December 17

GIVE AND TAKE

I am really tired. Very tired.

Tired of shattered limbs, busted ribs, sprained arms, broken hearts, gunshot wounds, fractured skulls, broken souls, betrayed trust, fear, pre-arranged marriages, mothers emotionally abusing their daughters, fathers selling their daughters off, children finding their mother who hanged herself, incest, parents demanding perfection from their teenage kids, little children refusing to speak because they were half beaten to death by their father for opening their little mouth, mothers silently watching their husbands sexually abuse their daughters, boyfriends beating their girlfriends for taking anti-depressants in an effort to heal, injured legs from beatings with lead pipes, tears of sorrow, grief, guilt, shame, more shame, and even more shame, lots of railroad tracks, ropes, guns, knives, cables, large packs of tranquilizers, more tears, more fear, no hope, little hope.

And then there is Mr. M., a refugee who needs to pass his German test in order to remain eligible for legal immigration. Of the many forms of treatment he was offered here to heal his hopeless heart, none involved getting him some help with his German. Sometimes even head shrinks can be very dense.

Mr. M. is not my patient. I just heard about his plight during morning staff meeting.

Suicidal people struggle with 3 things:

1. They feel unloved.
2. They feel helpless to solve their problems.
3. They have low distress-tolerance.

Again following my feeling, I went up to Mr. M during my lunch break and said, "Grab your grammar book and meet me in the big room."

"???"

"Before my pain turned me into a psychotherapist I used to be a language teacher."
The damn biggest mediterranean smile I've ever seen. His therapist will help him work on his distress tolerance, but love and help in solving problems can come from anyone.

Mr. M owns a grammar book and six swizzle sticks covered with sugar crystals. Don't know what they're called, neither in German, nor English, nor Arabic.

He goes to his room, gets his book and presents me with one of his sugar-coated swizzle sticks, the only wordly possession he can share, and tells me that I should use it to sweeten my cup of tea. I've never liked sugar more.

Suddenly, my fatigue is gone.