What Happens in a Psychiatric Hospital?
I spent seven weeks at a mental health facility and I hope I never have to go back.
First, some background.
At the start of 2018, I should have been on top of the world. My then-boyfriend, Steven, and I had our own little shoe-box apartment, we had recently adopted an elder dog, and I was set to graduate from undergrad in a few months.
I had been seeing a psychiatrist who misdiagnosed me with Bipolar II Disorder. She was pumping me full of drugs to solve my problems (which you can read about in a short essay I wrote here) and I felt worse every day I woke up. My anxiety was through the roof: I accused my boyfriend of cheating on me just about every day, I behaved erratically, and I was dangerously impulsive (like the time I cut class to get a tattoo or the time I spent over $500 total on LuLaRoe clothes).
I was also in an obscene amount of debt for a 21 year old. I had maxed out four different credit cards and I felt like I was drowning. I was finally able to switch to a new psychiatrist when my insurance changed.
He saw me for a few weeks before I confessed on a Friday what I’d been hiding for a while: I had a plan to take my life. He requested my mother come with me to that appointment. She had been concerned about my safety for a while, but as long as I stayed in contact with her regularly she seemed to be satisfied.
The doctor gave me two options: He could call 911 and have them come take me to the hospital because he believed I was a danger to myself, or my mother could move me out of my apartment and bring me to the hospital herself. Option two was only on the table if my parents could commit to keeping me in their sight until the weekend ended.
I went with the second choice so that I could get my things. I was supposed to go to work that day. I was supposed to have a big important meeting with our marketing company and discuss strategies for the next fiscal year. But I was crumbling.
My mom wouldn’t let me drive. She drove me to my apartment where she let me say goodbye to my dog and Steven, and she went into our room to pack things she knew would be allowed at the hospital. It was emotional and hard and we all cried. I got back in my mom’s car and she drove me back to my childhood home.
The following three days were a blur. My sisters were — understandably — confused as to why I was suddenly home and not at my own place. I’m not sure when my parents explained to them what was happening. Maybe Sunday night. Maybe after I’d already been admitted. I kept to myself for the most part, not allowed to sit behind closed doors.
On Monday, 12 March 2018, I packed a big bag full of pajamas, leggings, and t-shirts, a few books, and the two most recent People Magazine editions. My parents drove me to a specialized psychiatric hospital not too far from home. At 9am, the hospital’s walk in clinic opened and we were called back to meet with a social worker.
She asked me everything from how old I was to the last time I had self-harmed. She passed me along to a psychiatrist. He asked me much the same things. Based on my answers, it was recommended I be admitted to their inpatient facility immediately. My parents were allowed to wait with me but once a nurse came to collect me, they had to leave.
I felt very numb. They made me take off my rings, leave my phone, and take off my shoes. They searched my bag and took away the sweatpants that had drawstrings and my colored pencils I had brought for drawing. Safety concerns for the other residents as well as myself.
Initially, they said I would have to go to the adult overflow ward, which was basically a waiting room for residents until a bed in a regular ward opened up. But as they were coming to collect me, a bed opened up in 2F; the co-ed young adult ward.
I said goodbye to my parents and cried as the nurse walked me to the elevator, down the hallway, and through the giant locked double doors into 2F.
It looked nothing like I expected, but at the same time everything like I expected. Plastic furniture, crayons, pictures drawn by residents all over the walls and windows — it looked both like a preschool and a hospital. It was well past lunch at this time, but the nurse found me a snack and some apple juice to have while I waited for my room to be sanitized. I sat down at one of the plastic white tables and stared at the walls. I devoured the pretzels and hummus I was provided; I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
To my left was a girl wearing mitts and a helmet sitting with her head on a table, accompanied by a caregiver. To my right was another girl doing a crossword puzzle in purple crayon. I had the feeling I’m sure many people do at this moment: I’ve made a terrible mistake. I was fine, I was just depressed. I didn’t belong here. I shouldn’t be here.
Some of the patients had been there for weeks, months even. 2F was supposed to be a temporary ward; ideally, patients would only be inpatient for a week and then “graduate” to the partial outpatient program. At least half of the patients on the floor with me had been there for more than thirty days. Three of them had been there more than three months. One had been there for more than nine.
Another nurse called for me and brought me into a small examination room. She instructed me to take off all of my clothes except my underwear and proceeded to pat me down (I’m assuming to make sure I wasn’t hiding anything). She weighed me, took my temperature, and took my blood pressure. She asked me the same questions I had been asked in the walk-in clinic: What medications are you currently taking? Do you drink alcohol? Do you do drugs? Do you know where you are? Do you know who you are?
No one told me how strict the schedule would be. Everything was done at the same time every day. A nurse would wake me up around 6:30 every morning to give me my thyroid medication. I would usually be the first one awake on the floor, so I would take advantage and call my mom at 7 am when the phones turned back on.
Around 7:30, we lined up for meds and vitals. The medicine window opened three times a day so we all took our medicine regularly (which helps it work even better). Twice a day we had our vitals taken. In the morning, and then again in the late afternoon. Temperature and blood pressure. I also had some blood work done the first full day I was in to check my thyroid.
After vitals, we had a morning meeting. It was optional, as with all of our regular groups, and we had to establish goals for the day. This usually took about five minutes and then we would have around an hour of free time. I would normally call Steven.
When breakfast came, I had my saving grace in this whole mess: coffee. We were only allowed to have coffee, you guessed it, on a certain schedule. We had meal times and snack times. Coffee was allowed during breakfast and then during the first snack time around 10:30 am. I’m what you call a coffee creamer fiend rather than a coffee drinker; I love my French vanilla creamer. But in the hospital, it was only on special occasions that the floor got flavored creamers. I had to settle for half and half.
To this day, I can’t drink coffee with half and half. It tastes like the hospital to me. My other saving grace was what my mom dubbed the room service menu.
After breakfast was over we would have group therapy. Every day was a different topic that would vary from sharing our own experiences, dialectical behavioral therapy, and disability and mental illness. Group therapy was meant to be educational. The general philosophy was that if we were educated and understood better what we were feeling and why, we would be able to better handle it when we go home.
While the groups were optional, they were strongly encouraged. Patients were encouraged to show they were invested in their treatment. If we went to group and participated and asked questions, we earned more privileges.
There were different tiers of privileges. The top tier was “SE,” which meant patients were allowed to go on morning and evening walks around the hospital with supervision. We could go to the vending machines and buy sodas or candy bars. We were not allowed to interact with anyone besides nurses or caregivers, so these walks were only outside of regular visiting hours.
When I had finally earned enough privilege to take walks, I went every chance they gave us. Anything to get off the floor. Plus, I could get a Twix bar or something from the vending machine.
The first night I got to go on a walk, the nurse let us step outside into one of the patios. I breathed in the fresh cool evening air and closed my eyes. I just stood and breathed. It was the first breath of air I had had in days that wasn’t potent with rubbing alcohol or rubber. I didn’t want to go back inside. It was so cold and none of us were wearing coats (because we didn’t have any) so the nurse made us go back, but I was more than reluctant. Once we got back to our ward, I cried in my room.
I was discharged on 19 March 2018. I was only discharged on the promise to participate and complete the hospital’s partial day hospital program. I got home around two in the afternoon on the 19th and had to go right back at 7 the following morning. But at least I was allowed to sleep at my childhood home.
I completed the day hospital program in just under six weeks. I didn’t move back into my apartment until I had finished that and was ready to go back to work.
Would I do it again? Absolutely not. Am I glad I did?
One hundred percent.
