Documenting my journey through the mental health system

On July 25, 2024, the police and fire department showed up at my door. Someone called in a welfare check on me. I was pretty drunk, having abruptly left work in the middle of the night the night before, and about to take all my trazodone, ativan, melatonin – every pill I could that would kill me. I figured with enough alcohol, I could lower my respirations to a lethal level. The fire department asked me what year it was, did I know where I was, did I know what town I was in, who was the president, etc. After the orientation questions I asked what they were doing here, and they stated welfare check. They asked me if I was planning on hurting myself. I said I don’t want to hurt myself, I want to kill myself. I stepped away from the door to sit back down on my couch. I should have shut the door but then the police would have broken it down or something. They asked to come in and I sighed and said sure, whatever. I’m really into horror and the macabre, and they saw all my horror memorabilia and collections – Chucky and Tiffany dolls, the Saw doll, Beetlejuice, Nightmare Before Christmas, etc. My apartment looked good after I’d cleaned it and I was wearing my favorite outfit in which to die. They asked if I painted the large painting leaning against the wall, and I said no, local artist. I said I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. “You don’t look fine.” Alcohol and pill bottles littered my coffee table.

There is a new crisis response unit in town, and a civilian will go with police to these mental health emergencies. Soon my apartment was filled with fire department, the police, and a nice lady from this unit who asked me how long I’d been feeling this way, did something happen, would I accept treatment? I was nearly sobbing and I declined. She said “well you know how this can go. We can’t just leave you like this, Angel.” The officers introduced themselves, working hard to sound friendly. They cajoled me several times to go willingly to the hospital. What’s a hospital gonna do?? Thanks but no thanks. I’ve already done it all – hospitals, counseling, pills. I refuse to be a burden anymore. I just need to be alone. “We can’t do that Angel. Let’s go,” and the two officers grabbed me – not roughly but each one took one of my arms, gently but forcefully hauling me to my feet. I tried to resist. “No don’t, please!” “Let’s go,” they insisted, much stronger than me and pulling me out of my apartment to a waiting gurney. I was pushed onto it where I started to cry and asked if I could at least have my phone, wallet, keys, etc. They got them for me and the fire department guys said how sorry they were I was feeling this way. They fed my cat while I cried, scared. “Who will care for her??” I was so embarrassed in front of my apartment building neighbors, though I’m not sure anyone actually saw me.

They took me down, put me in a waiting ambulance, and informed me I’d be going to Deaconess hospital’s emergency room psych hold. When I got there I sat on the gurney, awaiting an open triage room. I saw two exit signs and studied them. I decided to make a run for it and bolted toward the one I thought was closer. But security grabbed me and two of them plus the paramedics forced me back down on the gurney. “Now you’re getting restraints,” one said. I struggled. “Lean back!” A security guard said, shoving me back on the gurney hard. They put straps around my wrists and ankles and I sobbed right there in the open ER, surrounded by staff and patients, till a room opened up a few minutes later. I was wheeled to it, brought level with the bed, and they made to unstrap me and put me on the new bed. I tried to get away, struggling against them, begging them to let me go, please don’t do this to me, I don’t belong here, I’m begging you let me go!… They put me in restraints, a security guard literally laying across my legs to hold them down so they could strap them in. I was screaming. “Get off me! Let me go!” I had lost all control. “We can’t let you go Angel, we want to help you.” “There’s nothing you or anyone can do!” I wailed. Once I was strapped in, they left me alone in that little room. “Please, don’t shut me in here!” I begged. But I was alone. I fought uselessly in those restraints till I was quite tired out, sobbing and crying bitterly, wishing I was dead. After awhile they came back in and security patted the wrist straps. “This isn’t a punishment, it’s just to keep you safe.” They took a chest x-ray while I laid there because of my TB history. Put a mask on me. They asked me questions I didn’t really know the answer to. Asked if I could be calm. I could not. They kept me in restraints. Typing stuff on a computer, conferring with each other. They removed the ankle restraints but kept my arms strapped down. “Can you be calm if we release you, yes or no?” A security guard asked, glaring down at me. “I guess….” I mumbled. So he kept them on. I laid there pathetically, trapped. Later I was released from the restraints and two guards held my arms very tightly and marched me into a tiny psych hold cell – it contained a bed and a TV in a protective case and that was it. I was pushed inside and the door was locked. I was quite trapped indeed. After a minute or two a nurse told me to take the PRN anxiety pill she had brought – ativan. I knew what they were trying to do – chemical restraint. Two security guards hovered behind her. I didn’t know what else to do so I just took the pill. She ordered me to change into hospital pajamas. I thought of continuing to resist. But those security guards looked like they were itching to put me back in restraints and I was terrified. In the last two hours I had been forcibly hauled out of my apartment, taken to a hospital against my will, tied to a bed when I couldn’t deal, and then was locked in a tiny psych holding cell. I would remain there two and a half days while awaiting placement, locked in the majority of the time “for my safety.” I tried to leave again, overwhelmed with emotion and unable to regulate. I narrowly avoided restraints again. I had no ability to regulate my emotions. I was breaking down frequently. I pounded on others’ doors if I felt they were being too loud and would be promptly locked back in mine. I got moved cells a couple times, eventually put in a corner room with no neighbors.

This was just the beginning of a nightmare that would last nearly two weeks.