|According to my internship supervisor,|
I've already filled this position.
On my first day at The Place there was a huge chocolate layer cake someone brought in, just because! Well, does there have to be a reason?
Well, that was a fucking omen as far as I was concerned: Clearly, this was my world, and these were my people. And as I am nothing if not a team player, so I had some. Yes. I took some saturated fat and sugar for the team.
12. It turns out that there are companies out there who do not work the shit out of their people, recognizing in a sensible manner that an overworked, unemployed, bitter employee is not good for productivity. The Place asked me if I could do a psychosocial. This is what I do for a living in my non-internship job, so I said, sure. (What I actually do is a comprehensive mental health assessment, which sometimes includes IQ testing, and always involves a diagnosis and a detailed treatment plan.) So I looked at their template...
Woah. ...wait a minute. "where do I record the mental status exam?"
Oh, the nurse does those.
"what about the diagnosis?"
The psychiatrist does that.
"and the treatment plan?"
|OMG I totally want this cup. |
When I'm no longer an intern, that is.
The treatment team does that.
So, I did the rest. Normally, all that stuff takes me nearly 90 minutes. My part was done in 45 minutes. And then..."where do I type this up?
You don't. You dictate it.
Yes, they are very nice to me at my regular job. They tell me all the time how awesome I am. But. they have been adding to my job continually over the past year, with no comenserate raise in pay.
And I cannot bid "awesome" on a NWT Striped White House Black Market sweater.
11. My internship supervisor, meanwhile, told me that so far, they love me. And, it was suggested that a part time position was openIng up soon. So yeah, I told them, I am interested. Why not get paid for interning? Take that, VA. Did I mention that it is my hope that I get a job with this organization? They are a good employer, ten minutes from my house, and I love psychiatric work. Mmboy, I lurves me some crazy.
Oh, and as an aside: it would be about a 50% raise in pay. After all, I can't bid "nice" for a pair of Kenneth Cole, size 8.5, NIB
10. By and large the most popular thing I have done at The Place has been to give fellow clinicians a link to this video:
8. I just cannot get used to being the size I am now. I ordered some dress slacks, and when they arrived, I held them up and muttered to myself, "there is no way these are going to fit my fat ass." but they did. They fit my fat ass. I flirted with the idea that they've changed the sizing now, and that's why I wear an 8, but am really what used to be a 16--the size I wore when I started all this. Then I accepted that would be way too vast a conspiracy, even for me.
6. Now, there is apparently a more exact way to determine my max heart rate, as I mentioned, but it involves sprinting up hills repeatedly. I had to weigh my need for precision against the fact that I. Am Lazy. Guess what won? Hmm. Let's see: I could sprint up hills repeatedly, or subtract a number from another number.
5. The Place has a cafeteria. I lOVE cafeteria food. Bland, lukewarm, food. It's my weakness, this willingness to eat anything. And it's why I run.
4. Meanwhile, I have made the following observations about acute inpatient with Adults v. Child and Adolescents. First, it's quieter with the grownups. Second, for the most part--and need I say it-- NO CRAZY PARENTS.
I like working with adults. I didn't think I'd like it, but I do.
|Few people think they are the cause|
of their own circumstances.
3. But, one thing that is hard to at get used to at The Place is the medical model. I am used to having huge responsiblities regarding diagnostics. It's an interesting adjustment, switching to working on a discharge plan, and less stressful. What services are there for him? Where will he live? How will he get his medications? I get to advocate for the patient from a place of compassion and expertise.
2. When I meet with people who have severe and persistent mental illnesses, especially women who are my age. I look at them, and I can kind of see a little bit of the person they might have been...that is, before the abuse, before their first psychotic break, before the huffing turned their neurons into a gray pudding.
I am so sad for that lost girl who probably dreamed of growing up and being a nurse, or a lawyer or something--instead, she's living in a trailer with no heat, water, or electricity because she is too traumatized to get out of her own way.
1. Another observation: in the field of mental health, there is crazy, and then there is ku-ray-zee. (It's not that I lack compassion). But there's always those moments, like when the patient points out a mistake in his file:
|After two years of stellar service|
I am giving you a 2% raise!
NOW KNEEL BEFORE ME!
How is one oppressed by demons? Do they pay you a minimum wage on salary and work the shit put of you until you find out that another person doing a similar job under better condtions is making twice as much? And all the while telling you how AWESOME YOU ARE?
Well in that case, I'm oppressed by demons too.