Non-Skid Socks & A Second Chance
One woman’s journey through inpatient
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Like most of my life, my memories are patchy. What I do remember from that day is sitting in a poorly lit office; the room is painted several shades of brown. I remember the psychiatrist being a fairly attractive woman whose demeanor made me feel like she would rather be anywhere but here.
The psychiatrist proceeded to ask a series of questions, which at that moment felt very random. Each question was followed by a heavy sigh and her eyes failed to meet mine as I answered.
It was becoming more difficult to respond as I answered “yes” more frequently. It felt like my body formed a rock in my throat and I started to cry. Tears were running down my face; I felt she could see right through the smile I was trying so hard to maintain.
“Have you ever tried to inflict harm to yourself?”
Yes.
She handed me a pink floral box of tissues.
When she finished, she diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder and depression. At first, I was amazed to hear that my “crazy” was a thing. It was real. There have been others like me.
Her next words were what caught me off guard.
“You are a harm to yourself and I cannot allow you to leave. You either admit yourself or I will admit you.”
I tried to explain to her that my mom came down from Boston and would be staying with me. That I would never dare to do anything with her around. But it was like talking to a wall. I had no choice. The way she insisted made me feel like I was more dangerous than I thought.
Seeing no alternative, I admitted myself, still wanting some level of control. My mom and sister were invited in and the doctor explained what was going on. It all happened so fast. I quickly called my boyfriend and told him I would not have access to my cell phone and would be staying at the psych ward. Naturally, he had a thousand questions, but I had no time to answer as I was being escorted to the women’s ward.
My mother, sister, and I were ushered through a beautiful park. To this day, I can still see the park clearly; I admired the perfect symmetry of the trees daily while I waited for my mother to visit me. Every day I told myself: The day I left I would sit on one of the benches by the pink rose bushes.
We entered a building across the complex. Lights were dimmed as it was getting dark outside.
I felt like a prisoner waiting in between two locked doors, the one behind me leading to freedom and the one in front, the unknown. The doors slide open and there is a tall and very large counter where they collected my belongings and provided me with a pair of gray hospital socks.
And there my family left me.
I was shown to my room where I laid in the dark and cried. At that very moment, my roommate walked in. An older woman with a heavy Boston smoker’s accent.
She told me we were not allowed to cry. So, I immediately stopped, and I guess my face showed all the fear I felt inside, and she suddenly softened and started laughing. “It’s ok to cry, hun. The first night is always rough.”
She left me alone and I cried myself to sleep.
Over the following days, I met an array of characters. The nicest women I have ever met and until they had an episode, you would never know they were suffering from postpartum, bipolar disorder, or psychosis, to name a few.
Hearing their stories altered my view of the mentally ill. We are people hurting and unsure of how to ease the pain.
During my two weeks inside, I never had an issue with the staff. Often it felt like the ward was an adult daycare; I did not understand the reason behind locking women up. Until one day they asked us to draw pictures.
Every day we were required to do activities, which I assumed was to keep us busy. The nurse asked us to draw three pictures: What would you give to a stranger? What would you give a family member? And finally, the one that made me cry — What we would give ourselves.
I cried because at that moment I realized I wanted others to have what I needed most.
While others were not impacted as I was, I began to understand: This place was a controlled environment, free from everyday triggers where one could take the time to learn more about themselves. Not to have to worry about meals, nor work, nor school, and simply focus on getting better.
Today, when I open my sock drawer and see my gray non-skid hospital socks, I remember the place where I started my journey. Although I did not appreciate not having a choice in regards to being hospitalized, it was truly extraordinary.
I met so many women, so many seemingly happy women. I listened to their stories, I cried with them, and I learned from their pain. I often wonder if people spoke freely about their mental health journey, as we did in the ward, would my journey have started sooner? Could my hospitalization have been avoided?
Please do not hold on to your pain; speak your truth; tell your story; save a life.
Stephany Reyes-Seri has over 8 years of experience helping small business owners connect to capital. In 2018, she ran the NYC marathon and is now training to become an amateur boxer. Stephany enjoys working out and finds it to be the best way to regulate her emotions. When she is not in the gym, Stephany tries to find a way to give back to the community; be it mentoring high school kids or instructing boot camp classes in her community to promote a healthier lifestyle. Everything that Stephany does is driven by the quote, “change one life, change the world.”
