As psych majors, a few classmates and I volunteered at a crisis hotline. We'd each man the lines once per week, and my day happened to fall on the day that once a month they'd host reeducation classes, so we'd stay abreast of techniques and such ... so I only had the initial training during my yearlong stint. As a result, I'm sure I was the absolute worst volunteer, but I loved it and just went with my guts. A few memories:

Being told we had to use our real name or an alias, but once we used it we had to stick with it. I went with a fake name. (Can you guess it?) Every time I answered the phone, I felt like Zach Morris: "Teen Line, this is Nitro!"

One particular repeat caller, Pat, who always whispered into the phone and went on and on about her paintings and cats. We had to limit her calls to once per week, explaining that someone who was in extreme danger might be calling. One day in class we learned about mutism, and I realized that although she'd always whisper, when she'd cough or something would startle her, she'd speak in a normal tone. So, whenever she'd call me, I'd always say, "I can't hear you, Pat. I need you to speak up!" Eventually, my classmates noticed she stopped whispering.

The crisis line was housed at a community center/office building, and my shift was at night, when the only person besides me in the building was a non-English speaking Latino janitor. The silence of the place was eery at best. Often, I'd think I heard something in the hall. Seriously, it was freaky. But, raiding the nearby office kitchen made it better. Someone actually left a note on the microwave, claiming to be allergic to the smell of burnt popcorn. So, sometimes I'd burn the everliving shit out someone's Orville Redenbacher :)

Obviously not all calls were major, but sometimes I helped people in true times of crisis, e.g. "My dad beats me," "I've run away from home," "I've got a gun to my head." ... I hope those people ended up okay.

Two of my classmates were women and old friends of mine from back home. Every couple of weeks or so, I'd get a caller that would hang up. It always confused me. Then one day I realized they were the guys who'd call our women volunteers, beating it to their voices and asking about their feet.