|Age Range(s)||Young Adult (20-35), Adult (36-50), Senior (>50)|
|Type of monologue / Character is||Talking to the audience, Reminiscing life story/Telling a story|
|Description||602 - Brett talks about one of her more memorable jobs, in a long line of jobs from which she has been fired.|
|Details||""The Psych Halfway House""|
Brett talks about one of her more memorable jobs, in a long line of jobs from which she has been fired.
Written by Morgen Amalbert
|My first job was in an office. I hated it. No, that's not true. Actually, I liked the job. It was the people I hated. Thus from the start, I was destined for a long line of jobs in 'the people professions'. |
Perhaps most notable of these was my job at 602, a residential program run by the Mental Health Association. Selected patients from the local psych hospital (those with potential!) were transferred, at some point in time, to 602 so called because its address was 602 Bonkers Street where the staff would teach the residents life skills, help them find a job and an apartment, and generally provide support during their transition from institutionalized living to independent living. (I highly recommend the program to those who work in an office.) I was hired as a relief worker and mostly covered the midnight shift. Which meant that I helped the residents make the transition from sleeping in a bed to sleeping in a bed.
Which was okay because I would've had trouble teaching life skills. How to buy groceries, how to keep track of your chequing account these were adults we were dealing with, and I had neither the desire nor the need to infantalize them. After all, people who need people are, well, codependent.
Besides, you want life skills? Okay, how about how to deal with the recognition that you're never really going to amount to much. And how to be content nevertheless. And, yes, how to make foil headgear that is durable yet fashionable.
On my first midnight shift, I took Kessie with me, partly thinking of all those sweet and cuddly animal therapy programs, and partly thinking that if I dozed off, she'd be my alarm system, sure to wake up growling the second any crazy with a knife walked into the room. Turned out, she refused to go sleep. I stretched out on the couch and she sat on my head. All night. At full alert. Apparently ready to scream. The place scared her.
No wonder. All of my coworkers had previous experience with mental illness. First-hand. In fact, I think that was a prerequisite for obtaining a full-time position. A relapse seemed to be the prerequisite for promotion.