Documenting my journey through the mental health system

I startled awake at 6am on the morning of my first day, July 28, Sunday, as the MHT came into my room. The mental health technician (much like a CNA only not wiping ass like I do) wanted vitals. I looked quite disheveled and was exhausted from poor sleep and severe anxiety at my detention, in what would turn out to be a rather restrictive standalone mental hospital.

Lots of rules. No standing around the nurse station. When getting meals, we’re packed into an elevator and taken to the first floor where the dining room is located. I saw this elevator as patients crowded into it and couldn’t do it. I backed up, telling the MHT I can’t…just then the doctor rescued me, wanting to talk.

He did a small exam, checking out my medical stability. I did not eat any breakfast. I was unable when it was placed in front of me.

More rules. Line up for meals. Only come when called forward, one at a time. Lots of signs reminding us of all the rules. Courteous and respectful of staff. No dumping food in dish pit holders. Refuse in one, cups in another, then plates and plastic spoons and forks (no plastic butter knives). No pouring liquids in the juice dispenser.

Line up for meds. One at a time called forward. The VA had sent over my med list. I was denied my ativan and klonopin, citing my alcohol abuse. I was instead given vistaril, zyprexa, seroquel. My vitals were checked every four hours as they monitored me for DTs related to alcohol withdrawal.

Line up in hallway for access to our rooms, locked when not in them. Line up for hygiene buckets. No personal hygiene products allowed. Shower times only after vitals, after lunch, or after the day’s last group at night. I had no energy for a shower. When you’re in the mental hospital, you not only feel like shit, you look like shit too.

No personal clothes allowed except plain t-shirts or sweaters. No shoes – slippers or hospital socks only. Issued two sets of hospital pajamas. No hardcover books or journals. Deaconess had given me a composition notebook and I had begun to write with the small flexipen I was allowed to have. Trying to keep track of time and date, which moves strangely in a mental hospital.

I had to attend groups throughout the day if I hoped to get out. My five day hold (not 3 in this state, as is common) had only begun the Thursday I was detained and weekends didn’t count. It was Sunday, not even day 3 yet. I didn’t speak unless a staff member asked me something, and my voice was mumbling and quiet. Everything took monumental energy. Speaking, moving, using the toilet. I thought of suicide constantly, trying to plan, staring off into space as I tried to think of a way. I didn’t tell anyone of my frantic planning. The male voice in my head – one of two voices I kept hearing – yelled at me to kill myself.

Morning group – think of a goal, check off boxes asking about suicidality, voices and hallucinations, do I feel safe? No, but I didn’t admit that. Nor did I admit to hearing voices. Next group – making the most of your psychiatric medications. Before it could even start, another patient was yakking and bitching about a covid positive patient sequestered in their room. Bitching about vaccines, the stupidity. I had no impulse or emotion regulation and snapped – “would you shut the fuck up?!” I yelled, jumping out of my chair and going for the door. I demanded “let me out!” still unsure how the suicide proof door handles worked. I got it open and marched to my room, slamming the door, covering my ears, sobbing. I could STILL hear him out there, bitching about nonsense. An MHT came to attend to me, assuring me this would not be held against me, I was not in any trouble. Trying to assure me I would be okay. She left momentarily, and I could still hear him out there… “shut the fuck up!” I heard him respond from out in the common area, “I’m not talking to you!” I responded, screaming, “Everyone can hear your bullshit! Nobody cares!” More staff came to my room. It wasn’t just the idiot patient…it was everything that had led up to this moment. Overwhelming me. Terrified of being locked up with these people. I have nothing in common with them. I told the MHT this and she readily agreed. I am educated, have a career (of sorts) a few normal friends, two houses and an apartment, a 2022 honda hybrid car. My whole life on hold. The life I didn’t want.

More groups, broken up by meals. I was asked in one, “how do you feel right now?” I answered, barely above a whisper, “trapped. I am forced to be here. I’m really scared.”

I did attend every group that day. Not sure how I pulled that off. I cried off and on, unable to contain it. I would cry everyday for the next 9 days as I continued to decompensate.