We were lined up like pigs to a slaughter, waiting for them to fry our brain with peppercorn-sized pills. Twelve people, including me, were single-filed to an office with a glass case around it. A nurse, obviously near to getting done with her shift, called us up by shouting "Next." There wasn't compassion to each word; it was just a job. She handed me my pills in a plastic cup, through a space by her desk that made me feel like I was making a transaction at a bank in a sketchy neighborhood. I swallowed the pills, and had to open my mouth in front a person standing outside the case. He was almost as tall as me, and was in light blue scrubs. He couldn't have been more than 25, and this was just part of his routine. No facial expression, just a straight face. It was as though he was there long enough to lose the passion of caring for others. "Lift up your tongue." I presented to him my obedience as I opened my mouth. "All right, thank you Mr. Skinner. Next!" Each morning and night was like this. That's how the nurse treated it, and we were left to serve our sentence. Swallowing pills. Thirty minutes of recreation time. Two group therapy sessions. Arts and crafts somewhere in the mix. This wasn't a hospital, it was a prison.
I was seeing a doctor for months prior to me having to be checked into a hospital. My parents, for years, were under the impression that nothing was wrong with me. I knew better when my thoughts weren't syncing up with others. I was more lifeless than those around me. My activity dropped. I was beginning to gain weight. That's when I decided I had enough, and went to a doctor. When looking up doctors, there is very little idea of who you're going to get. They're all a mixed batch, and I felt like I got the licorice jelly bean in a bag full of cherry and berry flavors.
Each appointment began with the doctor looking at a clipboard, then calling my name. I would walk back, and sit in his small office. He had a desk covered in papers, and my folder was in the middle with all of my information. He had bookshelves behind the desk. Two cushioned chairs were adjacent to the desk, with a window to peer out of on the right in case I didn't want to make eye contact. I hated these meetings, because I knew two things. The first is that it lasted only 10 minutes. The second was that I was paying out the ass to get 10 minutes of time with a doctor for the month.
The doctor would sit down in his chair, open up my folder without making any eye contact and ask "How are you feeling?" It was at that point that I was expected to spew all of my symptoms to him. He would then write on a piece of paper the medication that I would take, and send me on my way. I would then have to keep track of side effects, and report back to him the next month. If the medicines weren't up to par, I would either get my dosage upped, or be put on a brand new medication. This cycle was starting to wear thin, and the side-effects of the medication I would get handed were starting to become horrid.
I would have an increase in suicide thoughts. My reaction times began to slow down. I started to not be able to process information as quickly as I used to. Throughout the months of going to the doctor, I always wondered if it was helping when I kept feeling like this. Then, homicidal thoughts started to creep in, which would have never happened if I didn't start taking my cocktail of four drugs. I knew I wouldn't normally think about any of this off of medication. They were graphic and violent. It involved blood soaked walls, and lifeless bodies including my own. I started to lock myself in a room and keep away from others in fear that they would get start to get worse and I may act upon them. Something wasn't right, and I found out that this is a common side effect of Zyprexa and even Lexapro. That's when I decided to go to the hospital and check myself in; I needed to be away from society for a while, and get my medication balanced.
I was uncertain what to expect when I entered the emergency room the day I had enough of the abnormal thoughts. Surprisingly, it wasn't as busy as I thought it would be, and I only waited an hour to finally be called. I was taken to a smaller room, with a paper that asked "How are you feeling today?" with emoticons ranging from discomfort to complete pain. Each number going up made the straight face turn into a frowning lifeless animation that I could relate to. I barely made eye contact with the nurse that walked in. I stared at the floor, explained my symptoms, answered their questions, and I was transferred to a wing in the back of the hospital.
The waiting room in the wing was desolate. Empty chairs lined the room, surrounding a small 20-inch TV that was on a stand five feet up. I was required to go to another glass encased office, grab paperwork to fill out, and pick one of the many chairs to sit down in. As I am filling out the papers, which had many questions like
"Are you more sleepy than usual?"
"Have you been feeling sadder than usual?"
Well, no shit. This was why I checked myself in. I was getting tired of filling out this seemingly never-ending questionnaire, including questions that were so generic.
"Have you had thoughts of harming yourself or others?"
I felt like the whole routine was redundant, considering the nurses have asked me the same questions in the ER. I just wanted to get through this visit and get out. I was already feeling like this was all a wretched idea, and that was verified when a larger lady stepped in, sobbing profusely.
She didn't talk to me. She didn't really talk to anyone. Her face looked red from the tears that were spilled over the course of a few hours. I could only assume that she cried for hours, because I have never seen a face and eyes that red. Between sobs, and sniffles, I could hear her say under her breath "I don't want to be here." I was starting to agree, even though I did this voluntarily. It was very obvious that she was there because of the Baker Act. For those that don't know what the Baker Act is, it is a mandatory minimum 72-hour stay at a hospital if a person as viewed as harmful to themselves or others. I didn't know what she did prior to getting here, and she had no idea why I was there. We gave each other a soft look across the room, and we knew that we had no control over the next few days. Both of us were here, and both of us had no idea when we were leaving.
The actual wing I was supposed to go to was full, and they kept us in this separate area until room was available. For some, they could get into the mental health wing immediately. For others, they might have to wait a few days. I didn't have to wait very long, as I was shaken softly by the person that transports people from one area of the hospital to another. My eyes began to flutter as I was trying to regain consciousness, and the first thing I could see wasn't transport. Instead, I looked as the moon was shining down on my window, and reflected on the bars that blocked anyone from exiting through. I was isolated from the world outside. I didn't feel human anymore. I felt like a prisoner. No escape. No say in the activities that happen. No voice. All I had to do was be obedient for a few days, and I could let my days in there come to a close.
The following was our schedule, roughly, of how the day would be.
7 a.m.: Wake up
7:15: Medication Management
7:30: Breakfast, which included all the necessary nutrients for a meal. What it didn't include, however, was much flavor.
8-10: Group Therapy
10-12: Common Room
12-12:30: Lunch
12:30-1:30: Outdoor recreation
1:30-2:30: Common Room/ Doctor's Visits
2:30-5: Group Therapy
5-6: Dinner
6-8: More Redundant Group Therapy
8-9: Medication Distribution
9-10: End of night/Bed
This routine wasn't helpful. Each group therapy was just 13 of us who had to do some arts and crafts, or talk about vague advice on what we need to do when we get out. There wasn't any deep meaningful discussion as to why any of us were here. In fact, no one really spent any time trying to be helpful. Anyone that got out of hand, they would take off of the floor, and send them into a more isolated area, which could increase their stay. So we were expected to shut up, do as we were told and we could get out as quickly as possible. Any information any of us had would be during sessions where we would color with incredibly dull colored pencils or crayons.
One exchange I had was with three women. They were all no younger than 40, but the meth that they took for years added 20 years. Each had wrinkles that stretched across their face, and it looked like their bodies took a beating.
All of them started putting crayons in the mouth and mimicking the same motions that a person would have smoking a cigarette.
"I can't wait until I get out of here and get to smoke a real cigarette," one woman told me, as she blew nothing but air at me. She was the eldest of the group. She spoke for the rest, as the other women just sat in silence. They began to tell me that they have been in the wing for a few weeks. A few weeks? I was having a hard time making it to day three.
It's unfortunate, but the doctors wouldn't let them leave. I started to ask questions, and look around. Most of the people in there were for detox. Whether they were addicted to painkillers, heroin, crack, meth or even alcohol, this was their fate. The floor I was on wasn't a "Mental Wing." No. They group the drug addicts with those that actually need different help. It explained why there was no specialized treatment. The only thing we got was a 10-minute daily visit from our primary care physician/psychiatrist, if we were lucky.
Some didn't have the luxury, like the man I was rooming with. He was older, maybe in his 50s, with long, thick, black hair. His back was normally turned away from the door, and if he were to move to the other side and open his eyes, I could see the brown eyes that told a story of defeat. Alcoholism got the best of him, and his hectic life didn't help. He became catatonic and was sent to the hospital. It was rumored that he had a 40-day stay. There was no group therapy for him, nor did he really come out to eat. Any medication that he may have needed he couldn't take. Getting wheeled out to electroshock therapy was the solution. They wheeled him out at the same time each day, 3 p.m., to get his brain mildly electrocuted.
These were some of the people I was surrounded by. If I tried to have some type of reasonable discussion with any of them, I couldn't. I definitely couldn't with the Tickle Me Elmo Pink Marlboro clan. They inquired, early in my stay, as to why I was there. When I responded honestly, with the thoughts I was having, and the mild hallucinations I was experiencing recently, they said something pretty baffling.
"You are possessed by the devil. You need to find Jesus."
I chose to not respond. I didn't want to have a clash of opinion vs facts. Mental illness is a fact, with scientific evidence of the types of disorders someone mentally ill would have. Jesus is faith, not based in any science. Sometimes, it's hard to have a discussion with people on two different sides of the spectrum.
Conversations like this caused me to go through most of the hospital visit not talking, and, instead, observing. I observed the nurse's shifts. Two males and a female in the morning, three females mid-day, and one male and two females in the overnight shift. I observed the actions of the others around me. It ranged anywhere from a sobbing woman who cried to soon get out, to a gentleman with three teeth who dictated what got put on the common room TV.
These were the ebbs and flows of the hospital. People, stuck for a few days, to weeks, to months. They take their medication, they attend group therapy, they leave. That's the routine. All I had to do to get out of the hospital was be responsive at times in group therapy, and then lie to my doctor and describe to him how I am feeling better. I could act more energetic. I could act happier. It would only be a show, to disguise how I truly felt. I felt like an outsider, crying for help, and no one would lower the bridge to let me in. It was a place that offered introspection, but no saving grace to my mind. Upon leaving, I was still a prisoner to my mind, which took years to escape.
