I could write for what Medium estimates to be 1 hour about that one time.

But I won’t.

That one time that I was there for 3 weeks.

And that was short, for any normal abnormal person. I wrote an exquisite essay to dig myself out of the rabbit hole.

I was ever more damaged for staying there, ever more deranged.

October 2007. Fall semester at school. That summer was a cure for my first depression. It was a frivolously lovely time spent in Yorkshire, drinking tea at Betty’s tearooms, gazing upon the green moors, climbing those raw prickly trees, baking scones and pudding, playing piano, and devouring books like a chipmunk stuffs its cheeks until it can hold no more.

Inevitable. It’s always inevitable. I returned. And it was the first time the creative mystique donned me with her monstrously majestic presence.

Let’s skip the shitty part. You can read the DSM V (yes it has been released) for details. I was classic.

The entertaining part.

1. The drugs: Lithium Carbonate (reacted positively to this mood stabilizer—started at 50mg, eventually increased to 1500mg/day), Zyprexa (atypical anti-psychotic — made me gain 15 pounds in less than 2 weeks); After discharge, under the care of an overzealous psychiatrist began Lamictal (primarily an anti-convulsant, secondarily a mood stabilizer) and prescribed Seroquel (street name Suzie-Q, snoozeberries, or quell—a sleeping pill that I never dared to take). She wanted to experiment with more. Welcome to the wonderful US of A.
2. The people: roommate #1 had severe OCD. She was an old Cantonese woman that looked like Samara from the Ring. Every time I entered the bathroom everything was covered in water. Roommate #2 had major depressive disorder. She was an old lady with big glasses and they woke her up every morning at 6am to get ECT while they drew my blood.
3. The anomalies: The lithium made me so thirsty that even though they were increasing my dosage every couple of days, the level in my blood decreased several times because I drank too much cranberry juice. My body was metabolizing it way too fast. I cannot endure therapeutic level. I feel hot and cold at the same time, I lose all of my memory.
4. My friends. You know who the good people are. They come visit. And I remember who didn’t.
5. The art. I painted a lot. I didn’t have wings to wear so I tore off a white sheet of paper the size of my body and I splashed the blackest paint onto it. I drew rugged powerful wings. And I hung it above my bed.
6. The pain. I was worse than I ever will be. A bobcat. The nurse didn’t know I was in the bathroom. She opened the door slightly and I slammed the door. Right against her finger. Broke it.
7. The family. I am so sorry. It’s sort of your fault that I’m like this but I apologize for what happened. I apologize for mouthing off.
8. The patients. You don’t know psychiatric disorders until you’ve spent hours with these people. Anxiety like I’ll never see again. Schizophrenia like I’ll never see again. People who WANT to stay in there. That’s a disorder in itself.

I have to run now, Labbits. I’ve left you with 8 lucky little tidbits of my experience at the prison.

Side note: Without insurance this hospital visit would have cost me over $45,000. Yes, you read that correctly. I still have the bill.