I’m Haunted by the Man Who Set Himself on Fire
By: Erika Sauter
Tags: Work, Mental Health, Relationships, Life Lessons, Culture

I’m Haunted by the Man Who Set Himself on Fire

I began my career as a mental health worker with high hopes, but the system doesn’t set up anyone for success

Photo: Saurav Sharma / EyeEm / Getty Images

If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him… We need not wait to see what others do. —Mahatma Gandhi

“Never wear shoes you can’t run in,” a case manager offered as a welcome tip on my first day at a state-funded mental health clinic. “You never know when you’ll be chased or need to chase someone.” I learned that lesson firsthand later the same day.

My master’s program in violence and abuse prevention required a specific number of internship hours, so I felt fortunate to snatch up the paid gig working on an Assertive Community Treatment (ACT) team for $11 an hour. I was young and fueled with vigor. I was going to change the world. I was going to make it a safer place. I was going to change lives, have a positive impact on the community, and be a voice for those unable to speak for themselves. I was every person who has ever begun a career in the mental health profession, full of hope and the belief that what I do matters.

The only previous experience I had in the field was reading textbooks during my time as an undergrad studying health science, followed by 100 service learning hours spent in the emergency room of a Phoenix hospital. This was back in the day when vodka-soaked-tampon death stories covered the front pages of newspapers.

The team focused specifically on engaging court-ordered committals out in the community. Some struggled to follow through with substance abuse treatment, others were deemed a danger. There were ones who just wouldn’t stay on their meds and were required to have them hand-fed and those who suffered so deeply from mental illness it was a challenge to accomplish basic functions.

The system of the clinic worked like this: Pile an overload of cases on treatment teams, waste as little time as possible helping patients, and invest as much time as possible on mandated requirements which consisted of, but were not limited to, paperwork, documentation, and clinical notes.

We spent more time in meetings talking about patients than we did talking with patients. The clinic’s motto was “Recovery Focused,” but our mental health care system is designed to merely maintain. Because of this, everyone involved suffers. Patients, providers, and the community at large.

It was shortly after 8:00 a.m. I was sitting at my cubicle writing clinical notes and snacking on carrot sticks. I was three hours into my shift, after a morning of doing group home checks.

Maroon 5 was streaming on Pandora, drowning out the clink-clank of keyboards in the background. I noticed the red light on my desk phone flashing as I promptly pulled my headphones off. It was a page over the intercom system. “Doctor Strong to the front lobby. Doctor Strong to the front lobby, please.”

The voice was convincingly calm, but I knew it was an emergency. “Doctor Strong” was code for “help.” Any clinical staff on grounds and not with a patient were mandated to respond. This is how I found myself and four other employees I’d never met surrounding a man who was threatening to set himself on fire.

The lobby was full, the check-in line was long, and the security guard looked the most scared out of anyone else in the room.

“What’s your name?” I asked, doing my best to maintain relaxed body posture.

“They won’t give me a refill,” he responded.

“I’m Erika. I’m new here,” I informed him. “I don’t know you or your situation but I’d like to. Come outside with me and we can talk about it.”

He pulled a large can of lighter fluid from the inside of his jacket, the kind you would use to ignite barbecue briquettes for grilling on a hot summer day, and doused himself with it. The tension thickened as my cohorts inched their way forward, closing in on his personal space.

“Wait,” I pleaded with them.

I turned back toward the man. His face and clothes shimmered with fluid. I leaned in and made eye contact. “Sir, please. Hand me the can and let’s go outside.”

The pain in his eyes shifted into rage. His fists clenched, causing the can to hit the floor. He raised his arm, reaching out toward me. That’s when I spotted the white matchbook in his hand. With a single snap of his fingers he went up in flames.

In the days that followed, my team did an investigation. I was responsible for completing and submitting the report to administration since I was present at the time of the incident. In it, I wrote the truth. “CM (case manager) has a caseload of 42, regardless of a state maximum regulation of 36. The ACT team’s investigation has ruled no fault of CM, nor is there supporting evidence proving neglect on the part of CM. A single employee or team is incapable of meeting all mandates and demands. If we truly want to help people there needs to be room in our daily chaotic schedules for one-on-one face time.”

It’s been 17 years since I watched flames swallow him, and the image continues to replay in my mind on a daily basis along with the countless other experiences that haunt me when I turn off the bedroom light. I try to shake them but I can’t forget.

I eventually graduated with a degree in advanced behavioral science with an emphasis on readiness and response to domestic terrorism. I went on to work for an agency where I supervised my own intervention team. We assisted U.S. Marshals and Homeland Security in tracking violent perpetrators and hiding victims.

I left the field, and my career, right when mass shootings in America started to trend. I’d given up nearly two decades of my life, but no one — nowhere — was safer. I can’t help but feel that if our system were proactive, maybe I would have made a difference, but it’s reactive and I have to accept it for what it is.

I recently began counseling sessions due to a bout of insomnia. The counselor reviewed my intake form, jotted down a note, and asked, “You must have been through a lot of trauma during your career?”

“It was just a job,” I responded. “I had a job to do, and I did it.”

“Do you think we should talk about it?”

“Nope. I’m good.”