.
But this happened.
The clinician struck a nerve by exposing me and humiliating me in an open classroom. I had enough of that when I was forced to go to school. I was sure that at this point, I would never take treatment like that again, let alone pay for an education and let someone mistreat or disrespect me openly, in front of a class.

I remember how this struck a nerve and to respond, I openly said, “and people like him are the reason why I never wanted to be a clinician.”

I could see how the clinician realized that he overstepped. Not only that, but this man also realized that not only am I a person who was in this class on my own accord, I was also a grown man and willing to duel at any time.
I was also someone who was free to meet with him outside, as in, “in the parking lot” to which I admit that later in the day, he approached me in the corridor to settle his mistake.
I remember the change of facial expression he shared while I offered him the opportunity to have the parking lot conversation.
The clinician declined my offer.
His face turned awkward then frightened.
But this is not my point.

Subtracting my fury and removing pride and ego, or my need for revenge, there were others in the classroom who witnessed this interaction.
In fact, there was a man sitting to my left. He remarked equally as loud when I said my comment about why I never wanted to be a clinician.
The man to my left said, “Correction. That man is the reason why we need people like you to become a clinician!”

Most of the class nodded in agreement. The clinician himself looked at us both and then resumed his lecture which was thrown off in momentum and ended shortly after.

It was nice to be approached after the class by others who supported me. It was also nice to hear that maybe I do have something. Maybe there is a reason why I am where I am.
Perhaps, yes, maybe there is more of a purpose to why I was in that three-day workshop.

I remember thinking about my social and educational intimidations. I remember thinking that maybe I can be more than I was. Understand?
Maybe it was me who limited myself to the idea that I am otherwise incapable, or unable to be anything more than my emotional limitations.

I have this dream about my childhood home. I have this dream about going through the different rooms and trying to find my Old Man and Mom and my brother.
I want to find them, but I can’t and then I am met with fears and anxiety.

I go back to that exercise with the young patient. He was asked if he could make a change to where people were in the house. He was told to use all the people in the room and direct them to where he would want them to be.

He used the chairs and the other counselors, his mom and himself. The chairs were all in different places in the meeting room. When the young man had the right to change this, he put all the chairs in the same room. He put everyone together.
What an amazing idea . . .
I want to help people do this the same way that patient did for himself.

I don’t care where he comes from or where I lived. I think this is relatable to anyone because if I had the choice, and I’m sure others would agree; if I could, I would put my family and gather us all in the same room too. No more resentments. No more fights. No more drama. If I could press a button and have my choice or make this come true, we would all get along and would all be together.

I am not a person who is comfortable with my past. Moreover, I am a real person with regrets and shame. I am also someone who lives with bouts of guilt.
I have a list of items and a list of people who I have done wrong.
I want to pay back for what I have taken, stolen, or destroyed.

I have feelings and emotions and tensions that need to be resolved. Including my life now, and the recent bouts and arguments. I need to settle these disputes to keep me from separating from those I love and losing them forever.

It’s easy to see us as unworthy or to see the worst in ourselves
However, I want more.
I want more for myself. I want more for others.
I want to see myself in the mirror and see more than what I see now.

I just want to be good.
You know?
I want to find my value and reconnect with my purpose. I want this because life in an otherwise sense can be purposeless, and well . . .

Life like that kind of sucks.

You know?