Documenting my journey through the mental health system

Monday came, and as the MHT came to take my vitals, I woke groggy and lightheaded from the meds I was given for sleep, namely Zyprexa. I took a shower for the first time in a few days, and this took monumental effort. I didn’t go to breakfast but there was coffee. Everything is so strict. They have coffee available right there in the snack room, but I can’t have any till breakfast comes to me, since I refused to get on that crowded elevator to the dining room.

I moved through the day in a fog, trying to fake it as I sat quietly in groups, there but not there, quiet as flashbacks from the ER played powerfully in my head. Attending groups meant getting out, and I desperately wanted out. Taking medications mindlessly. A psychiatrist came to see me, and I stared blankly as he stated he would increase my antidepressant medication as well as prescribe additional medication for my poor sleep. No Ativan or Klonopin because of my history of alcohol abuse. He asked me if I wanted to hurt myself. “I don’t want to hurt myself. I want to kill myself.” And I absolutely meant it. I was still attempting to make a plan, to figure it out, to find a means of suicide right there in the hospital. I never said this to him.

There were two phones on the wall near the nurse station. I managed to make a few phone calls. Called my coworker who watched my cat and my apartment. Called one of my brothers who became one of only three people who knew where I was. Called my psychologist at the VA who made an appointment for the following Monday. She informed me this would go a long way toward possible release. I secretly doubted I’d feel better in just a week, but I readily agreed with the appointment time.

In the evening group, the final wrap up for the day, I stated on my paper how I managed to go to every group (the daily goal from that morning) however I felt completely wretched. I wrote that the sense of hopelessness was absolutely profound, and I would never get better.

I didn’t know it, but they were having meetings about me. I moved slowly and sluggishly, couldn’t speak above a whispered mumble, and laid awake most of the night, startled by room checks and the loud noises of slamming doors, other patients, more slamming doors and what sounded like crashing objects. The noise continued during the day. So much noise. I ran to my door, screaming out of it, “why all the crashing and banging?!” and slammed my door hard. I threw myself on my bed, crying, wrapping my pillow around my head and ears, trying to drown out the noise of a mental hospital. Doors aren’t allowed to be completely shut, and a male nurse came in, trying to talk to me. I did not engage, only sobbed. I was placed in seclusion for agitation. They put me in the small room with a bluetooth speaker and played music for me. This would happen a few more times – being placed in seclusion with music to calm me down. The music was crucial and it did calm me.

Then I saw the paperclip in the windowsill. A forbidden item. How did it get here? I immediately began scratching myself with it, drawing blood on my arm, desperate to feel anything besides this agony and despair. Then placed it carefully back where I had found it. Didn’t tell anyone about it.

Another fitful night of sleep, broken by slamming doors and 15-minute room checks. Additional PRNs in the middle of the night to try to get me to go back to sleep. Already awake in the morning, early, for 6am vital signs. I wrote something in my journal each day. Trying to track time, even drawing out a little calendar. Sometimes, the hospital was more boring than anything else. “Free time” after groups and during shift report. Unable to concentrate, I couldn’t even read the couple books I’d been given.

That Tuesday morning did not begin well. I missed shower time after finally falling asleep in the morning, not waking till breakfast at 8am. I was denied a shower and tearfully asked if I could at least brush my teeth. I then began crying in the med line, unable to stop, and quickly went to my room. I sobbed bitterly on my bed as the doctor came in. Told him my shitty morning – meals are too rushed, I just wanted a shower, I wanted to go home. They gave me Vistaril for my anxiety, which had little effect.

I tried to write about my despair. It is very hard to find any purpose or meaning. I felt I had none. Nihilists and absurdists are quick to assert there are no inherent meanings or purposes to life, whether individually, or in the grand scheme of things. That you have to find your own meaning, find what’s important to you. And for me, that seemed impossible. I value certain things like my intelligence, practicality, and discipline. But where is the meaning in that? I’m a CNA and will likely remain one forever. I grow more discouraged every day, death by a thousand cuts, till I end up in a place like this.

What if you just don’t believe in meaning? What if my brain’s wiring is such that I am totally unable to hold onto or believe in a higher meaning/purpose? I was disturbed by this, as it meant my prognosis was not good. It suggested what I had been saying this whole time – that I am beyond help.

That evening, I had my assessment. Asked about my depression, about my suicidality, did I want to hurt myself? Yes, oh god yes. And they found the paperclip. Two nurses sat in front of me.

“Angel, we’re so worried about you. After hurting yourself and finding this paperclip, we’re going to take your bedding and replace it with a green anti-suicide blanket.”

“Do what you gotta do,” I muttered.

“It’s not a punishment, Angel. We really want to keep you safe.” I was subsequently placed on increased suicide precautions.

I went back to my room after the evening group and my shower curtain was gone, the bathroom privacy curtain was gone, my bedding was replaced by the anti-suicide blanket, a sort of sleeping bag with no zipper, and a built-in pillow. I sighed in despair, climbing into the blanket. That was the night I began sleepwalking. I didn’t even fall asleep till two in the morning. The next thing I remember it was nearly five in the morning, but apparently, I had walked all over, trying to get out, pushing on doors, walking into other patient’s rooms.

By Wednesday I was unable to move much. I did not eat. Did not attend groups. I laid in bed, in and out of consciousness. At some point in the afternoon, I was served more court papers but couldn’t quite process what they meant. The doctor was petitioning for more time in the hospital. The 5 days was up, and I certainly wasn’t going anywhere. Then that night it came to me, how to kill myself. It was so simple that I was surprised it hadn’t come to me before. I would have done it too, except for one crucial mistake I would make the next day, Thursday.