Category: Public health psychiatry

Categories
Public health psychiatry

Psychological First Aid.

My plan over the past week was to craft a post about psychiatrists becoming agents of social control in China. Then federal agents killed another person in Minneapolis.

During the Covid-19 pandemic, I posted few entries here. This was a natural consequence of me not writing in general. Fatigue and anxiety were constant companions. Why was a psychiatrist working as the medical director for one of the largest homelessness services agencies in the county during a public health crisis? The pressure felt relentless.

By December 2020, I also felt anger because I was disappointed:

As the federal government has not provided any coherent response to the actual disease pandemic, I do not expect that it will provide any response to the psychological suffering that has already occurred and will continue to occur due to Covid-19.

Nearly a year had passed since the first US death from Covid. There was no indication that this federal government had any interest in applying lessons learned from epidemics elsewhere. The Pan-American Health Organization published a free document—free!—entitled, Protecting Mental Health During Epidemics.

At that time, though, I still held hope in my heart. Government often does not move fast. This is desirable: If government moves too fast, smaller jurisdictions don’t have the chance to give feedback or adapt.

By 2025, we would all learn that this government would use speed against its people.

By January 2022, my anxiety, anger, and disappointment had disappeared. The chronic anxiety and fatigue had squashed everything else.

I recognized at the time that this was a problem.

Worry had become an ingrained habit, so it was easy to express this concern:

I worry about the psychological consequences of this pandemic in the years to come. We continue to focus on the viral pandemic; the psychological pandemic has already arrived. We have yet to see an organized response to that.

Months ago I had already reluctantly recognized that we could not rely on this government to help us. We crafted our own best practices; we cobbled together our own policies and procedures. Within the community we shared information and ideas. We pooled together what power we had to push local government authorities to meet our needs.

You, dear reader, are gracious to give me the gift of your attention. I know some of you work as psychiatrists, psychologists, and other health professionals. Because this federal government is moving fast and has shown that it is unreliable, let me share with you the manual for Psychological First Aid:

Gives guidance on responding to disaster or terrorism events using the Psychological First Aid intervention. This evidence-informed approach helps to assist children, adolescents, adults, and families in the aftermath of disaster and terrorism.

Here’s the two-page overview.

I wish it had a stronger evidence base, and I don’t like that the last update was in 2006. (WHO has a similar psychological first aid manual, though its last update was in 2011.)

People other than mental health professionals can administer psychological first aid. Much of it seems like common sense, but if you have made it this far in this post, you’re probably feeling generally calm. Common sense often disappears during times of stress. The time to learn how to manage yourself, to practice having equanimity in the face of calamity, is when you are calm.

May what is happening in Minneapolis not happen in your city. May you already be a member of PRKA (People Reluctant to Kill for an Abstraction):

resisting the urge to generalize, insisting upon valuing: the individual over the group; the actual over the conceptual; the small, decent act over the sudden violent lunge; the complicated reality of the present moment over the theoretically euphoric future supposedly to be obtained via murder or massacre.

Categories
Homelessness NYC Policy Public health psychiatry

Trump Talked About Community Psychiatry Today.

Guys, I know we’re all tired for many different reasons. But we should probably review what President Trump said today. During his press conference he talked about community psychiatry!

I’ll go over the transcript below, but if you want to watch the video, it starts at 51:34 on C-SPAN.

As he was listing his accomplishments, he said the following. My commentary follows in the numbers below.

Signed an executive order to bring back mental institutions and insane asylums. [1] We’re going to have to bring them back. Hate to build those suckers, [2] but But you got to get the people off the streets. [3] You know, we used to have when I was growing up. We had it in my area in Queens. I grew up in Queens. We had a place called Creedmoor. Creedmore. Did anybody know that Creedmore? It was a big, [4] I said, Mom. Why are those bars on the building? I used to play Little League baseball. They’re at a place called Cunningham Park. Who’s quite the baseball player, you wouldn’t believe, but I said to my mother, Mom, she would be there, always there for me. She said, uh, son, you could be a professional baseball player. [5] I said, thanks, Mom. I said, why are those bars on the windows? Big building, big. Powerful building. It loomed over the park [6] actually she said, well, People that are very sick are in that building. [7] I said, boy, I used to always look at that building and I’d see this big building, big tall building. It loomed over the park. It was sort of, now that I think it was a pretty unfriendly sight, but I, I’ll never forget, I don’t know if it’s still there. [8] Because they got rid of most of them, you know, they, the Democrats in New York, they took them down, [9] and the people live on the streets now. That’s why you have a lot of the people in, in California and other places, they live on the streets. They took the mental institutions down, they’re expensive, [10] but I’d say, why does that building have those bars, boy. It didn’t, it wasn’t normal, you know, you’re used to looking at like a window. But this one you’re looking at all the steel, vicious steel, tiny windows, bars all over the place, nobody was getting out. [11] It’s called the mental institution. That was an insane asylum.

(sigh) Okay, let’s go over this:

  1. The executive order he signed has the formal title of “Ending Crime and Disorder on America’s Streets”. There’s a major cognitive error in the order, which I wrote about here.
  2. Never before have I heard anyone refer to mental institutions as “suckers”.
  3. Are there people who are homeless who would be best served in a mental institution? Yes. Do all people who are homeless need to be in a mental institution? No. Another way—more humane and cost effective!—to “get people off the streets” is to create and sustain conditions where people can afford and remain in housing.
  4. It looks like the highest census at Creedmoor was around 7,000 patients in 1959. President Trump would have been 12 years old at that time.
  5. Of course, someone did a deep dive about Trump’s record as a baseball player. If he were that good, surely he would throw out a first pitch at a major league game? (He has not.)
  6. A quick peek at a map shows that Creedmoor does not “loom over” Cunningham Park. They’re three miles apart. There are two athletic fields nearby. Creedmoor is visible from Alley Athletic Playground.
  7. I wonder if Trump’s mother spoke of the “very sick” people with disdain, pity, or compassion. Is it possible that all 7,000 people were “very sick”? Maybe. Is it possible that some of those 7,000 people did not need to be in an institution? Yes.
  8. Yes, Creedmoor still exists. It’s unclear what the census is now (it’s certainly not 7,000), but it’s not just an inpatient unit. They provide an array of outpatient services, too.
  9. There are multiple reasons why psychiatric institutions closed. One major reason was the advent of antipsychotic medication, which allowed more people to be treated in the community. There were also reports of abuses within these behemoth institutions. Long Island, a suburb of New York City, was the site of three major psychiatric institutions. Around 1954 Pilgrim State Hospital was probably the largest psychiatric hospital in the nation; there were over 13,000 patients there. I don’t know the history of New York State well enough to know if “Democrats in New York… took them down”. Recall that Trump was a Democrat for much of his life prior to running for President.
  10. Historically, states had to fund mental institutions. Medicaid (federal money) could not be used to pay for hospital services. This is another reason why states shut down psychiatric institutions; they didn’t have enough money to keep them running. If this policy discussion excites you (…), learn more about the IMD exclusion here.
  11. Yeah, man. If you don’t like “steel, vicious steel, tiny windows, bars all over the place”, then you’re like everyone else who doesn’t want a proliferation of mental institutions.
Categories
Observations Public health psychiatry Seattle

How Atmospheric Rivers Affect People in Jail.

An atmospheric river is a river in the sky.

I don’t remember these from my youth, though they seem to happen most years now on the West Coast.

An atmospheric river that reaches Seattle is often called a “pineapple express” because the long band of moisture in the atmosphere originates around Hawaii. When the pineapple express arrives, the temperatures here become unseasonably warm (mid to high 50s°F / 12 to 15°C) as the rain falls.

The thing about rain in Seattle is that it usually isn’t rain. It’s more like a mist, a quiet visitor that stops by maybe for an hour or two, then slips away. Within the hour the drizzle returns again, just to make sure you didn’t forget about it. This is why most people here don’t use umbrellas. Raincoats are enough; umbrellas are a burden.

In contrast, the rain of atmospheric rivers demands your attention. The droplets are heavy and full. The water falls in sheets. It’s the mob of young people dressed up like Santa who sing Christmas carols off-key on a crowded light rail platform.

A particularly long river in the sky recently passed above Washington State. Grey clouds rushed overhead, churning past each other like currents of a river, dark water soaring through the heavens. Mud slid, highways collapsed, and lakes formed.

Walking around in it was like walking through a warm blizzard: My face stung from all the water droplets slapping against my cheeks. I had to squint to keep the water out. One afternoon, despite only walking for about 30 minutes, the hems of my pants were soon dragging on the ground. The rain had penetrated every thread and the weight of the water stretched everything down.

There is a small city in South King County that operates its own jail. It has only around 100 beds. (Compare this to the main county jail, which operates two adult facilities with around 1500 beds.)

This small city jail is near one of the rivers whose levee failed. Even as of this writing, the major roads on three sides of the jail are closed, one of which is a state highway. At the height of flooding, the state ordered people to evacuate.

What do jails do when the state orders people to evacuate because of a flood?

Reputable word on the street is that this jail took two actions:

Some people were released from jail. I don’t know what system jail officials used to determine who should be released. Presumably there was some consideration about the severity of the alleged crime. Releasing people from jail, though, results in the former inmates themselves holding the hot potatoes: If people have been ordered to evacuate and roads are closed, how do they return to their homes? (What if they don’t have homes?) People leave jail with only the belongings they came in with (and sometimes not even that), so if they didn’t come in with rain gear, oh well.

Other people were sent to a jail on the other side of the Cascade Mountains. This means inmates piled into secured vans or buses and travelled about 150 miles to Central Washington. Again, I don’t know what system jail officials used to determine who to relocate. Jails are meant to serve the local community and people can be released from jail unexpectedly. Will these people get a ride back to this small city? Will they have to figure out their own way back? With the exit of the atmospheric river, a polar vortex has taken its place. There is snow on the pass.

May our federal government stop manufacturing artificial disasters through inhumane policies. Natural disasters are distressing enough.

Categories
Homelessness Medicine Nonfiction Policy Public health psychiatry Seattle

Who Gets to Be Sad?

For those of you who don’t follow baseball, the Seattle Mariners were in the running to go to the finals in baseball, called the World Series. (So American, of course, to call the finals the “World Series” when it doesn’t involve the entire world!) The Mariners are the only team in all of Major League Baseball that has never been to the World Series.

As such, you can imagine how much of a frenzy the city was in. The Mariners flag was hoisted to the top of the Space Needle twice! The downtown skyscrapers coordinated their night lights to glow in Mariners colors. The mayor raised the Mariners’ flag at City Hall.

Game 7 in the semi-finals, which happened last week, was the “win and go to the World Series, or lose and go home” game. The Seattle Mariners lost.

Over the past week, since that loss, the city has been distraught.

Immediately following game 7, there were brutal postgame interviews. Sports journalists, for obtuse reasons, asked weeping baseball players how they felt.

Here’s Cal Raleigh, our inimitable catcher, showing what his face looked like when he was seven years old and heartbroken:

See how he ran his hand through his hair? That was a desperate act of self-soothing while multiple cameras gave him no place to hide his flushed face and wet eyes.

Meanwhile, here’s Bryan Woo, who turned out to be the team’s ace pitcher this year. He’s not crying, but he is also just trying to get through the interview. A wail of despair interrupts him:

The man whose heartache was heard, but not seen, was our cool center fielder, Julio Rodriguez.

So, are grown men allowed to cry or not? Here were professional athletes caught in the throes of disappointment and sadness. They were crying. Sports journalists pushed microphones into their faces and asked them how they were feeling.

On the one hand, I appreciate this exercise: It’s a chance for these robust young men to model (to other males) how to use words to describe internal experiences. They’re not smashing bats into the walls or punching the journalists. You can talk about unpleasant emotions without resorting to violence or destruction.

On the other hand, asking people about their feelings on camera when they are obviously distressed seems unkind. Sure, baseball players, as public figures, have training about and responsibilities to the media. But such pointed questions do nothing to soothe or support the person. Reporters can also learn the exact same information — how do you feel about losing the biggest game of your professional career to date? — an hour later, when people have had the chance to cry and wail in private. Show some respect, give people some dignity!

But we apparently want to see our heroes cry. We want to know that they feel just as sad as we do.

There are many other people throughout the nation who are crying. They are not professional baseball players; they are not famous. Many of us will never know any of their names.

Some of them were looking forward to leaving the street and moving into an apartment! With winter right around the corner, the anticipation of living somewhere dry and warm was thrilling. Because of the government shutdown, though, the mainstream vouchers that would have paid for those apartments are invalid. So they will have to wait for the government to open before they can move inside.

Many of these same people have Medicaid for health insurance. There are also millions of other people with Medicaid who do know where they will sleep tonight.

The federal government has somehow concluded that it’s not worth it to spend money on health insurance for poor people. But, it is somehow cool to take that money to give tax cuts to people who are wealthy. Yes, it is true that, one day, we will all die. Taking health insurance away from poor people, though, is spiteful. It only makes it more likely that they will needlessly suffer while they are alive.

You know what makes suffering worse? Hunger.

The government shutdown, if not resolved by November 1st, will also shut down the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP). This program, also called “food stamps”, gives financial aid to poor people to help them buy nutritious food. Food banks are already struggling to provide enough food to visitors. Furthermore, here in Washington State, many grocery stores have closed.

Some people are already hungry. More people will join them.

Yes, you’re reading this right: Soon, the same group of people will have increasing struggles to access food, health care, AND housing. What they all have in common is poverty. Literally no one ever says, “When I grow up, I want to be poor and rely on welfare!” Being poor is not a moral failing. No one, regardless of how much money they have, deserves to have the foundations of wellbeing — food, shelter, and health — taken from them.

But we apparently don’t want to see poor people cry. We don’t want to know their sadness. Some people think poor people deserve to be sad. Others think that poor people are not people.

What would we have to admit to ourselves if we felt their sadness? What would we have to change if we acknowledged that their sadness is real?

Categories
Homelessness Nonfiction Policy Public health psychiatry

Who is Actually Unsafe?

Before she and I reached the gate in the chain-link fence, a man approached us from the opposite direction. A hoodie shaded his face and his hands were in his pockets.

When she and I got closer, we waved first, all smiles. This was intentional. Hello! We are harmless, but we are paying attention!

He slowed down and pulled the hoodie off of his head, revealing the AirPods in his ears and a tentative smile on his face.

He and my colleague started greeting each other at the same time. She deferred to him.

“I’m just out for a walk,” he said. The accent in his voice revealed that English was not his first language.

“So are we,” my colleague said. This was a lie.

“Oh,” he said, his face now soft and kind. “A worker, a government worker, told me yesterday to be careful when walking here. He said that there are dangerous people back there”—he pointed to the area behind the chain-link fence—“people who are homeless.”

“Oh, okay, thanks,” we replied. His intentions were kind; he was looking out for us. He continued on to the parking lot. 

When we arrived at the gate in the chain-link fence, we ignored the sign posted on it: DO NOT CROSS.


Despite years of doing homeless outreach, I still feel my heart beat a little faster and my shoulders tense a bit whenever I approach an encampment. It doesn’t matter if it’s tucked in a wooded area, under a freeway, or behind a building.

Nothing dangerous has ever happened to me when I’ve outreached more remote locations. Sites where I have been at risk of injury were almost all public places with plenty of people milling about, or in spaces where people are literally locked in.

I don’t ignore my anxiety—our emotions are sources of information—but continue to wonder how much of my unease is due to stigma.

She and I followed the worn footpath through the overgrown grass and were soon under a canopy of leafy trees. On one branch hung a jacket that had been singed by fire. As we approached the underpass, the vegetation receded. A small river was on one side; on the other was a slope of rocks and loose dirt that led up to the concrete base of the road.

A small tent was closer to the river. A larger structure was tucked further away, just underneath the roadway. Old clothing, food wrappers, worn blankets, and other detritus were scattered about, evidence of people who were once there. Maybe they had moved on?

We saw no signs of life.

“Outreach!” my colleague called out. The rumbling of the cars overhead muffled her voice.

The small tent shifted back and forth; we heard rustling sounds.

“Outreach, hello?” my colleague called to the small tent.

“Yes, I’m coming out,” a tired voice responded. Within a few minutes, the person inside unzipped the door flap. A young woman wearing a soiled sweatshirt adorned with the name of a law school peered out. Her face was thin and her limbs were slender.

She didn’t need anything, but accepted some snacks and water. She wasn’t the one we were looking for. We wondered if she had seen The Person?

“Yeah, from time to time,” she replied. “She might be up there.”

After thanking her, we plodded through the soft dirt and climbed over wobbling rocks to the larger structure. A multi-gallon clear barrel in front of the tent was about half full of water. Nearby were piles of blankets and clothes.

The tent was wide open. There were no blankets, sleeping bags, or pillows inside. At the back of the tent was The Person. She was sleeping directly on a tarp.

The Person is not well, but aside from sleeping underneath a road, she breaks no laws. She mumbles and often says things that only she understands. In stores she quickly picks up what she wants and pays with cash and coins. 

As far as we know, she’s lived outdoors for years. And now she is over 60 years old.

These two women are homeless, but they do not contribute to crime and disorder on America’s streets. They are not safety threats.

Who is truly unsafe: Us, or them?