CINCINNATI — Maurice Golsvy takes a bite of his donut.
“Is it time for the 9:30 meeting?” he asks.
“Two minutes,” someone shouts.
Golsvy works at the front desk of the Queen City Clubhouse. He answers the phone, checks people in and sometimes leads morning meetings.
“There are two minutes left until time runs out,” he says.
Standing in front of a whiteboard at the back of the room, Golsvy greets dozens of people in the basement of the Greater Cincinnati Behavioral Health Services building. They arrive before 9 a.m., because most of them have nowhere else to go.
Golsvy lives with a serious mental illness, like everyone else here. And like more than one 14 million adults In our country.
He first greets the people sitting in front of him. One by one, he asks them how they are. He knows them all, because he lets them in.
“Has everyone signed up for today’s assignment?” Golsvy asks.
Another person writes the assigned tasks on the board. Some will work in the kitchen, others at community and fundraising events, others will clean.
“The meeting is adjourned,” says Golsvy. “Let’s get to work.”
We visited This organization On a recent Friday morning, we wanted to see how it works and if it could be a solution for other people who are struggling.
What we found was surprising, because we didn’t find any patients, only colleagues and friends.
Keith Biery Golick
We found people playing Uno, people working on a press release about a new grant the club received, and people saying how this place had become a family.
Most days, Sharon Pittman works the bar, serving coffee for 50 cents.
“I was raped when I was 16 with a knife to my throat,” she said outside, smoking a cigarette. “I have no emotions. I can’t cry. I can’t get angry. I can’t be happy. I can’t achieve anything. I’m just living.”
But this job — and this place — give him purpose. And this year, he worked with a medical student from the University of Cincinnati to write a story about his own life.
“It helped me a lot,” he said during a break. “It helped me get over it, get it on paper and put it in a book.”
Keith Biery Golick
It’s part of a new project at the clubhouse aimed at empowering members to take control of their own story. Sixteen people, some of whom were illiterate, told their own stories.
“We all have something inside us that is worth listening to,” said Anna Benedict, founder of the “Our Stories” project. “I think that is where the medical model fails and where the club is doing a good job.”
According to Benedict, the work also helped aspiring medical professionals. During our visit, Golsvy received a visitor.
“Hi Alexa,” he said.
Alexa DeRegnaucourt is the medical student who helped create her story, which is now part of a published book.
“There were things I told her that I never told anyone else,” Glosvy said.
In a small conference room, they begin with casual conversation. They quickly go deeper.
“I don’t know if you know, but I’m homeless now,” Glosvy said.
“No, Maurice,” she said. “I’m very sorry.”
During the visit, Glosvy said he doesn’t know where he’ll sleep that night. He told DeRegnaucourt he had an appointment with his case manager and that his feet hurt from walking so much at night. He said he takes naps in a relaxation room at the back of the clubhouse.
DeRegnaucourt told him he could always call.
“For me, when I hear Maurice’s story, he says it’s a struggle, but I also hear a lot of strength,” DeRegnaucourt said. “And that was a theme that I found in writing Maurice’s story. He’s still here today with great perspective.”
Glosvy laughs and taps him on the shoulder.
“That’s my friend,” he says.
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