Documenting my journey through the mental health system

Friday night dragged on, a nurse or MHT in my room to check me every 5 minutes. Looking into my eyes, saying my name. Writing something on their clipboard. I laid there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for that black hole to swallow me up. I remember lying awake and unable to move for most of the night.

Friday morning dragged into view. They checked me for incontinence again. The doctor came in, shining his lights in my eyes and pressing his stethoscope on my chest. The nurse stood over me as well.

“Keep him comfortable. I’ll check back.”

They rolled me onto my side and tucked me in. I remember closing my eyes. I’m not sure I slept. I’m not sure I was awake. There’s an in-between dream state the mind will retreat to, a safe place of unfeeling and undesiring. I think I was in this space.

“Angel. Angel, can you hear me? Can you wake up?” Someone was rubbing my arm. I could hear but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even open my eyes.

I heard the doctor’s voice again. Prying my eyes open, shining his light in them. Pressing his stethoscope onto my chest. I could still feel that nurse rubbing my arm. She lifted it to wrap a blood pressure cuff around it and took my vitals. I heard footsteps again. Doors slamming, yelling in the hall, the nurse rubbing my arm. I opened my eyes.

I was alone. Late afternoon sun was lighting up my room. I blinked several times. I looked around, rolling onto my back. I felt so incredibly weak. “Help…” I squeaked, not sure what I needed. Not sure where I was, or what day it was. The suicide smock and blanket was heavy, holding me down. I moaned. Just then, another room check. It was an MHT, who called out to a nurse, “he’s awake!”

I tried sitting up but couldn’t do it. I sobbed, squirming around under the blanket.

“Angel, try to relax. Let yourself wake up.” My eyes rolled over to the voice.

“Who are you?”

“I’m your med nurse, Janet. How are you feeling?”

“Horrible.”

“Try to relax and let yourself wake up,” she repeated. I was crying, scared. “Please…I can’t get up,” I whispered tearfully. I was too weak to sit up.

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Angel. But you’ll feel a little better soon,” and she headed for the door.

I doubted that. I cried, passed out, and woke up crying, over and over. The MHT came in, wrote on her clipboard.

“Wait please…” I choked, looking at her. “Please help me sit up.”

The urge to sit up was overpowering. I had to pee. She took me by the arm and helped me up, the smock and blanket trying to weigh me down. I sighed, looking around, confused.

“Am I in a mental hospital?”

“Yes you are,” she answered, concern clear in her voice.

I got up to go to the bathroom and nearly pitched face first onto the floor. She grabbed by arm, steadying me, and I made it to the toilet just in time. I might have fallen asleep on it if she hadn’t been there. My shower curtain and bathroom privacy curtain had been taken long ago, I peed in front of god and everyone.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize that person. My hair stuck out in all kinds of ways, making me look like Russel Brand. My skin was dry and flaking, my lips chapped, my mouth sticky and dry. Yep, I thought…you look like a mental patient. I choked on a half laugh, half sob.

She sat me back down on the bed. “Do you remember the last day and a half?”

“Yeah…” I spoke softly, tired from the effort it took. “I couldn’t move or do anything though.”

The nurse came in with meds. “Are you feeling more awake?”

I swallowed the pills without really thinking. I nodded numbly.

“Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten in nearly three days.”

“What time is it? What day is it?” I asked. She told me and I attempted to process it. Time moves so very strangely in a mental hospital. The two of them looked at me and then each other.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Will you drink a boost? They taste kind of like a milkshake.”

I shook my head and then remembered I was supposed to have court.

“I missed court,” I stated bluntly.

“It’s okay, you didn’t need to be there. You’ll remain with us a little longer.”

I thought back a couple days, to the phone call I’d had with a public defender. The two options were accept the doctor’s recommendation for up to two extra weeks in the hospital or fight it, and lose. I told the lawyer then I wouldn’t fight it, I didn’t have any fight left in me.

I had seroquel and vistaril for anxiety. My assessment time came, and the same nurse who took everything and made me wear a smock sat across from me, asking about my suicidal intent. I told her plainly I wanted to die. I wanted to die, and I had no way of accomplishing that now. “We’re going to keep you in the smock for now to keep you safe.”

I slept. For once, normal sleep, a proper nap. When I woke up an MHT was standing over me and I nearly screamed, jumping up.

“You’re okay! You’re okay,” he quickly assured me. It was Rusty, the MHT checking on me every five minutes. “Do you want to eat some dinner?”

I actually did. I was surprised at this. They brought me baked salmon, fried potatoes, steamed carrots, and a piece of carrot cake. And damn if I didn’t eat all of it except half the salmon!

The nurse was very happy. “We were getting very worried about you, Angel. Look at you go,” she smiled.

This marked the start of a small change. I was getting strength back, and I wasn’t crying unbidden. There was no way I would leave my room looking like this, but Rusty waited on me hand and foot, bringing me snacks, drinks, checking on me constantly, as though I was his only patient. I was started on new medication for sleep that night, gabapentin, as well as all my other sleep meds. That night I got up sleepwalking again, and the smock fell off from where it hung on my left shoulder. Night staff saw everything. The nurse attempted to put it back on me and I woke up, yelling “What the hell are you doing!” I was awake, out in the hall, and that is so disconcerting when you last remember being in bed.

The next day marked one week since I’d been brought to this mental hospital. I was gaining energy, it couldn’t be denied. I still thought of death and suicide often, stressed and overwhelmed by life. But I was seeing I had strengths and advantages where other patients did not. There were some really fucked up people in there, people who had no hope of living independently. At least for now, I could.