Love is Pastel Colors

I am easily charmed by people in manic states. It never ceases to make me think, “Wow.  Our minds are incredible.”

Before I worked at the psych hospital if I had seen someone in a manic state I would have assumed they were on drugs.  It took me a while to believe these patients weren’t. But not only are they not on uppers like I ignorantly assumed, in this hospital they are being absolutely loaded full of sedatives, well beyond what I learned in nursing school were safe dose ranges. I'm unsettled by this, but bring it up with every doctor we have and am reassured it's appropriate in certain cases.

Still, we would have patients who would not sleep, not lay down, and not stop talking for weeks. For weeks, they would not stop talking. How is this even possible?

One woman, who was textbook manic, “hyperverbal, tangential speech, flight of ideas,” said to me through the nurse's window, “And you know what the worst part of it all is?” 

I was charting at my desk. She would hang out at the nurse's window, as many people in this state would, and talk nonstop. I would tune in and out of listening. 

I looked up at this question, though, “What?” I asked curious.

“I can’t stop talking!” she said and fell to her knees and started crying for about four seconds before standing bolt upright again and continuing her dialogue about something unrelated.

This made my eyes well. I hadn’t actually considered what that might feel like to be so out of control. I've certainly felt that way with my thoughts when my mind is spinning, and I can't get it to calm down for the life of me, but never with my words. It had always seemed to me that these patients wanted to share.  I mean, they would stand at the window, sharing. But it was clearly a compulsion, obviously it’s a compulsion.  This is the behavior that has gotten them locked up against their will, interfered with their relationships and jobs, and at this moment has fully taken over their lives. How vulnerable are we when all our internal dialogue is presented for the world to hear and judge?

I got up, made her some tea, and stood with her for a minute while she talked about paint and the walls and the bible before going back to work.   

A few weeks later, we had a young woman with parallel symptoms, and it lasted months. She stayed with us for over two months, and there were exactly zero improvements to her symptoms.  

If females arrive in a bra that has underwire, we lock it up with the belongings they can’t have until they’re discharged, and give them a one-size-fits-all, giant sports bra.  This patient wore the bra backwards so it looked like a high-neck crop top, and would marker drawings all over her arms, the type of art a toddler might draw on the wall.

One day she demanded to be released and I did my best to de-escalate the situation, which ended with her telling me I wear too much gray and black and am clearly the devil. 

The trouble was that I agreed with her. No one should be locked up for months. The fact that she hadn't improved meant we were failing miserably at our jobs. At what point should she not have to pay for that anymore? At what point are we doing more harm than good by keeping her here, overmedicated, with no improvements? And as far as being the devil, sure, that's a little extreme, but it's true I wasn't feeling good or clear about my part in this.

The next day, I wore a baby blue scrub top, and she apologized for calling me the devil and said, “But you know what the truth is?”

“What?” I asked, curious.

“That love is pastel colors.”

This made my eyes well too, and I smiled, appreciative that we had made amends and amazed at how incredible our minds are. 

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Review

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This story is poignant and thought-provoking, offering a raw and deeply compassionate glimpse into the complexities of mental illness and the ethical dilemmas faced by those who care for vulnerable patients.

The dominant theme here is the fragility and resilience of the human mind. The narrative explores how mental illness—specifically mania—can be both awe-inspiring and tragic. There’s also a subtle, powerful subtheme about empathy versus systemic failure. The narrator’s internal conflict about working within a system that feels more punitive than healing raises important questions about the limitations of mental healthcare.

The emotional tone is intimate, contemplative, and quietly devastating. The narrator balances moments of wonder—like admiration for the sheer intensity of the manic mind—with deep sadness, especially when the patients express distress over their lack of control. The empathy is palpable, making moments like offering tea or wearing a blue scrub top feel incredibly human and meaningful. This tone captures the moral discomfort of caring for patients within a broken system. The narrator’s admission of feeling complicit is honest and powerful.

The patient saying, “That love is pastel colors” is stunning and beautifully captures the idea that clarity and beauty can emerge even in mental chaos.