Editor’s Note: This is the conclusion of Liat Katz’s remarkable story. Part 1 was published last week.
Lying here on this hard bed on the psych floor, staring at the white walls and ceiling, I think of my clients–and I don’t feel so alone. Their everyday experience is not so different from my short-lived experience here at the hospital. Often, they endure a whole day’s wait in the dirty Social Security and social-services offices, only to be treated patronizingly and have their needs go unmet.
I think about the conversations my Adult Protective Services (APS) coworkers and I have about our hoarding clients, whom we all want to help, but all want to avoid at the same time. We wonder: “How could that man live in that house so long with all the stuff piled up, with the flies and the trash and the smell?”
I smile, because now, more than ever, I get how coping with a difficult life can make your reality–no matter how bizarre or unpleasant–seem like the empirical truth. Is the world really shit? Am I really worthless? Or is it the depression talking?