Documenting my journey through the mental health system

People started coming in to my tiny psych holding cell. First someone who said they were a social worker. Asked me about family, mental health history, substance use history. Asked if I wanted to kill myself. I did not really engage with her. She informed me I was detained while awaiting a designated crisis responder, or DCR, to come evaluate me. This person would decide if I was to remain detained or released. A doctor came to see me next, asking me if this was the worst day of my life. “Every day is the worst day of my life! Worse than the one before, and the one before that!” I sobbed into my pillow. I was disheveled and angry, insisting on going home, not understanding I simply cannot, and paranoid. I told the doctor I didn’t trust anyone here. He said he was glad I was here and stepped out. He had talked with me only about 5 minutes.

The DCR lady came and attempted to talk with me. I was crying, insisting I can’t be helped so stop trying. I wanted to die. I wished desperately for death. I was definitely going to remain detained.

The second day in that psych hold ER was agony. I sobbed intermittently into my pillow, unable to tolerate the TV being on though they encouraged it at times, for distraction. I was medicated frequently with klonopin and ativan. This was the day I was allowed to take a shower in the adjoining bathroom in our “pod” or psych hold area. There was a CNA there, a CNA like me but a mental health one. She combed my hair when I was unable to get the comb through my curls after the shower. I never felt so wretched as I did then in that helpless moment.

They fed me – little takeout food containers with finger foods only, no utensils allowed. Sandwiches, chicken strips, grilled cheese, tater tots. I ate very little during this time.

I demanded my phone. My cat was home alone, I was desperate to call someone to check on her, make sure she’s fed, etc. My coworker was going to take her upon my death. They did not want me to have my phone. I begged – “even in jail you get a phone call! Please, I need to just get the number out of it!” I was yelling and agitated. It took some time but they finally allowed me to get some numbers out of my phone and I was able to call my coworker who came to the ER and got my keys. This did make me less anxious and volatile.

The social worker came to see me again, saying they were working on finding me placement for involuntary psychiatric treatment. This was a process that could take awhile. I was served detention papers and cried bitterly anew.

Throughout this time in the ER I had no emotion regulation or impulse control. It seemed I was almost always locked in my little room. After another attempt at leaving they crowded at the door, insisting I try the TV, if nothing else, then for some background noise that wasn’t the screaming and crying and slamming doors frequently heard in the psych hold pod. They put it on comedy central and I remember the Office was on. I did manage to calm down some, and another anxiety medication was given to me. I was heavily medicated during this time. They gave me a composition notebook and a crayon, no pens allowed. I tried to write my horror into its pages, breaking two crayons in the process.

Finally, two days and two nights later on the 27th, I was placed on a gurney and transported by ambulance to a mental hospital built recently, in 2018. I had heard of it. I was so scared and beaten down and so dead inside I could barely speak when they buckled me in and took me away. I sat in a locked processing room with some paperwork to fill out. I’m not sure I did any of the paperwork right and didn’t really care. I was tagged with a hospital bracelet. I was allowed to use my phone during this time before it was taken away. I wrote down every number I could think might be important. I had the wherewithal to pay my rent – it was nearly August after all. I let my tenants know I would not be available and gave them the maintenance guy’s number. I tried to be thorough, I did want to reduce stress. My whole life was on hold.

My admission was completed by that night. It was around 8 or 9pm. They fed me some dinner they had saved for me. It was ravioli. I normally like ravioli but everything tasted like sawdust and I had no appetite at all. I had lost about 10 pounds prior to this hospitalization. From 140 pounds to 130. Too low for my height.

I slept very fitfully that night, constantly awoken by dreams, the noise of the hospital, and plain fear. Room checks were every 15 minutes and I would startle awake after falling asleep, jumpy, paranoid, and wide awake yet again. I was given PRNs vistaril and melatonin for sleep but it did little.

The next day would involve the first day of my treatment. A very long 9 days would continue. And it would get much worse before it got better.