Categories
Nonfiction

Dreams.

“I had a dream last night, it was so vivid,” my father said. “Your mom was in the dream—I dream about her often—but she wasn’t the main character. She’s never the main character.”

“Mm hm,” I replied.

“I was trying to get home. I was worried. That’s why I’m always looking for your mom when I dream because she is at home, she is home.”

Because we were on the phone he couldn’t see the smile on my face and the sadness in my eyes.

“I finally know how to find her, but then a lot of water—a flood—comes rushing down the street. The water is so high that it comes up to my neck.”

“Whoa. That must’ve been scary,” I said.

“No,” my dad said. I could hear him smiling. “In Chinese culture, water in dreams means money.”

Categories
Education Funding Homelessness Medicine Nonfiction Policy Reading Reflection Systems

My Thoughts about Torrey’s “American Psychosis”.

This weekend I began and finished E. Fuller Torrey’s American Psychosis: How the Federal Government Destroyed the Mental Illness Treatment System. (That’s not an inflammatory title. At all.) Though I have read a few of his articles, I have avoided reading his books. Part of this was due to all the other books I have wanted to read; most of this was due to my discomfort with how he frequently presents people with severe mental illnesses as dangerous and violent. Torrey is probably best known for his arguments to change the law so that it is easier to hospitalize people against their wills.

You can see how that is controversial. What his Treatment Advocacy Center says is advocacy, others say is coercion and social control.

In this book Torrey presents a history of the Community Mental Health Act of 1963 and presents compelling arguments that it was flawed since its inception. He also argues that patients with severe psychiatric conditions now continue to suffer consequences from the Act.

Although I do not agree with all of Torrey’s opinions, I do agree that the current “mental illness treatment system” doesn’t work. People—social workers, patients, nurses, therapists, case managers, psychiatrists—are all doing the best that they can, but the system could improve. A lot.

Fuller offers ten solutions to make the “mental illness treatment system” better:

Public psychiatric hospitals cannot be completely abolished. A minimum number of beds, perhaps 40 to 60 per 100,000 population, will be needed. This is approximately four times more beds than we have available today.

Torrey argues that a small percentage of people, due to their chronic and severe psychiatric symptoms, will need to stay in hospitals for a long period of time.

I am torn about that: On the one hand, I have my own anecdotal experiences working with patients who, with the “right”[1. “Right” is a relative term and depends on the individual. I also recognize that my anecdotal experiences are just that: anecdotal.] support, were able to stay out of hospitals despite their significant symptoms. The lack of public hospital beds forced all of us—the patients and the supporting team—to figure out creative ways to keep patients out of the hospital.

On the other hand, people get caught up in where patients with severe psychiatric symptoms are. There is an underlying assumption that being in a [state] hospital is bad, an evil to be avoided at all costs. Yes, there were and are hospitals that do not provide good care. That does not mean all psychiatric hospitals are terrible. Some people who are in jails, on the streets, or sitting in emergency rooms night after night are those who could benefit from treatment in public psychiatric hospitals.

As someone who has worked in all three systems—jails, homeless services, and emergency/crisis centers—I must say that the stability and structure of a [state] hospital is much more therapeutic and safe than the chaos often inherent in the other sites.

Lack of awareness of illness (anosognosia) must be considered when planning any mental illness treatment system and provision made for the implementation of some form of involuntary treatment, such as assisted outpatient treatment (AOT) or conditional release for approximately 1% of all individuals with severe mental illnesses who are living in our communities.

Prior to reading this book I had never considered the comparison of anosognosia in people with dementia with the anosognosia of people with psychiatric conditions. People readily commit people with dementia (who can be as violent, though perhaps without the same sense of purpose, as people with psychosis) into homes and institutions without discussions about their civil liberties. Why don’t we do the same with people who are psychotic?

The conditions are different, of course.[2. We will put aside commentary about Kraeplin’s dementia praecox for now.] Dementia is a global phenomenon; it affects nearly all spheres of a person’s existence. Psychosis is often sphere specific. There are people with psychotic conditions who pay their rent, buy food, take showers, and spend time with friends and family… and earnestly argue that cameras are monitoring them, that chips were implanted into their bodies in the past, and the FBI is trying to kill them.

The system often tries to avoid admitting people with dementia into hospitals for psychiatric reasons. Why? Because, at this time, we have no interventions or expectations that people with dementia will get better.

We admit people with psychiatric conditions into hospitals because we expect people will recover.

Community treatment of mentally ill individuals will only be successful if carried out by community mental illness centers, not in community mental health centers. The change of one word is crucial to the success of any such program. Mental illness centers may be freestanding or integrated as part of medical centers.

The italics are Torrey’s, not mine. You now see why Torrey calls it the “mental illness treatment system”.

While I agree that words matter, I don’t think using the word “illness” will endear the system to either patients or those who work in them. There is already stigma attached to psychiatric conditions. Who wants to walk into a “mental illness treatment facility”? Furthermore, when we do understand etiologies of psychiatric conditions, why not invest energy in prevention?

There are dialysis centers, children’s hospitals, and heart and vascular institutes. If a name change is indicated, why not “mental treatment system” or “mental institute”? Some people will maintain their mental health; others will receive active treatment for mental illness.

Continuity of care, especially continuity of caregivers, is essential for good psychiatric care of individuals with serious mental illnesses.

This is true for anyone for any condition (cardiologists and people who have had heart attacks; students and teachers; parents and children; etc.).

We must create a system where staff retention is a priority. So many people leave community psychiatry because they burn out and don’t receive support. Patients should leave us because they recover and become independent; we should not leave them.

In addition to medication, individuals with serious mental illnesses need access to decent housing, vocational opportunities, and opportunities for socialization. The clubhouse is the best model for meeting these needs.

Note that Torrey argues that medication is the anchor for psychiatric treatment. Others disagree. I think it depends on the person and situation.

Clubhouses don’t receive the attention they should. They’re inspiring. Fountain House in New York City is the original clubhouse. One of the primary arguments against clubhouses is that they do not foster integration with people who don’t have psychiatric conditions. We all, however, are free to choose who we want to spend our time with and people with psychiatric conditions are no different. If they want to spend time at the clubhouse, they can. If they don’t, they won’t.

To protect vulnerable mentally ill individuals living in nursing homes and board-and-care homes, there must be periodic, unannounced inspections by an independent state agency. Evaluations and corrective actions must be made public.

I agree.

My work has not brought me into nursing homes and adult family homes (what “board-and-care homes” are called here in Washington State). Torrey presents heartbreaking anecdotes and data about the treatment people did not receive and the abuses they experienced in these facilities. (They mirror reports that came out of some state hospitals in the past.)

Unfortunately, people with psychiatric conditions generally don’t pull at heartstrings the way kids with cancer do. I worry that, given the relative apathy to the number and conditions of people who are homeless, the public may not have any reaction upon learning what happens in adult family homes.

For-profit funding of public mental illness services has been tried and does not work.

I agree.

Torrey and I share the same perspective: If the organization’s goal is to make a profit, money will always trump patient care. People with significant psychiatric conditions will somehow exit the system[3. And by “exit the system”, I mean patients are actively pushed out, not let back in, or made to jump through hoops that they cannot get through in order to receive services.] because they often require resources—time, money, energy—that are antithetical to saving or earning money.

This is why I am biased against for-profit correctional systems.

In selected cases, psychiatric information on mentally ill individuals who have a history of dangerousness should be made available to law enforcement personnel, because they are now the frontline mental health workers.

This point is tied to Torrey’s arguments that people with severe mental illnesses are dangerous. To Torrey’s credit, he does state that people with psychiatric conditions are vulnerable and are often victims of violence, but he spends a lot more time discussing the murders that people with psychiatric conditions have committed.

There are obvious privacy concerns about this. Are police officers familiar with HIPAA? How else might law enforcement officers use this information?

The single biggest problem with the present anarchic system of mental illness services is that nobody is accountable. It will be necessary to assign responsibility to a single level of government, and to then hold such individuals accountable, before any improvement can occur.

Torrey makes it clear that the federal government should not be the responsible party. I agree with that.

While I understand the Torrey’s sentiment, it is much easier said than done. The “mental illness treatment system” now spans multiple domains: the legal system, emergency departments, medical clinics, homeless shelters, law enforcement, mental “health” centers, hospitals, etc. Working with all these groups and aligning efforts to a set of goals will require significant culture change.

If you made it this far in the post, let me conclude by saying that, even if you don’t agree with Torrey’s thesis, this book is still an engaging and thoughtful read. I will confess that I began to feel hopeless and overwhelmed as he laid out all the failures of the system. However, he did finish the book with compelling solutions and highlighted that we can’t give up. This is not easy work, but it is meaningful work, and there is value both to individuals and the community if we take care of the vulnerable people in our lives.


Categories
Education Homelessness Lessons Medicine Nonfiction Policy Reflection Systems

Involuntary Commitment (VII).

This post is overdue by one year! It may help to review the third scenario and a primer on involuntary commitment before reading on.

Why the delay? Because I still wrestle with the question at the end of this post.


Recall in the third scenario the man, described as a chronic inebriate, who frequently tried to kill himself while intoxicated. He recently had slapped a woman in a laundromat and had thrown a can of soda at outreach workers. How would you apply involuntary commitment criteria here?

1. Does this person want to harm himself or someone else?

While intoxicated, he has said that he wants to kill himself and we know that he has, in fact, harmed other people: He slapped a woman in the laundromat and he threw a can of soda at some outreach workers. While these may be minor insults in the grand scheme of things, they still suggest that he is disinhibited enough potentially harm someone.

2. How imminent is this risk of harm to self or others?

Probably imminent. Since he is frequently intoxicated, he is frequently disinhibited.

3. Are these behaviors due to a psychiatric condition?

Maybe.

Is an alcohol use disorder a psychiatric condition?

Think about your answer again.

Though “alcohol use disorder” is listed as a condition in DSM-5, some would argue that it is not a psychiatric condition. They would say that it is a choice. They would also argue that the mental disturbance that comes from alcohol use is temporary while “true” psychiatric conditions do not have the same cause-and-effect phenomena that we often see with alcohol.

However, we also know that this man has reported auditory hallucinations in the past and, regardless if his alcohol use is a psychiatric condition or not, his intoxication is clearly affecting his ability to function.

At least that is how I formulated it.

Related: Will hospitalization help treat the underlying psychiatric condition?

Possibly. The likelihood that he can become intoxicated with alcohol in the hospital is very low (but not impossible).

What actually happened?


The man was going around in circles from emergency room to street to jail. The police wanted him admitted to the hospital because the only time the police weren’t picking him up was when he was sober, which was when he was in the hospital. The outreach team had housing for him (he could have moved in tomorrow!), but he was too intoxicated to accept the invitations.

There was a big meeting and we concocted a big plan: The outreach team would find and talk with the man in the park in five days at 11am. He would likely be intoxicated and belligerent by then. The police would meet us there. The police would help transport the man to the hospital on an involuntary order. The emergency department staff would admit him to the hospital, whether he agreed to or not. Once he received treatment in the hospital, he would be discharged into his own apartment, with hopes that he would stay off the streets and away from alcohol.

What could go wrong?

On the appointed day, we found him in the park.

“Hey hey hey,” he said, putting his arm around the outreach worker, a goofy grin on his face. He offered the 40-ounce can of beer to us. “It’s the first one. Half full. I’m an optimist.” He laughed.

My heart was starting to sink: Even though he slapped a woman and threw a can of soda at someone less than a week ago, he wasn’t doing anything right now that would warrant an involuntary hospitalization.

But the show must go on, right? Multiple people and systems were involved. We had a big plan. And going through with the plan would be in his best interests, right?

Right?

“So,” the outreach worker started, “what do you think about going to the hospital with us?”

He laughed. “I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’m fine.”

“The doctors can check your health, make sure everything is okay….”

“Naw, don’t need it. I feel fine.”

Indeed. He was buzzed, but that wasn’t a reason to go to the hospital.

He looked over our shoulders, smiled, and shouted, “HEY!”

Behind us were four men with broad shoulders and thick legs. We all recognized them as police officers, though they were wearing casual clothes. They nodded at us.

“Wanna go to that bar with me?” the man asked, pointing to the brick building down the street.

“Sure!” the police said, chuckling. “It’s 11am.”

The outreach worker and I stood by our car and watched them disappear into the bar. We said nothing. Still nothing had happened that would warrant hospitalization, voluntary or not.

Several minutes later, the police officers and the man emerged from the bar. The man was singing:

Hello!
Is it me you’re looking for?
’cause I wonder where you are
And I wonder what you do
Are you somewhere feeling lonely?
Or is someone loving you?

The officers started laughing. Everyone was having a good time.

The police led the man to a squad car and opened the back door.

“We’re going to the hospital.”

“F@ck no,” the man said, smiling, having no idea what was happening. My heart sank further.

“Get into the car.”

“No!”

“Look, get into the car—”

—and that’s when he spit at a police officer.

WHAM! It happened so fast that I couldn’t believe what happened. They threw him against the hood of the police car. Two officers pinned his arms down. The other two looked ready to strike him.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Pedestrians began to rubberneck. Some young men began to call, “What did he do? Why you doing that?”

“It’s none of your business. Keep walking. There’s nothing to see here,” a police officer barked.

“No, that ain’t right. Why did you do that?”

A woman with flowers in her grey hair and a flowing peasant dress around her thin frame approached.

“That’s police brutality, that’s what. We need to get rid of the cops.”

In the meantime, the police officers had handcuffed the man—for what? for what?—and placed a mesh bag over his head so that if he tried to spit again, the netting would catch it.[1. This mesh bag is called a “spit sack”.] They pushed him into the back of the car and closed the door.

The crowd on the sidewalk grew. Close to three dozen people started to shout and chant at the police officers.

The outreach worker and I got into our car. What was happening?

The ambulance the police had called arrived. A paramedic got out and, hands on his hips, talked with one of the police officers. His brow was furrowed and he was frowning. The officer shrugged, then pointed to our car.

The paramedic walked over and knocked on my window. I rolled it down.

“What did this man do? Why are we taking him to the hospital? Did he actually do anything that warrants an involuntary transport?”

My cheeks burned.

“No.”

The paramedic[2. God bless this paramedic. We need people like him to ask these questions.] glared at me. He then turned around and walked away.

The police and paramedics moved him from the back of the police car into the ambulance while the crowd continued to bristle. The ambulance honked as it tried to weave through the crowd.

After the police drove away, the crowd dispersed.

The outreach worker and I sat in our car in silence. My cheeks were still burning.


He was in the hospital for about two weeks. The first three days were against his will. He agreed to stay in the hospital for the remaining 11 days.

The outreach worker met the man when he was discharged from the hospital to escort him to his apartment. He attended AA meetings four days a week. He took his two medications every night. He saw his counselor every week.

He avoided the park. The police started calling our office: “We never see him anymore. Do you know what happened?”

I never saw the man again, though heard occasional updates from his psychiatrist. The man didn’t drink any alcohol for nearly a year. When he did slip, he asked to go to the hospital. The police never got involved.

Even now, I still ask myself, “Did we do the right thing?”


Categories
Lessons Nonfiction Observations Reflection

The Club.

Though you are now a member of the club, you don’t know it.

It feels like no one understands and that you’re alone. The memory of what happened to The Person You Love is heartbreaking.

The feeling seems endless. Perhaps you feel it in your body; maybe it feels like a hollow weight in your chest. Maybe your head feels heavy. Maybe most of it unfolds through your thoughts: You hear good news and your heart floats for a few moments, but then you remember what happened. Even good news somehow seems sad.

Sometimes it feels like time doesn’t move the way it did before it happened. Thoughts like, “This is the youngest I will ever be… will I remember this?” become regular visitors to your mind. You grasp those little things that bring you joy and cling to them:

  • The summer watermelon is cool, crisp, and sweet against your tongue. Will this be the last watermelon I ever eat?
  • How wonderful it is to see the splashes of peach, pink, orange, and purple across the evening sky! Will this be the last time I witness this supernatural work of art?
  • He has a delightful laugh! I hope that this won’t be the last time I hear it.

Life takes on a quiet desperation.

Because you don’t know if you will experience these moments again, gratitude overwhelms you:

  • I turn on the faucet and hot water comes out in seconds! I get to take a comfortable shower every day!
  • I have a place to live! My mind doesn’t have to spend every waking moment worrying about where I will sleep tonight!
  • I have friends! We talk, we laugh, we spend time together, we enjoy ourselves!

Life is beautiful and sublime.

You dream about The Person: Sometimes the dreams are comforting, sometimes they are disturbing, but they are all cryptic. You wake up, your limbs heavy in bed, and wonder: Is she really dead?

That feeling comes back. You know the answer to that question. She is, but you’re not, so you get out of bed.

There are moments throughout the day when you do forget what happened. The weight disappears and you focus on the things in front of you right now. Things shift, and your mind begins to make associations that you didn’t make before:

“I look at grass and I think of tombstones now.”

You concoct explanations to comfort yourself, though sometimes they don’t:

  • Molecules of air that were in her lungs are still in the house. When I inhale, some of that air is now in me.
  • Though she is dead, her genes live on in me. The genes continue to experience the world, even if she does not.

Some things don’t matter anymore. Kindness becomes essential. Relationships with people become vital.

When people in the club learn that you are a new member, they welcome you with a grace that you didn’t realize existed. You acknowledge that you had no idea that they were a member of the club.

“That’s how it works,” they reply.

They spend time with you. They share wise words. They share wise silence. They comfort you.

You then realize that you’re not alone, that there are people who understand. They appreciate how heavy the weight is in your chest and help you carry it. They remember the difficulty and loneliness of having to carry the weight alone. They also know that, ultimately, you often must carry it by yourself.

Everyone eventually joins this club. If you, too, are a new member, know that you are not alone. There is no club uniform, badge, or pin, but we are here and share your grief.

Categories
Blogosphere Nonfiction Reflection

My Brief History on the Internet.

The first time I posted my writing on the internet was in 1997. I created a website about The Evolution of Mickey Mouse. It was based on a report I wrote in high school about the small mammal. My research for this report entailed several visits to the library to scroll through multiple rolls of microfilm (do kids these days even know what microfilm is?) to find articles that described the mouse during his heyday. I decided to put my findings on the internet so other people wouldn’t have to dig through canisters of microfilm. That Mickey Mouse website did well: For a short period of time, back when the Yahoo! search engine reigned supreme and Google was new, the site was ranked #2 with the search terms “Mickey Mouse”.[1. Disney.com, of course, came up first if you searched for “Mickey Mouse”.] Children from the world over sent me e-mails with instructions to “say hi” to Mickey Mouse. The internet was a sweet and innocent place.

My first blog was hosted on Open Diary. It was late 2000 and I was a medical student. I used a nom de plume that now causes me some mild embarrassment. I wanted to record my experiences in medical training. This was not a new practice for me: In junior high, high school, and college, I filled the college-ruled pages of dozens of spiral-bound notebooks with my thoughts. To my knowledge, there weren’t many medical students blogging at that time. Other Open Diary users read my writing, seemed to enjoy it, and expressed interest in what happens in medical school. Writing for an audience was fun. The internet was a social and friendly place.

Open Diary used fixed templates. While I knew that the substance of the writing was paramount, I wanted more style on the screen. That’s when I moved my writing to Blogger (still owned by Pyra Labs at that time) and adopted the title “intueri: to contemplate”. That would remain the name of my blog for six to seven years. I dropped my nom de plume and started using my first name. No one could figure out who I am with just my first name, right? And even if they do, who’s gonna care?

I wrote about my experiences in medical school… and then about my experiences in residency. My blog moved off of Blogger and I bought my own domain. I used MovableType for a few years. I then tried WordPress and have used it since. I read Instapundit and he posted an e-mail I sent to him. Ezra Klein, before he became Ezra Klein, called me “one of the web’s most graceful prose stylists“. I hosted Grand Rounds a few times.[2. If you know what Grand Rounds is, that shows your blogging age.] I started meeting people who read my writing online. The internet was a dynamic and exciting place.

I started feeling ambivalent about writing online. I closed down comments because anonymous people left statements like, “ALL PSYCHIATRISTS SHOULD DIE” and “YOU’RE A PSYCHIATRIST, YOU KILL CHILDREN”. A physician who wrote a blog under a pseudonym was revealed in court. I worried that my writing wasn’t fictitious enough, that maybe my stories weren’t purely coincidental. My mind generated catastrophes: Someone might read a story and think I was talking about them! They would sue me and I would lose my license! Other doctors would judge me! I would never recover! Even if I did, one of those commenters who hate psychiatrists would then kill me!

So I shut down that blog. The internet was a scary and dangerous place.

I moved to New York City. A man who was living there had been reading my blog for a few years. He suggested that we meet. We dated. We eventually got married in Central Park.

I couldn’t not write. Nearly two years had passed since I had posted any of my writing online. I decided to start another blog, though I did not want to write in fear. In White Ink revealed my full name. (Nothing bad happened.) The first post appeared there in 2010. The internet was not dangerous place, though not an innocent place, either. The internet was a place to learn.

I purchased this domain name, mariayang.org, that same year. Would you believe that it took nearly four years for me to build the courage to finally occupy the space?

Next time: Occasionally asked questions about blogging as a physician.