Documenting my journey through the mental health system

Saturday morning, I took a long overdue shower right after vitals. I wasn’t even allowed to brush my teeth without supervision, and this was no different, but they sat in the room to give me as much privacy as possible. I sat on the floor of the shower, water getting all over the bathroom floor as there was no shower curtain, and soaked. I did not care about the mess. Water has always been a huge coping mechanism for me. In the summer I swim nearly every day I’m not at work, I kayak, I soak in showers for long periods of time, letting the water run all over me. Water is everything.

“Angel, doing okay?” I’d hear the MHT call softly every couple minutes from just outside the open doorway.

“Yes I’m okay,” I’d reply.

I had to put the suicide smock back on afterwards, there was nothing else. Because it was the weekend, I would likely stay in my smock till Monday. This was depressing but my medication adjustments were having a modest effect, giving me some energy, at least enough to finally take a shower. Allowing a bit of appetite. I even slept a little better despite bouts of sleepwalking. Some of my sleep med dosages, like hydroxyzine, seroquel, and trazodone, had been doubled. I was given seroquel in a low dose every few hours for my anxiety. This did help me stay more calm and quiet my mind.

My skin and hair was a mess no matter what I did though. I remember this bothered me a lot – not being allowed to have personal hygiene products. I have curly hair and without some product, it’s so frizzy and sticks out everywhere. I attempted to weigh it down a little with their shitty conditioner – running a bit of it through my hair after my shower and leaving it in. There was nothing in the way of face wash – only a harsh type of hand soap out of a dispenser on the shower wall. I used a washcloth to try to exfoliate, scrape some of the flaking dead skin away, only to create more from the harsh soap, redness increasing. I started trying to take care of myself but there was little to work with. I pushed my hair behind my ears and sighed. I had never got a haircut…it was something I had just fucked off.

I had my assessment. The nurse asked me my goal for the day. “Stay alive,” I responded. She nodded in approval because this was a huge improvement for me, a big change. I added I’d like to try reading to improve my concentration. (Also there was very little else to do besides journaling).

I began to pace and sing. Sing! I spent over a decade in classical voice training and sang the chorus to the Bravery’s Honest Mistake. Over and over again. I did not care who heard me. I’m sure I drove a few people nuts by repeating it over and over but I couldn’t remember the rest of the song and didn’t care besides. In seclusion with the music, this song was played for me, bringing me back to the early 2000s. I sang it now, walking back and forth in my heavy smock, the first steps I’d taken in days. Sometimes I did not even notice when staff conducted a room check while I faced my window, singing that chorus.

I was still easily startled, still on enhanced suicide precautions with five minute room checks. Rusty brought me snacks: cheese sticks (the good kind) chips, electrolyte “IV” water, cranberry juice, whole milk. He and everyone were trying to increase my caloric and fluid intake, which had been dismal for some time. I wasn’t the most successful with eating all these snacks but boredom did help. Sometimes the mental hospital is more boring than anything else, especially when one is sequestered to their room in a suicide smock. I attempted to read, but my concentration was in the toilet. But again, boredom helps – when there is nothing else to do, practice concentration.

I was not capable of eating any breakfast, but Rusty did bring me coffee. Delicious, real coffee, with milk and sugar, just how I liked it. I ate half my lunch, and a majority of my dinner. More than I’d eaten the entire week before, all in one day. I told him I was a CNA too, at the VA hospital.

“I bet you’re really good at it too, especially if you’ve been there 10 years now,” he said. Rusty had an air about him, someone who made you feel safe and feel better.

At shift report, they come to the doorway and basically talk about you as you sit there. Jake was the oncoming night shift MHT, just as beautiful and attractive as Valentino.

“Hello Angel,” he said at the door. He held that ever-present clipboard as Rusty told him I was on five minute room checks while awake, fifteen while asleep. I still remember that “hello Angel.” Where did all these good looking staff come from? How does the mental hospital have such attractive staff?

“He ate part of lunch and most of dinner. Has been walking about his room. It was a good day,” Rusty was telling him. It was true, for the first time in a week I did not cry from abject despair, fear, and hopelessness. I did not have sheer panic and agitation at merely existing. I had some appetite and the food was giving me energy. I was better hydrated and on some powerful medications for mood.

That night I got to sleep walking again but was easily brought back to my room. I had a terrible nightmare and woke up to the nurse shaking me awake. I’m on a medication for nightmares but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have them sometimes. Because of PTSD, I’ve been plagued with nightmares for many years. And they cement themselves in my memory. I don’t get the luxury of forgetting.

The next day I was assessed again and finally received some good news.

Cosmic debris – the detritus that accumulates from mere existence.