Man forms unlikely bond with UC student at new kind of mental health facility

Maurice Golsvy takes a bite of his donut.

“Is it time for the 9:30 meeting?," he asks.

“Two minutes,” someone shouts.

Golsvy works the front desk at the Queen City Clubhouse. He answers the phone, checks people in and — sometimes — leads the morning meetings.

“Two minutes to show time,” he says.

At the back of the room, standing in front of a whiteboard, Golsvy soon 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 — just like everyone else here. And just like more than 14 million adults in our country.

First, he greets the people sitting in front of him. One by one, he asks each person how they’re doing. He knows them all, because he lets them in.

“Has everyone signed up for their task today?” Golsvy says.

Another person writes down job assignments on the whiteboard. Some will work in the kitchen. Some will work on fundraising and community events. Others will clean.

“Meeting adjourned,” Golsvy says. “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 others who are struggling.

What we found was surprising. Because we didn’t find any patients — only colleagues and friends.

Keith BieryGolick

We found people playing Uno. People working on a press release about a new grant the clubhouse received. And people who said this place has become like family.

On most days, Sharon Pittman works the snack bar. She serves coffee for 50 cents.

“I was raped when I was 16 with a knife to my throat,” she said outside, smoking a cigarette. “I don’t have any emotions. I can’t cry. I can’t get mad. I can’t get happy. I can’t get anything. I’m just living.”

But this job — and this place — gives her purpose. And this year, she worked with a University of Cincinnati medical student to write a story about her own life.

“It helped me a lot,” she said during a break. “It helped me get over it, putting it in writing and putting it in a book.”

Keith BieryGolick

It’s part of a new project at the clubhouse meant to empower the members there to take control of their own narrative. Sixteen people, some who couldn’t read or write, told their own stories.

“Everyone has something inside themselves that is worth listening to,” said Anna Benedict, founder of the “Our Stories” project. “I feel like that is the place where the medical model falls short, and where the clubhouse is doing good work.”

Work that Benedict said helped the aspiring medical professionals, too. During our visit, Golsvy got a visitor of his own.

“Hi Alexa,” he said.

Alexa DeRegnaucourt is the medical student who helped craft his story, which is now part of a published book .

“There were things I was telling her that I never told anyone else,” Glosvy said.

In a small conference room, they start with small talk. Quickly, they go deeper.

“I don’t know if you know, but I’m homeless now,” Glosvy said.

“Oh no, Maurice," she said. "I’m so sorry."

During their visit, Glosvy said he doesn’t know where he’ll sleep that evening. He told DeRegnaucourt he had an appointment with his case manager, and he said his feet hurt from walking so much in the evenings. He said he naps in a relaxation room in the back of the clubhouse.

DeRegnaucourt told him he can always call.

“For me, when I hear Maurice’s story — like he says struggle, but I hear so much strength,” DeRegnaucourt said. “And that was a theme I found when writing Maurice’s story. He’s still here today with a great outlook."

Glosvy laughs and taps her on the shoulder.

“That's my buddy,” he says.