A good friend of mine believes

I love listening to people's stories, that's why I went into psychiatry.

I left my home country at an age when the only serious change I should have made in my life was to get married.

I started my training in a foreign language. I was very disappointed to find out that medication and neurotransmitters were the thing.

I played the game grudgingly, occasionally allowing the time to 'service users' to be people.

It's funny how much change can come out of actually giving a chance to a person to revisit their story and to look into alternative interpretations of what they might have perceived as concrete facts.

Thinking in terms such as 'shame', 'loss', 'grief', 'despair', 'meaning' could augment the effect of antidepressants - that were pretty useless anyway.

Nowadays I concentrate more on the concept of 'boundaries', probably because of my work environment. Relational security is indispensable where you carry an alarm and a set of keys to fulfill your therapeutic role.

Still, in social context I'm compelled to look into different ways of making sense of 'mental illness'. For one, I find it hard to accept mental illness as something irreversible and all-encompassing. There seems to be a healthy part even in the most mentally unwell person; there's a part that's dying to tell a story, no matter how bizarre this is.

I listen. Perhaps by doing so I allow for some grounding (another of my favourite words...) Perhaps I offer the ground for this healthy part to grow strong.

Perhaps I just enjoy a good story after all.