Documenting my journey through the mental health system

I detailed in depth the story of my very recent detainment, violent and traumatic. I’m still dealing with flashbacks and bad dreams. It triggered a lot of other older, terrifying memories of the first time I was detained 10 years ago. That too was violent and traumatic. And I really hoped it would never happen again.

At the time, I was nearly finished with my first year of graduate school. I was not in a good practicum however, a crucial component of the grad school process and my program in particular – social work. I wanted to be a clinician. Or a psychologist. My practicum supervisor was looking for any excuse to let me go, it turned out, and found the chance when I took some paperwork home I wasn’t supposed to remove from the office. They fired me.

I had been experiencing some decline up to this point. Stress, anxiety over my inability to fit in with my cohort, shoddy medication compliance, crying in every appointment with my therapist at the time. There were also family problems and work stress – I was trying to balance a full time job with the demands of full time grad school. My brother lived with me after he got out of jail. After I lost my practicum, I essentially gave up. I quit my meds, didn’t answer phone calls, stayed in bed. I’m not sure how I finished that quarter’s classes. Or why. I would never see the inside of a grad school classroom again.

My therapist at the VA was new to me. I had only been seeing her since that winter and she worked hard to help me process what had happened, how I could move forward, and why my cutthroat, competitive attitude might not be a good thing in the type of program I was pursuing. I had been such a rock star in undergrad and graduated cum laude from my university. I wanted to be that same rock star in grad school but even this early on, the whispers of doubt about my ability to succeed in this program were getting louder. Even that early on, it was questionable that I would be a good fit in a social work program.

In June of 2014 I attempted to hang myself from some piping that snaked through my closet and my brother, who was living with me at the time, caught me. He was freaked out but tried to comfort me, ask what I wanted to do, go to a hospital? Call your counselor? I didn’t want to do anything. I wanted to die. He insisted I get in to see my counselor, so I eventually did. I saw her sometime that week. I felt absolutely crushed, empty, exhausted, and in so much pain. I felt I would never amount to anything and my life was ending. What did it matter what I said? Everything was over.

She asked if I was having thoughts of self harm. I mentioned that I had tried to hang myself at home till my brother stopped me. She was careful to hide her alarm. She asked if I’d like to go into 3 South, the voluntary-only psych ward at the VA. I shook my head no. “I’m just going to go home.” I got up to leave and she quickly insisted I sit and wait a moment while she consulted with the suicide prevention coordinator. She came in after a few minutes to assess me. Heather, my counselor, gave her a quick run down of how I’d been feeling, not taking meds, recent suicide attempt, etc.

“Angel, we’re really worried about you and would like to get you some help. Would you be willing to spend a few days with us in 3 South?”

“No,” I shook my head dully.

“Angel, we can’t let you leave. Are you willing to accept treatment or do we need to make you?”

“Make me,” I answered, flat and monotone. I wasn’t trying to be obstinate or difficult, I just didn’t know what else to say or do.

The VA police were notified and I was escorted down to urgent care, our version of an ER. My whole life felt over, ruined, and I had done it. I kept thinking of my classmates who would move on to their 2nd year without me. Of the careers they would have while I had just wasted over a year and 20 grand. Everything felt like a huge waste of time. What was I thinking?? I felt like such a colossal fool.

The police stood guard as I was poked, prodded, stripped, changed into pajamas, and tagged with a hospital bracelet. They took blood and the suicide prevention coordinator urged me to hang on, to fight. I said I can’t…I don’t have any fight left. She seemed disappointed by this response.

I wanted to leave. Wanted a cigarette. I used to smoke cigarettes back then. I couldn’t leave, I had to wait for an MHP (mental health professional) to evaluate me for possible detention in a mental hospital, since 3 South was no longer available to me. Even if I changed my mind, they called it “bad faith” and I was not a good candidate for voluntary treatment. When the MHP finally came late that night, I engaged little. He asked if I wanted to kill myself. “I don’t want to talk about that,” I muttered, turning away. I ignored him.

Later he served me detention papers. I sort of snapped, throwing the papers back at him and yelling that I had to get out of here! A couple of nurses and the police behind them crowded at the door and told me to take an ativan to calm down or I’d get a shot. I took the ativan and slept fitfully off and on. I’m not sure how long I was in that ER, a nurse constantly watching me as I was a 1:1. Daylight came and I was given some breakfast but didn’t eat anything. Finally I was informed I’d be taken to foothills stabilization center, a mental hospital run by the county. I got in the ambulance like they told me, barely able to even look up. I was brought inside, made to change into their grey pajamas, and that night, I used the T-shirt to attempt to hang myself from the shower. I tried and tried, the damn thing was too stretchy. I got it to attach to the shower head well enough, and tied around my neck well enough, but I couldn’t find something to stand on. I just needed an inch, maybe two. Ugh. After a half hour of fighting with the stupid shirt and my tip toes still touching the floor, I got tired and went back to bed. No one caught me. I didn’t tell anyone. But the next day, they would notice the big red welt around my neck and all hell would break loose.