Home sweet psych ward
I hear yelling. No… Shrieking. It’s dark (well, as dark as this room can get). I have no way of telling what time it is nor telling how long I’ve been asleep. Had I been asleep? I go to reach for my phone, but it’s not there. It hasn’t been there for the past seven… no, eight days. Now comes the sound of hollow plastic being thrown. Shouts join the shrieking, and the intercom buzzes on, calling a code. Something to talk about in the medication line in the morning, I guess. That is, if morning ever comes. Nights in here last forever. Even though I have earplugs and a non-habit-forming sleep aid, the checks every 15 minutes don’t really allow for easy sleep. But I guess maybe they could help with keeping time.
Where to begin! Well, the quick and dirty exposition is:
“I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder 7 years ago. 8 therapists, 4 psychiatrists, 9 medications, and 2 partial hospitalization programs later, I ended up inpatient.”
The slightly longer version:
I started seeing my last psychiatrist, Dr. S after a rougher-than-usual winter, hoping for some slight medication adjustment. Instead, I became his glorified guinea pig for the ensuing 7 months. During one appointment, I was admittedly quite frustrated with all of the med changes. I was questioning the treatment “plan” that we’d been following, wondering why we weren’t adding to the antidepressant approach. He said “Well those weren’t working before, but if you want to waste another month, fine, go ahead.”
Now I have taken 0 years of Psychiatrist School, but you know what sounds like the worst idea to do with someone with Major Depressive Disorder? You got it! To take them off ALL antidepressants. Yeah, that happened.
Journal notes/events
7/6/2016 — “I’m starting to feel isolated, disorganized, lacking motivation”
7/31/16 — “I’m feeling crazy and not myself”
8/7/2016 — First thoughts of self-harm. “This all feels permanent… I cringe at the thought of being around other people for the embarrassment or uncomfortablility or awkwardness they have to endure from me right now.”
8/12/2016–8/26/2016 — Took leave from work and started partial hospitalization
While my neurochemical makeup was getting fucked this way and that, I moved in with my then-partner, which happened to perfectly coincide with a steep decline in my mental health. I couldn’t shake the feeling that these two things were closely linked. But it was so hard to know what was coloring what. Was my depression just making it FEEL shitty? Or was the relationship itself really shitty and keeping me depressed? My therapist was pretty inept at helping. She kept convincing me that I could get better within the context of the relationship. More or less alluding to the idea that I could try harder. But at the same time live my truth. Umm…?
I decided the only way to really figure this out was to remove myself from the situation for a short while. So I went and stayed with a good friend in Fishtown.
Journal excerpt
9/19/2016 - “I’m experiencing crippling anxiety and paralyzing depression; every second I’m conscious is absolute torture… My only relief is sleep because it simulates death.”
The very next day in therapy, I was finally able to get across to Therapist that I was barely functioning. Between sobs I said that I couldn’t handle it anymore. That my mind was obsessing over not being around. That’s when she said that I needed a greater level of care: inpatient hospitalization.
I was honestly ready for any kind of answer.
She called my dad (who was in his own therapy session at the time — great minds struggle alike?) to come take me to the hospital. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. The prison I was about to enter. The freedoms I was about to surrender.
The lobby was pleasant and cheery and the desk staff was almost warm. This room was full of big windows, allowing for tons of natural light. There were colors and metal wall sculptures of giant dandelions. Clean, intact chairs and couches.
When I was called back to start the intake interrogation, however, I was led through multiple sets of locked doors. Locking us patients in and all life out. The facility might have been impeccable at one point. It might have once appeared welcoming and healing, too. But now the paint was peeling. Bulletin boards crumbling. The cheap furniture breaking.
When I was first brought up to my unit, a tech had me wait in a plastic chair in the main hallway. There was nothing going on, so everyone was hovering around the nurse’s station staring at me. Finally the lady-tech came to the rescue, bringing me into a room where she started her inventorying. She asked me if I had any scars, scratches, bruises. What piercings I had. What tattoos I had. If I was wearing an underwire bra (confiscated). She had me then strip to my underwear for her to search my shorts. It wasn’t until I had to give up my nose ring did I truly feel naked, though. And finally, with the cutting of my hoodie strings, we were done.
She led me to my room. My roommate was sitting just outside in the women’s lounge watching the plexiglass-encased TV. She was 50-something, I think. She tried to be very (maybe aggressively?) welcoming. She quickly showed me how to make the plastic bed with the sheets we were allowed to have. She told me who to ask for more blankets, since the ones available to us were absurdly thin. She kept trying to give me her extra jeans to wear, since I didn’t have my things yet. I meekly declined and recommenced my crying. She assured me that I’d be okay from across the room as she walked out the door to watch the rest of her show. I remained frozen. Eventually I mustered up enough courage to come out and sit with the other women.
Since this was my first hospitalization, they had put me in a relatively high-functioning unit. It was completely booked (upcoming election, potentially?), which was even more overwhelming. There was constant commotion. I could never really be by myself with any semblance of quiet, even in my room… even in the middle of the night.
The second day was when I think everything fully hit me. The shock had mostly worn off. I was lonely, afraid, and exhausted. Of course I couldn’t sleep the night before. I couldn’t stop crying. The alcoholic mother of the ward took me to the nurse’s station to get an anti-anxiety med. While I was waiting, one nurse told me I should stop crying because I would ruin my skin. Thanks?
It was hard not to see this place as a holding pen. A prison of people already imprisoned within their own heads. We occasionally had some yard time, if the weather permitted and enough people wanted to go out. Of course we didn’t have our phones. Instead there were two lovely payphones at our disposal if/when nothing else was going on. Two for about 30 people or so. We were only allowed 15 minutes, and we still had to pay. However, a learned young man taught me early on that if you call your person with the desk phone and then ask them to call you back on one of the payphones, you didn’t have to cough up the quarters. This usually was too much effort, as there was always a line for the desk phone. I just checked out the money from my inventory.
Everything around us was done and prepared for safety, and, in the process, made slightly less human. Our bathrooms had no doors. Our toilet paper had no rolls. No pens. No strings of any kind (hence the hoodie dismemberment). I couldn’t have my teddy bear unless it was ordered by the ever-elusive psychiatrist. We had rubber pencils. Colored pencils were straight out. We were only allowed crayons. The intricate coloring pages that littered the common room were always colored just slightly out of the lines. And never quite solid enough.
Our days were regulated by the whiteboard. Mostly filled with group therapy sessions. Usually the therapist could do whatever they wanted with their time, at least that was how it seemed. Interspersed between groups were meal times, snack times, med times, and some free time. Most of the time, you’re just trying to make your time go faster.
There were no individual therapy sessions. You met with one of three social workers soon after intake and right before discharge, but that was more to handle logistics. You met with your psychiatrist once or twice as well, but they only really talked medication with you. Oh, and they were the ones who had final say on whether or not you should be discharged.
Visiting hours really helped me through. They were 3 times a week for a couple hours at a time. My dad didn’t miss one. He even helped my ex come visit once or twice as well. Regardless of where my ex and I were in our relationship, it was so comforting to see someone whom I knew cared about me. Even just someone who knew me.
I soon came to learn more about the patients surrounding me. Depressed, anxious, schizophrenic. Alcoholics, addicts, self-harmers. Homemakers, lawyers, ex-military. Some were outgoing and friendly, while others intimidating. I mean, there was a guy who fucking took an ax to his arm at the Renn Faire, resulting in a chunk of missing flesh.
Those on the lower end of the functioning spectrum could usually be found wandering the halls on their own. One was a man in his 50's who rarely ever spoke and was constantly falling asleep. One day in the med line, he inadvertently started a chant of his favorite mantra “Come ooooooooon.” He was probably my favorite after that day.
I never clicked with the “cool kids.” (Yes, there are cool kids even in the psych ward. Even the social dynamics of choosing which table to eat at in the cafeteria were present.) I was the quiet, nice girl who knew some “fancy words.” Somehow, though, I attracted suitors? From a straight up player (who I eventually found feeling up someone else’s tits) to a love letter from a guy who had previously threatened to kill his ex to an aging hippie man who taught me how to throw a football. I guess we were all looking for care and connection in whatever ways we could.
There was this one guy in there, though, who was the absolute BANE of my existence. Let’s call him “Lonnie.” I’m actually not entirely sure what he did in the music industry, but he never failed to let you know that he was, in fact, in the music industry. He would constantly name drop. Apparently, he’s some famous actress’s cousin. He was admitted to the hospital because he tried attacking a cop who said some objectifying things about her. Oh, did I not mention? Dude’s like 5'2".
In music therapy group, he would make such a huge deal over getting to play the guitar and making sure it was perfectly in tune, always wasting everyone’s time. He just wanted to show off. The music therapist was visibly frustrated. He tagged art therapy work that was hung up in the common room with something along the lines of “IG: @blurblahblah. Follow me or don’t. IDGAF.” OBVIOUSLY YOU DO GAF, LONNIE! YOU SPENT ALL THIS TIME VANDALIZING PEOPLE’S SHIT. YOU G MANY A F!
We all had a classification in there. Basically you were either 201 or 302. I was 201, meaning I had willingly admitted myself. The 302’s were admitted by others, sometimes law enforcement, like good ole Lonnie. Three-oh-twos had to wait until their psychiatrist declared them fit to leave, or else they’d have to go in front of a judge. As a two-oh-one, I could ask to leave, but even then I was required to wait 72 hours after my official request.
The whole time, I couldn’t help but war with myself over whether or not I belonged in here. There were certainly worse off than I. People who only a couple weeks prior were shooting heroin into their veins while their baby cried by their side. People who arrived in ambulances. I was just terribly sad and lost.
This insecurity was actually reinforced by the people around me. Strangers deciding that I didn’t belong here as well. I guess it was meant to be a compliment? As in, I wasn’t crazy enough, or I was too nice, or I smiled too much? One day when I began crying in the cafeteria, a head staff member took me aside and basically told me to get my shit together. Because I didn’t belong here and if certain people saw me upset, they would make note of it in my chart. And that might extend my stay.
For the first time maybe ever, I did not give a FUCK that I was gaining weight. They had been pumping us all full of packaged processed foods at least every 3 hours. As I had little to no other pleasures, I gladly accepted whatever they offered. Strawberry (AKA the worst flavor) Pop-tarts and lemonade? I just finished brushing my teeth, but bring it on! As far as the actual meals went? Some sort of carb was often the only vegetarian option (that I would eat). I mean, technically…
So I guess yes, Therapist, you were right. I needed a higher level of care. But care is seemingly not what you get in psychiatric hospitals. At least not this one. You get restraints. You get drugged. You get confined. No one truly cares for you there, except maybe the other patients. In fact, some of the most beautiful moments were when patients would stand up for each other in one way or another. Everyone else is just doing their jobs. One tech expressed that “everyone is depressed,” as in we should get over ourselves. I’m pretty sure their pay is shit. The hours certainly are.
And maybe everyone already knows this about psychiatric hospitals. That they’re really just a place where you aren’t able to hurt anyone and where you get stable with medication. I guess it allowed for the first part for me, but as the psychiatrist only consulted with Dr. S, she tried stabilizing using the wrong meds.
Getting out ended up being rather anti-climactic. The other patients were outside getting precious yard time, so I avoided the forced sentimentality of the goodbyes. I could see my red car, Carlos (see what I did there?!), from across the half-full parking lot. No human to be found, though. No one to hold me and welcome me back to the real world. Everything was still around. Life had continued on without me.
I went to stay with my dad for a bit. I needed people around. To tell me the thoughts that were happening in my head weren’t true. That this isn’t forever. To feed me and get me outside. To take me to the movies. To just be reminders that I existed.
I got in to see a new psychiatrist. This woman is a wonder in her field. She doesn’t take insurance but is more than worth it. She could obviously see how much pain I was still in. She cared. Thankfully, she quickly worked me off those ineffective meds and back onto antidepressants.
Journal excerpts/events
10/13/2016 — Began intensive outpatient treatment
10/17/16 — It’s noticeable enough to say that I laughed at John Oliver
10/21/16 — “I feel intellectually stunted.”
I continued to struggle with knowing what to do about my relationship. I ended up breaking up with him multiple times over the span of a couple weeks. I kept coming back, though. Because I was lonely? Because I felt like a terrible person? I’m not quite sure. Eventually, I was able to say my final goodbyes and moved back to my main slice, West Philly.
This is when things started taking a turn for the (much, MUCH) better. I love West Philadelphia so much. (Yes, go ahead with your Fresh Prince references. I’ll wait…)
It’s full of trees and beautiful parks. The people are the best kind of weird. Socially progressive. It’s where my community is. I started seeing friends more. I started doing yoga more. I started getting outside more. But, ya know, depression is one stubborn dick-wad. And it decided it needed one final hurrah.
One day shortly after I moved, I found myself extremely sad and hopeless. It was the result of various triggering situations: having just finished bingeing 13 Reasons Why and finding out about Project Semicolon’s Amy Bleuel taking her life. That and, ya know, grieving a lost relationship. It all became too much. I messaged my ex asking if we could see each other that evening since I was really struggling. He said no.
This TRIGGERED me. Hard.
I started freaking out. I just didn’t know what to do. I had all this built up pressure with no way of releasing. I physically felt like I couldn’t feel more. I began to do something I could have very easily done in the hospital: I scratched myself. Once I broke through the skin at my wrist, I began moving up my arm. About 8 more inches up my arm. I hated myself; I deserved this. I was externalizing my depression to show others the internal pain.
Well, apparently, it ended up only showing me. This day shocked me into quickly getting a better (for me) therapist. I was even more motivated to set up my new life in West Philly. I started saying yes to things now more than ever. I dyed my hair purple, I went on a road trip to visit family, I went to concerts, I danced, I listened to/played music, I went to watercolor workshops, I started dating, I started playing DnD, I started writing, I went to drag shows, I did a boudoir photo shoot, I got the tattoo I’ve always wanted, I joined a Slavic women’s choir, I started teaching beer yoga, and I’m thinking about starting Muay Thai next month.
I fucking survived. Scratch that (too soon?). I was resurrected.
That’s right! The part of me that I felt for so long was gone forever pulled a total Jon Snow, bitcheeeees!
It’s common to lose things because of depressive episodes: hobbies, friends, relationships, maybe even a job (maybe even sometimes on your birthday… yeah). Maybe this is exacerbated when inpatient since you’re forced to be so physically isolated from your world. Unlike my previous episodes, this time I completely lost who I was. It was like the light within me had been extinguished, and I was just a container of bone and organs going through the motions of everyday life.
It was a gradual resurrection, and I’m really not sure if the hospital stay helped. Maybe the pure fact that I went inpatient showed me that things were dire and drastic changes needed to be made. Maybe I just found motivation in never wanting to go back. No matter what, I’m probably in the best place of my life at this very moment, and I definitely wouldn’t be in this exact same spot if I hadn’t gone.
Sure, I’ve experienced disappointments and heartbreak and just overall shitty days in the past few months. But dear god not a day has gone by where I haven’t smiled at something. Where I don’t hear myself laugh, a sound I had legitimately previously forgotten. I genuinely feel love and/or gratitude every day. Everything seems to be clicking, more or less. It’s bringing tears to my eyes just trying to type exactly how far I’ve come. This, right now, this feels like me. Sure, now I have to deal with possibly being someone’s Manic Pixie Dream Girl. But fuck it, that I can handle.
I’m home.
If you are struggling…
Take it from me, this? — this is not forever. It sure can feel like it, but that’s just the disease talking. Do me a favor and tell it to shut the fuck up. Write it down, even. There is so much that you contribute to this world, even if you’re not actively being productive. There are so many who love you, to whom you mean the absolute world. It’s a tough fight, but seriously, it’s worth it. And you, my friend, are beyond worth it.
- Please reach out to friends and family. You are not a burden. Let me say that once more: You are not a burden.
- Get professional help. Yes, I had shitty experiences with several mental health providers, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t good ones out there. In fact, I wouldn’t be where I am without them. And sometimes what you need is just to be kept safe and stable on meds. Please remember that you deserve the best care, and if something doesn’t feel right, speak up and/or make a change.
- Feel free to reach out to me. Please. You are not alone in this.
CRISIS LINES:
- Call 1–800–273–8255
- Text 838255
- Chat
If you’re able, please help me raise some $$$ for suicide prevention and awareness here. Even $5 makes a difference. Thank you
