Yesterday was my last day of clinical at the psych hospital. I loved it. We didn’t do any typical nursing stuff, just talked to the patients. The nurses are so cold, sitting behind their computers charting and handing out medication. I cared for a women who set herself on fire multiple times. She was psychotic with possible Munchausen syndrome. With 50% burns covering her body, the way she looked was terrifying and her face is forever burned into my mind. I fed her, a disgusting process, and made her a heart jewelry box and bracelet  during art therapy because her hands were non-functional. The whole experience was numbing and emotionally draining. I also met a lively young man who told me his mother was killed by a drunk driver last week. He relapsed and attempted suicide. I played Uno with him, my classmate, a patient with a brain injury/encephalopathy from a terrible suicide attempt, and her 1:1 caregiver. We laughed and had a great time. My heart aches for them. In the chemical dependence unit, I met a women who kept her 24 hour sobriety coin in her bra, close to her heart, so proud of herself. There was the 8 year old girl with no boundaries and extreme anger because she was abused by several family members, diagnosed with mood disorder because “bipolar” isn’t given to young children. The opiate addicted man who was once a paramedic for 15 years, now homeless and abandoned by his family. The man with schizophrenia who wanted to talk but no one could understand him because it was all word salad. The young woman with PTSD who overdosed on the anniversary of her daughter’s death, who has night terrors and hallucinations, reliving the trauma  every single day.

I’ll never forget these people.