Mari Janowsky, MD

 

In 1946, Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl postulated in “Man’s Search for Meaning” that the expected reaction to being placed in a concentration camp was dehumanization, apathy, and despair. The placement of a person in such a desolate environment, anticipating death, and seeing the affliction of horror, was believed to lead to hopelessness and mental illness. Facing such circumstances, Dr. Frankl advised finding a purpose as a means to stay mentally and physically alive.

As contemporary psychiatrists, we see ourselves confronted with a different kind of challenge. Modern society has left more than a half-million of our fellow Americans on the streets, homeless, and with little connection to the rest of society. Despite their isolation, their paths merge with ours in an array of settings, namely mental health services in emergency departments, community clinics, and local correctional institutions. Nearly all psychiatrists have worked with a homeless patient at some point in their careers. The connection between mental illness and homelessness may be apparent to some, but we remain perplexed and propose more questions than answers.
 

What is the expected reaction to homelessness?

Homelessness presents significant challenges when contextualized in terms of symptoms of mental illness. For instance, in response to a question about sleep, common answers from homeless patients include, “I can’t fall asleep till 2 a.m., when the bars close, and it’s a little more quiet. I get woken up several times a night by a police officer asking me to leave because I’m trespassing. Sometimes when my body finally allows me to sleep, I awake all of a sudden to someone trying to steal my stuff. That makes me not want to sleep at all.” Can we claim that this sleeplessness is a sign of depression or even mania? Or is insomnia a necessary adaptation for survival on the streets?

How might a homeless person describe his fears? “I don’t want to go to the emergency room, doc; these are all the belongings I have, and I have nowhere safe to store them. I have to carry a knife for protection despite the fact that it is illegal. I used to have a circle of support, but my ‘friends’ stole from me, and now I don’t trust anyone. I don’t like to be around a lot of people; I’ve seen some people do really horrible things on the streets that I can’t unsee. Sometimes, I think the cops enjoy arresting me; I wonder if it helps their quotas.” Are those concerns a sign of an anxiety disorder or even paranoia? Or is it how most people would respond if they were placed in similar situations?

How might a homeless person describe her mood? “I have no home. I have not seen my family in a decade. I am so disconnected from society that I do not know who the president is, or what is the date. Nobody has shaken my hand in years.” Yet, we expect that person to possibly narrow and codify her suffering with an adjective on a Likert scale, or even a visual analog scale of mood with a happy or a frowny face. We assume that their mood can even be narrowed to an emoji or a label, despite their complex circumstances.

When asked about social history, we often hear responses such as, “I have no income. I tried to get a job, but it was too hard to maintain my hygiene and transportation, so I quit. I applied for disability once, and I was denied. I want to work, but when you’ve been on the streets this long it’s hard. I mean … look at me. I applied for affordable housing twice, but I didn’t get it because I’ve been evicted in the last 5 years. The only time I had stable housing for an extended period of time in the last 10 years was when I went to jail for trespassing. I want to live, but I can’t go on like this. I think people would be better off without me if I was gone. Heck, maybe they wouldn’t even notice.” Would we permit a patient like this to be heard in a safe and nonconfrontational environment? Do they meet criteria for grave disability and/or danger to self? Or are they doing the best they can to get their needs met in a broken system?

Our clinical experience has taught us that the homeless population suffers from many of the same symptoms as those of patients with mental illness, independent of a diagnosis. Careful examination of their lives can often explain these expected reactions better than contextualizing them through pathological or diagnostic lenses.
 

 

Should homelessness alone be a criterion for mental health treatment?

Despite the enormous challenges facing the homeless population, many are seen in our clinics hopeful and endorsing a fair mood. Many are polite and answer questions in an attempt to diminish the burden they feel they impose on others, including the medical system. Many display strong resiliency and find ways to cope, relate, and find meaning despite their challenging circumstances. Yet, many also come to us suffering and seeking assistance.

We empathize with the frustration psychiatrists feel when using terms such as “homelessidal” to refer to patients who are homeless and suicidal. The term is meant to evoke the perceived helplessness in trying to care for a homeless patient in the emergency department. Although 2 days of housing in an inpatient psychiatric unit and prescribing an antidepressant can give homeless patients a brief respite, it does little to address the root cause of that person’s suffering. We also find that the use of diagnostic labels can be insufficient, and often inappropriate, in the context of the expected reactions to the significant stressors of being homeless.

We routinely see the distress and hopelessness in our patients suffering from homelessness. We think that psychiatry is capable of softening those daily traumas using supportive therapy. We think that psychiatry is capable of positively challenging the despondency by activating meaning and purpose, as suggested by Dr. Frankl. While those are not typical interventions in modern psychiatry, they are established and validated. By considering homelessness in and of itself a criterion for mental health treatment, we can begin to address those challenges, and engage in alternative, longer lasting treatment considerations.
 

How to proceed?

Though the answer for caring for the homeless may not be in psychopharmacology, we think that psychiatry could enhance the care of the homeless by pursuit of two main goals.

 

The first is to advocate for access to mental health services for all homeless persons who desire it, even those who do not meet criteria for a DSM disorder. This charade we are forced to play with insurance companies and community organizations requiring the presence of a “disorder” to justify supportive therapy and/or occasional use of a crisis house bed does not appear warranted. While we understand that resources are limited, we do not think that homeless persons who are in need of care, but do not meet criteria for a DSM disorder, are any less worthy.

The second goal is to advocate for housing first initiatives that incorporate comprehensive supportive services into their facilities. While we acknowledge the problems that can arise by forcing programs to accept clients, we do not see how mental health treatment can be done adequately without an opportunity for housing. Psychiatry must acknowledge that this social determinant of health takes priority over medication adherence, drug use, the ability to fill out forms, and even symptomatology. Sometimes, medications aren’t even necessary – we’ve worked with homeless patients who present initially with insomnia, depression, and anxiety, and as soon as they get stable housing, these symptoms resolve. In these situations, social interventions are more sensical than medication management. The social nature of homelessness should not propel psychiatry to focus its efforts on the biological side of its specialty; it should be seen as an opportunity for us to develop skills in advocacy and lead, or at least support, interventions that target the social determinants of health.

Under our current medical model, as psychiatrists, we understand that our role is to diagnose, and then treat the diagnosed disorder. Homelessness brings a unique challenge; it is a factor, not based on biology, that can cause severe psychiatric symptomatology with or without the presence of a DSM disorder. We worry that current constructs of mental health narrow our reach and inhibit our potential benefit to society. We hope to encourage psychiatry in embracing public health interventions such as housing first and remembering the value of psychological interventions when working with this vulnerable population.
 

Dr. Badre is a forensic psychiatrist in San Diego and an expert in correctional mental health. He holds teaching positions at the University of California, San Diego, and the University of San Diego. He teaches medical education, psychopharmacology, ethics in psychiatry, and correctional care. Dr. Badre mentors residents on projects, including the reduction in the use of solitary confinement of patients with mental illness and examination of the mentally ill offender. Dr. Badre can be reached at Badremd.com. Dr. Janowsky is a combined resident in family medicine and psychiatry at the University of California, San Diego. She spends most of her clinical time at St. Vincent de Paul Family Health Center, a clinic that primarily serves the homeless. Her interests include disease prevention, wellness promotion, and behavioral interventions for chronic disease management. Outside of work, you can find her recharging her batteries via yoga, musical meditation, hiking, beach journaling, and spending time with loved ones.

 

In 1946, Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl postulated in “Man’s Search for Meaning” that the expected reaction to being placed in a concentration camp was dehumanization, apathy, and despair. The placement of a person in such a desolate environment, anticipating death, and seeing the affliction of horror, was believed to lead to hopelessness and mental illness. Facing such circumstances, Dr. Frankl advised finding a purpose as a means to stay mentally and physically alive.

As contemporary psychiatrists, we see ourselves confronted with a different kind of challenge. Modern society has left more than a half-million of our fellow Americans on the streets, homeless, and with little connection to the rest of society. Despite their isolation, their paths merge with ours in an array of settings, namely mental health services in emergency departments, community clinics, and local correctional institutions. Nearly all psychiatrists have worked with a homeless patient at some point in their careers. The connection between mental illness and homelessness may be apparent to some, but we remain perplexed and propose more questions than answers.
 

What is the expected reaction to homelessness?

Homelessness presents significant challenges when contextualized in terms of symptoms of mental illness. For instance, in response to a question about sleep, common answers from homeless patients include, “I can’t fall asleep till 2 a.m., when the bars close, and it’s a little more quiet. I get woken up several times a night by a police officer asking me to leave because I’m trespassing. Sometimes when my body finally allows me to sleep, I awake all of a sudden to someone trying to steal my stuff. That makes me not want to sleep at all.” Can we claim that this sleeplessness is a sign of depression or even mania? Or is insomnia a necessary adaptation for survival on the streets?

How might a homeless person describe his fears? “I don’t want to go to the emergency room, doc; these are all the belongings I have, and I have nowhere safe to store them. I have to carry a knife for protection despite the fact that it is illegal. I used to have a circle of support, but my ‘friends’ stole from me, and now I don’t trust anyone. I don’t like to be around a lot of people; I’ve seen some people do really horrible things on the streets that I can’t unsee. Sometimes, I think the cops enjoy arresting me; I wonder if it helps their quotas.” Are those concerns a sign of an anxiety disorder or even paranoia? Or is it how most people would respond if they were placed in similar situations?

How might a homeless person describe her mood? “I have no home. I have not seen my family in a decade. I am so disconnected from society that I do not know who the president is, or what is the date. Nobody has shaken my hand in years.” Yet, we expect that person to possibly narrow and codify her suffering with an adjective on a Likert scale, or even a visual analog scale of mood with a happy or a frowny face. We assume that their mood can even be narrowed to an emoji or a label, despite their complex circumstances.

When asked about social history, we often hear responses such as, “I have no income. I tried to get a job, but it was too hard to maintain my hygiene and transportation, so I quit. I applied for disability once, and I was denied. I want to work, but when you’ve been on the streets this long it’s hard. I mean … look at me. I applied for affordable housing twice, but I didn’t get it because I’ve been evicted in the last 5 years. The only time I had stable housing for an extended period of time in the last 10 years was when I went to jail for trespassing. I want to live, but I can’t go on like this. I think people would be better off without me if I was gone. Heck, maybe they wouldn’t even notice.” Would we permit a patient like this to be heard in a safe and nonconfrontational environment? Do they meet criteria for grave disability and/or danger to self? Or are they doing the best they can to get their needs met in a broken system?

Our clinical experience has taught us that the homeless population suffers from many of the same symptoms as those of patients with mental illness, independent of a diagnosis. Careful examination of their lives can often explain these expected reactions better than contextualizing them through pathological or diagnostic lenses.
 

 

Should homelessness alone be a criterion for mental health treatment?

Despite the enormous challenges facing the homeless population, many are seen in our clinics hopeful and endorsing a fair mood. Many are polite and answer questions in an attempt to diminish the burden they feel they impose on others, including the medical system. Many display strong resiliency and find ways to cope, relate, and find meaning despite their challenging circumstances. Yet, many also come to us suffering and seeking assistance.

We empathize with the frustration psychiatrists feel when using terms such as “homelessidal” to refer to patients who are homeless and suicidal. The term is meant to evoke the perceived helplessness in trying to care for a homeless patient in the emergency department. Although 2 days of housing in an inpatient psychiatric unit and prescribing an antidepressant can give homeless patients a brief respite, it does little to address the root cause of that person’s suffering. We also find that the use of diagnostic labels can be insufficient, and often inappropriate, in the context of the expected reactions to the significant stressors of being homeless.

We routinely see the distress and hopelessness in our patients suffering from homelessness. We think that psychiatry is capable of softening those daily traumas using supportive therapy. We think that psychiatry is capable of positively challenging the despondency by activating meaning and purpose, as suggested by Dr. Frankl. While those are not typical interventions in modern psychiatry, they are established and validated. By considering homelessness in and of itself a criterion for mental health treatment, we can begin to address those challenges, and engage in alternative, longer lasting treatment considerations.
 

How to proceed?

Though the answer for caring for the homeless may not be in psychopharmacology, we think that psychiatry could enhance the care of the homeless by pursuit of two main goals.

 

The first is to advocate for access to mental health services for all homeless persons who desire it, even those who do not meet criteria for a DSM disorder. This charade we are forced to play with insurance companies and community organizations requiring the presence of a “disorder” to justify supportive therapy and/or occasional use of a crisis house bed does not appear warranted. While we understand that resources are limited, we do not think that homeless persons who are in need of care, but do not meet criteria for a DSM disorder, are any less worthy.

The second goal is to advocate for housing first initiatives that incorporate comprehensive supportive services into their facilities. While we acknowledge the problems that can arise by forcing programs to accept clients, we do not see how mental health treatment can be done adequately without an opportunity for housing. Psychiatry must acknowledge that this social determinant of health takes priority over medication adherence, drug use, the ability to fill out forms, and even symptomatology. Sometimes, medications aren’t even necessary – we’ve worked with homeless patients who present initially with insomnia, depression, and anxiety, and as soon as they get stable housing, these symptoms resolve. In these situations, social interventions are more sensical than medication management. The social nature of homelessness should not propel psychiatry to focus its efforts on the biological side of its specialty; it should be seen as an opportunity for us to develop skills in advocacy and lead, or at least support, interventions that target the social determinants of health.

Under our current medical model, as psychiatrists, we understand that our role is to diagnose, and then treat the diagnosed disorder. Homelessness brings a unique challenge; it is a factor, not based on biology, that can cause severe psychiatric symptomatology with or without the presence of a DSM disorder. We worry that current constructs of mental health narrow our reach and inhibit our potential benefit to society. We hope to encourage psychiatry in embracing public health interventions such as housing first and remembering the value of psychological interventions when working with this vulnerable population.
 

Dr. Badre is a forensic psychiatrist in San Diego and an expert in correctional mental health. He holds teaching positions at the University of California, San Diego, and the University of San Diego. He teaches medical education, psychopharmacology, ethics in psychiatry, and correctional care. Dr. Badre mentors residents on projects, including the reduction in the use of solitary confinement of patients with mental illness and examination of the mentally ill offender. Dr. Badre can be reached at Badremd.com. Dr. Janowsky is a combined resident in family medicine and psychiatry at the University of California, San Diego. She spends most of her clinical time at St. Vincent de Paul Family Health Center, a clinic that primarily serves the homeless. Her interests include disease prevention, wellness promotion, and behavioral interventions for chronic disease management. Outside of work, you can find her recharging her batteries via yoga, musical meditation, hiking, beach journaling, and spending time with loved ones.

 

In 1946, Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl postulated in “Man’s Search for Meaning” that the expected reaction to being placed in a concentration camp was dehumanization, apathy, and despair. The placement of a person in such a desolate environment, anticipating death, and seeing the affliction of horror, was believed to lead to hopelessness and mental illness. Facing such circumstances, Dr. Frankl advised finding a purpose as a means to stay mentally and physically alive.

As contemporary psychiatrists, we see ourselves confronted with a different kind of challenge. Modern society has left more than a half-million of our fellow Americans on the streets, homeless, and with little connection to the rest of society. Despite their isolation, their paths merge with ours in an array of settings, namely mental health services in emergency departments, community clinics, and local correctional institutions. Nearly all psychiatrists have worked with a homeless patient at some point in their careers. The connection between mental illness and homelessness may be apparent to some, but we remain perplexed and propose more questions than answers.
 

What is the expected reaction to homelessness?

Homelessness presents significant challenges when contextualized in terms of symptoms of mental illness. For instance, in response to a question about sleep, common answers from homeless patients include, “I can’t fall asleep till 2 a.m., when the bars close, and it’s a little more quiet. I get woken up several times a night by a police officer asking me to leave because I’m trespassing. Sometimes when my body finally allows me to sleep, I awake all of a sudden to someone trying to steal my stuff. That makes me not want to sleep at all.” Can we claim that this sleeplessness is a sign of depression or even mania? Or is insomnia a necessary adaptation for survival on the streets?

How might a homeless person describe his fears? “I don’t want to go to the emergency room, doc; these are all the belongings I have, and I have nowhere safe to store them. I have to carry a knife for protection despite the fact that it is illegal. I used to have a circle of support, but my ‘friends’ stole from me, and now I don’t trust anyone. I don’t like to be around a lot of people; I’ve seen some people do really horrible things on the streets that I can’t unsee. Sometimes, I think the cops enjoy arresting me; I wonder if it helps their quotas.” Are those concerns a sign of an anxiety disorder or even paranoia? Or is it how most people would respond if they were placed in similar situations?

How might a homeless person describe her mood? “I have no home. I have not seen my family in a decade. I am so disconnected from society that I do not know who the president is, or what is the date. Nobody has shaken my hand in years.” Yet, we expect that person to possibly narrow and codify her suffering with an adjective on a Likert scale, or even a visual analog scale of mood with a happy or a frowny face. We assume that their mood can even be narrowed to an emoji or a label, despite their complex circumstances.

When asked about social history, we often hear responses such as, “I have no income. I tried to get a job, but it was too hard to maintain my hygiene and transportation, so I quit. I applied for disability once, and I was denied. I want to work, but when you’ve been on the streets this long it’s hard. I mean … look at me. I applied for affordable housing twice, but I didn’t get it because I’ve been evicted in the last 5 years. The only time I had stable housing for an extended period of time in the last 10 years was when I went to jail for trespassing. I want to live, but I can’t go on like this. I think people would be better off without me if I was gone. Heck, maybe they wouldn’t even notice.” Would we permit a patient like this to be heard in a safe and nonconfrontational environment? Do they meet criteria for grave disability and/or danger to self? Or are they doing the best they can to get their needs met in a broken system?

Our clinical experience has taught us that the homeless population suffers from many of the same symptoms as those of patients with mental illness, independent of a diagnosis. Careful examination of their lives can often explain these expected reactions better than contextualizing them through pathological or diagnostic lenses.
 

 

Should homelessness alone be a criterion for mental health treatment?

Despite the enormous challenges facing the homeless population, many are seen in our clinics hopeful and endorsing a fair mood. Many are polite and answer questions in an attempt to diminish the burden they feel they impose on others, including the medical system. Many display strong resiliency and find ways to cope, relate, and find meaning despite their challenging circumstances. Yet, many also come to us suffering and seeking assistance.

We empathize with the frustration psychiatrists feel when using terms such as “homelessidal” to refer to patients who are homeless and suicidal. The term is meant to evoke the perceived helplessness in trying to care for a homeless patient in the emergency department. Although 2 days of housing in an inpatient psychiatric unit and prescribing an antidepressant can give homeless patients a brief respite, it does little to address the root cause of that person’s suffering. We also find that the use of diagnostic labels can be insufficient, and often inappropriate, in the context of the expected reactions to the significant stressors of being homeless.

We routinely see the distress and hopelessness in our patients suffering from homelessness. We think that psychiatry is capable of softening those daily traumas using supportive therapy. We think that psychiatry is capable of positively challenging the despondency by activating meaning and purpose, as suggested by Dr. Frankl. While those are not typical interventions in modern psychiatry, they are established and validated. By considering homelessness in and of itself a criterion for mental health treatment, we can begin to address those challenges, and engage in alternative, longer lasting treatment considerations.
 

How to proceed?

Though the answer for caring for the homeless may not be in psychopharmacology, we think that psychiatry could enhance the care of the homeless by pursuit of two main goals.

 

The first is to advocate for access to mental health services for all homeless persons who desire it, even those who do not meet criteria for a DSM disorder. This charade we are forced to play with insurance companies and community organizations requiring the presence of a “disorder” to justify supportive therapy and/or occasional use of a crisis house bed does not appear warranted. While we understand that resources are limited, we do not think that homeless persons who are in need of care, but do not meet criteria for a DSM disorder, are any less worthy.

The second goal is to advocate for housing first initiatives that incorporate comprehensive supportive services into their facilities. While we acknowledge the problems that can arise by forcing programs to accept clients, we do not see how mental health treatment can be done adequately without an opportunity for housing. Psychiatry must acknowledge that this social determinant of health takes priority over medication adherence, drug use, the ability to fill out forms, and even symptomatology. Sometimes, medications aren’t even necessary – we’ve worked with homeless patients who present initially with insomnia, depression, and anxiety, and as soon as they get stable housing, these symptoms resolve. In these situations, social interventions are more sensical than medication management. The social nature of homelessness should not propel psychiatry to focus its efforts on the biological side of its specialty; it should be seen as an opportunity for us to develop skills in advocacy and lead, or at least support, interventions that target the social determinants of health.

Under our current medical model, as psychiatrists, we understand that our role is to diagnose, and then treat the diagnosed disorder. Homelessness brings a unique challenge; it is a factor, not based on biology, that can cause severe psychiatric symptomatology with or without the presence of a DSM disorder. We worry that current constructs of mental health narrow our reach and inhibit our potential benefit to society. We hope to encourage psychiatry in embracing public health interventions such as housing first and remembering the value of psychological interventions when working with this vulnerable population.
 

Dr. Badre is a forensic psychiatrist in San Diego and an expert in correctional mental health. He holds teaching positions at the University of California, San Diego, and the University of San Diego. He teaches medical education, psychopharmacology, ethics in psychiatry, and correctional care. Dr. Badre mentors residents on projects, including the reduction in the use of solitary confinement of patients with mental illness and examination of the mentally ill offender. Dr. Badre can be reached at Badremd.com. Dr. Janowsky is a combined resident in family medicine and psychiatry at the University of California, San Diego. She spends most of her clinical time at St. Vincent de Paul Family Health Center, a clinic that primarily serves the homeless. Her interests include disease prevention, wellness promotion, and behavioral interventions for chronic disease management. Outside of work, you can find her recharging her batteries via yoga, musical meditation, hiking, beach journaling, and spending time with loved ones.