old building at the railway crossing. A run-down apartment building. Shabby mailboxes, rickety door bells, not all legible. A musty, dark hallway. The doctor is surprised sometimes how shabby one can live in this city.
crying in the stairwell to meet him a man's voice. Furious, excitedly. "Stay where you are, you do not get up, we do not need a doctor way with you..!" Let's see if ALL of this opinion, up there. Third floor, big old flat, untidy nebulized, smoky. The living room has entrenched the wife with three small children. It smokes. The biggest shows me his Game Boy. The parents of the patients are in the kitchen. He, at stake father, child, son of the parents, who greeted the doctor as friendly raging through the hallway. Foreign medical history: He had a lot of smoke weed and was much rumgezogen the last days. More confused and aggressive. Women and children at risk. Themselves threatened. And, yes, he's also been to because of a psychosis ... been.
The doctor charges the patient on a cigarette. The call attempt ends soon angry accusations between the Family members. Uproar, even more smoke. The poor children. In psychiatry? Never again! Not voluntary. Forget it! He runs away. The woman whispers: "Now he picks up the knife." But he has won just tobacco. The doctor gives him two options: voluntary or involuntary commitment. No, there is no other way. Either or. Compulsory admission would now, however, totally inappropriate. Lasts forever. Outside, waiting for the next patient. And here's been going on for 20 minutes no progress. Schonmal RTW call with lights flashing. Clear message. Uncompromising. Will against will.
Slowly, the fog clears. The situation unraveled. Assuming one direction: Volunteer in psychiatry, family sake. Please! No Gest Ride, no blame, no more screaming. As he drives up the bottom of the RTW packs up his tobacco and follows the doctor down the stairs.
voluntarily.
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