My Time in the Psych Ward

Throughout the years during my struggle with mental illness, I always told myself that I would never end up in a psychiatric hospital. I had friends who came home with horrific stories, and I'd read countless articles on how awful the experience can be. I was prideful, and swore that I wouldn't ever get to that point. I didn't think ending up in one was something that would help me. I don't think I've been anymore wrong about anything in my entire life.

I have been evaluated by a crisis clinician from Tuolumne County several times. The first time was an awful experience, and I probably should have ended up in a psychiatric facility, but the clinician didn't believe anything I told her. The second time was during a severe panic attack, and I wasn't exactly a danger to myself. The third time, was actually just recently.

On May 2, 2017 I was taken to the emergency room for yet another evaluation. This time was different though. I woke up that day, and swore I had reached "the void." The void is something I picture as nothing. Literally just nothing. It looks almost like a dark room that is never ending and I spend all of my time running around it, trying to find my way out. I felt this overwhelming feeling of pure nothingness. I was suicidal once, for a long period of time. I remember feeling like I had no purpose to live for, and there was nothing else left in this life for me. This time was different. I think about death a lot, but never about the actual dying part. Last week, I woke up, and just flat out wanted to die. I had reached the void, felt completely numb, felt absolutely nothing, and was done with this life. I have known for a long time that I have purpose. I learned that I had purpose in this life not long after I got through my suicidal stage. There are countless things in this life that give me purpose. It wasn't that I wanted to die because I didn't feel like I had a purpose. I wanted to die because I was so sick and beyond tired of dealing with the pain, guilt, chasing the light out in the distance that I couldn't seem to reach, and the never ending feeling of sadness. For the last year or so, the thought that has constantly been in the back of my mind is, "What if I never get better? What happens if I have to live this life feeling like this until the day I die from old age or natural causes?" That wasn't something I could deal with. I thought that death now sounded like a better idea than continuing this fight for - approximately - the next 60 years. So I came up with a plan.

It was Tuesday. I had my weekly appointment with my counselor. I was going to shut up about how I was feeling and pretend nothing was out of the ordinary. I was going to head to work for my normal Tuesday shift, then head home and do the deed. Overdosing sounded like a good idea to me. Because typically, if you survive, there's a high chance you experience severe brain damage. So I figured that even if I survived, I wouldn't be in the right state of mind for the rest of my life to understand the concept of mental illness. If I was going to survive, I would have rather ended up a living vegetable than fight mental illness.

The issue is that I couldn't lie to my counselor. I couldn't pretend nothing was wrong. She's known me since the day I was born; she'd probably be able to see right through me anyway. I knew I needed help. So I just came out and told her. I mostly just admitted it on impulse. She followed protocol, and we made some phone calls to my psychiatrist and my insurance carrier. Everyone we talked to advised us to either call 911, or take me to the nearest emergency room. We bypassed 911 and went straight to the emergency room. I called a dear friend of mine who I knew would be right there with me. She met us there, because my counselor couldn't sit there all day with me, which I understood. I waited several hours before I was able to talk to someone from behavioral health. I was terrified, because the chances of her being just like the first woman I talked to in 2012 were pretty high. She couldn't have been more compassionate, understanding, and sympathetic. She took 3 pages of notes and wrote some of my answers down word for word. I have Kaiser, and the nearest facility is over an hour away. She said that instead of sending me to their emergency room and taking the chances of someone from the neighboring county not putting me on a 51/50 (an involuntary 72 hour psychiatric hold), she was going to place me under a 51/50 herself; that way, they couldn't NOT do anything. I waited a total of 10 hours for Kaiser to let our emergency room here where they were going to send me. I knew I was going to a mental hospital. I knew I was getting sent away. That thought was terrifying, because you never know for how long. Plus, everyone was probably going to think I was psycho after all of this. Eventually, I got word that I was being sent to Sacramento. I was to be transported in a cage car because I was considered a threat.

Way to go Laura, you really screwed up this time.

I arrived at 2am. I was told I could not wear my bra unless they cut my wire out. I was told I had to take off my ring and rubber bracelet. I was told I could not wear any clothing that had strings or wire. Why? Because all of those things are considered a possible weapon for self-harm, or harming another person in a psychiatric facility. I was told my entire body had to be inspected so that they could monitor any cuts or bruises that I may pick at, or create on my body. I was told I would have to surrender anything and everything in my possession with the exception of paperback books, and my clothing that met their standards. They gave me time to write down a few phone numbers so that I could make phone calls to those closest to me during my stay. Other than that, I would have zero contact with the outside world.

I slept approximately two hours that night.

I woke up to discover that being in a place like that was not going to be what I expected.

I was considered a threat to myself and those around me. I didn't think about what the consequences were going to be. With the exception of the doors to each room for the patients and the doors to the room where we had group therapy, each door was locked and could only be opened with a device that had a chip in it to be scanned on a scanner that the nurses and doctors had. There was absolutely no way for me to escape even if I wanted to. With the exception of attending two 20 minute group therapy sessions a day, I figured I'd be sleeping, because what else was there going to be for me to do? 

I found out that my psychiatrist - who I would be seeing later that day - would give me a red band. That red band allowed me to go to the cafeteria to eat three meals a day and to go outside into the courtyard, where the only thing I could see from the outside world, was a small portion of blue sky. I take mental health medications twice a day on my own time. So twice a day, I had to line up and wait for someone to dispense them to me. The pills were put into a small cup and I was given a little thing of water. I was stared at by the nurse while I tipped the pills into my mouth. I was to show her that I had indeed swallowed them. I was supervised 24/7. Literally. They did room checks every 15 minutes including while we slept. Our doors to our rooms were to be left open so that they could come in to make sure we hadn't harmed or killed ourselves. I didn't really see how that was possible.

Everything was considered a weapon to cause personal harm or harm to others. The pillows and mattresses were made impossible to suffocate yourself with. There were no curtains, curtain rods, or lamps. The beds were connected to the walls. The chairs were impossible to pick up, because there was no opening underneath. Every single chair was completely covered at the bottom with nothing on the sides to pick it up by, and there were weights in the bottom of each one. It made it so difficult to even slide 5 feet across the floor. There were no toilet paper holders; just a perfect hole in the wall for the roll to sit in. There were no handles in the shower to control the temperature because they can be easily removed to cause harm. The water temperature was one of those 'you get what you get.' I couldn't use pens. If I wanted one, I had to use what was only the inside of one, where the ink sits. The plastic from the outside of the pen could be used for harm if broken. The flimsy pen was impossible to write with, so I stuck with markers. Any and all everyday objects suddenly became a weapon, and I learned how much I take for granted each day real quick. 

Way to go Laura.

I tried to distract myself by reading. The group therapy sessions killed a little time throughout the day. The three meals a day and short time outside twice a day also killed a little time. But for some reason, one day felt like an eternity. 

I gained an incredible amount of sympathy for those who suffer from other mental illnesses that I don't. Not that I didn't already have sympathy for them before. But this experience opened my eyes. The facility I was in had at least four units - that I knew of. Three of them were adult units, and one was for adolescents. People were sorted in the units based on their level of insanity/psychoticness. I was thankfully put in the "lower unit." Meaning that I was considered high-functioning, experienced minimal hallucinations, and was not considered a severe threat like those in the other two units were. The other units held people who lashed out, and would often get physical or become verbally abusive with the staff as a result of their medications, hallucinations, etc. I met a lot of people that were just like me in my unit. We sat and had normal, functioning conversations. I got to share my story and listen to other stories that inspired me. There were a few people who I thought belonged in the other two adult units, but I wasn't the one making the judgement. During our three meals of the day, all the units came together, and that was where I got to experience what most would consider the stereotypical psychiatric facility patient. To me, schizophrenia almost seems as if the person is possessed. The adults in the other two units were clearly schizophrenic, and that was the first time I had dealt with it first-hand. 

For some reason, people seem to think that those are the kinds of people that belong in these kinds of facilities. That thought breaks my heart into pieces. It breaks for the people who are just like me who experience the stigma behind it all. One of the nurses explained that he preferred our unit because we were high-functioning. Part of me is proud to be high-functioning. I like being able to - for the most part - act and live like an everyday, normal person. The issue with being high-functioning is that when situations like this happen, I am stigmatized, judged, and often pushed aside. No more than 2 people from my job have seemed genuinely concerned. That concept doesn't bother me. What bothers me is that I feel like they haven't been genuinely concerned because I never seemed that bad. I haven't shown any signs in the months leading up to this event that something has been very wrong inside of my head. I fear incredible judgement once I return to work, because instead of being concerned, I feel like they are going to just think I'm flat out "psycho" and won't want to associate with me. 

The movies and the books make psych wards out to be these awful, demonic places that either brainwash people, make their situations worse, or medicate them so much that they aren't even in touch with reality.

I am here to tell you that these facilities are not like that. Sure, you always have the few oddballs, but from what I experienced, my high-functioning unit was nothing like that, and I wish people would understand that all we want is help.

It's so difficult for me to express to someone that something isn't okay; that I'm sad or even kind of want to die. The part of me that doesn't want to die is why I reached out for help instead of following through with my plan and I got help. I surround myself on social media with people just like me, and I have gotten an overwhelming amount of love, support, prayers, and compassion. I have received so many messages full of hope and kind words letting me know how proud they are of me for allowing myself to admit that I needed or wanted help. I hope and I pray that the people I got to meet during this experience received the same kinds of messages. 

At first, I wasn't going to write about this experience. I didn't want to admit to the world that I ended up in a place that so many people deem as unhealthy for mental health patients more than they deem it a safe haven. I still fear judgement and stigma; this entire situation is going to permanently alter my life, both good and bad. But if I keep quiet about this, how many other people just like me feel exactly the same way and keep quiet themselves? Someone has to talk about the nasty parts of mental illness; someone has to talk about this kind of stuff. If I don't, who will? Instead of allowing the judgement and stigma to knock me down, I will allow this situation to be something positive.

If I'm being honest, part of me feels worse about being home. Part of me feels like I shouldn't have come home. But the psychiatrist himself told me there wasn't much he could do for me. I am better off here, surrounded by the people who love me, instead of talking to them on a phone with a cord only three inches long so I can't choke myself. I am better off here surrounded by the few people who haven't judged me for ending up in such a place. 

The thought of knowing that I've ended up in a psychiatric facility breaks my own heart. But I am so proud of myself for telling someone of my plan instead of carrying through with it. I am so proud of myself for going to such a place - even if it was against my will - and receiving the care and help that I so desperately needed, even if it wasn't much of either. 

The following is an excerpt from several journal entries I made during my 72 hours in the psychiatric unit.

I met two sweet girls. They have been my safe haven in this place. They are just like me. But most of all, they are strong; I see so much strength in them. I admire them, and I will never forget them. One girl in particular alarmed me at first. She doesn't speak, and she doesn't sit still. During my first group session, I heard someone laughing behind me. I wondered why anyone would be laughing during a time like this. Come to find out, she isn't like the rest of us. She spends no more than 30 seconds in her room, which is at the very end of the hall, just next to mine. I can hear her laughing in there, and she flushes the toilet much more often than she must be able to actually use it. She walks out of her room after 30 seconds, still laughing, and walks all the way down the hall and into the day room where we have group. She sits there for no more than 30 seconds, laughs, and then heads back to her room to do it all over again. I can't help but wonder what the voices must be saying that seems to be so funny. 

I met a sweet nurse this morning. She sounded Jamaican, and had the cutest accent. I spent the morning crying uncontrollably in my room. She happened to walk by and see me in my bed with tears flowing. She came in and asked why I was there. I told her, and her reaction was to tell me how beautiful and strong I was. She said that I need to wake up every single morning and tell myself how cute I am and how loved I am; so that maybe I can get better. I spoke to Kat this morning. She said she was proud of me, and wanted to hear how I was doing. 

The woman who administers meds saw me crying uncontrollably this morning. She was very sweet and gave me my medication that I take for anxiety, and told me that they were going to take very good care of me. The woman who leads group has a comforting peace about her. She puts me at ease. Steven called today. He sounded worried, and wanted to know why I hadn't said anything to him. My heart broke knowing that I hadn't told him, but he understood, and we both cried. Emily called and told me that she was proud of me for not trying to do this all by myself; that she was proud of me for getting the help that I needed. They check on us every 15 minutes, which I thought was strange at first. But now I understand. I don't like that I have to leave my door open all of the time, because the lights in the hallway are so bright. 

Emma called this morning. She asked lots of questions, and told me she missed me. It was good to hear her voice. Juanita called this morning too. She wanted me to know how much she loved me. She said Laura (my step-sister) wanted me to know how proud she was of me for admitting that I needed help. Mama calls a lot, and I know she's worried. I hope she knows that I'm safe here. I miss her. And her cooking.

There are no toilet paper holders, and there are no trash bags. My room has a blue wall, and the rest are tan. There are pretty shelves for me to put my things on. There's a big, beautiful window looking outside. But there's a film over it so that I can't see out of it, and that makes me sad. The phone is like a payphone, and the cord is no more than 3 inches long.

 I'm sad that I'm here. I'm sad that I let it get to this point. But everyone has told me how proud they are of me for getting help and taking it seriously. 

The psychiatrist said there isn't much he can do for me, because I know where I am and I'm not utterly confused about what's going on. He said he'll keep me for a few days and wants me to take plenty of time to think about things. He said I need to think of things that I can change in my life; otherwise, nothing is going to get better. I feel like I have too much time to think. He told me that as a child or teenager, you are designed to learn how to deal with life-stressors. Because I endured trauma during the most important time in my life for my brain to be developing, I did not learn how to deal with the same stressors that others learn how to deal with properly. I missed that part entirely and now I have to fight extra hard to catch up to everyone else. The dietitian came to speak to me about my eating disorder, which is something I wasn't expecting. She was nice and wanted to help.  

I'm lonely here. I’m sad that no one has come to visit me, and I go home today.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

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