Documenting my journey through the mental health system

“They’ll never let you go.”

My eyes flew open at the voice. No one was in the room. My head was throbbing and I was confused, not remembering where I’d been taken the day before and where I was.

“You will be their guinea pig. They’re going to experiment on you,” the ominous voice said again. I put my hands over my ears.

I’d heard voices before. When acutely manic, and acutely suicidal, distressed or rapidly decompensating. They always frightened me, yet were commanding and overpowering. I was always afraid to talk about them – to doctors, counselors, therapists. It meant admitting I was crazy, too ill for a normal life, too sick to ever be taken seriously. In fact I’ve only told four people in my whole life. I covered my ears with my hands and begged softly for him to shut up.

“You’re gonna be an experiment,” the voice replied. The funny thing about hearing voices is their power – you don’t question it. You believe it and you believe them. My heart was pounding and I was scared – what experiments??

An MHT (mental health technician) came to my room, standing at the doorway. I was leaned up in the corner, my hands over my ears, whispering to myself and the voice. I jumped when he said my name.

“It’s time for some breakfast…are you okay?” His eyes traveled to my neck. I nodded numbly and went to the dining room as instructed. I stared at my breakfast, not seeing it, only hearing that voice.

“You better run. Don’t take their drugs.” I wanted to cover my ears again but I didn’t dare in front of the staff. They were already giving me surreptitious glances, thinking I didn’t notice. I left the dining room.

A doctor came for me. “Angel? Let’s go to my office.”

I blindly followed, I was nervous and afraid. “That guy is dangerous.”

I sat in the chair next to the desk. He looked hard at me. “What happened to your neck?”

I had forgotten about that. I wished the floor would swallow me up in that moment. I looked away, my throat choked up, I couldn’t talk. “You should kill yourself. And do it right this time,” that voice said. I didn’t dare look at the doctor. Or whoever he was. I honestly wasn’t sure.

“Angel?” I jumped, looked over at the doctor. “Angel, what is it? What happened to your neck?”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. Did you try to hurt yourself?”

“I wanted to hang myself dead,” I answered bluntly.

He wrote some things down. Called an MHT. Looked over at me. “Angel, this isn’t a game.”

I slowly looked over at him. “What did you just say to me?”

I’ve mentioned previously my history with court ordered anger management and IOP, my temper, especially in my 20s, and my ability to absolutely fly off the handle when provoked. I like to think I’m not so easily quick tempered as I used to be, but at that time and in this place, I had no emotion regulation.

“GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT BEFORE YOU BECOME THEIR PRISONER FOREVER.” That voice boomed in my head as I stood. I shoved everything off the guy’s desk. I picked up the trash can and threw it at the wall.

“DO I LOOK LIKE I’M FUCKING PLAYING?? MAYBE I WANT TO PLAY A GAME! HOW ABOUT WE PLAY FUCK OFF TOGETHER??” I was screaming, trashing his office, ripping stuff off the walls. “OR MAYBE YOU WANT TO FIND FRESH MEAT FOR YOUR EXPERIMENTS!” I kicked his desk over onto the floor.

The office was surrounded by windows facing into the unit. A crowd of patients was gawking in through those windows, and staff were running toward the door where the doctor hovered, half in and out of the doorway, jumping away from the crashing desk. He gave some instructions to one of them and they took off. I didn’t know it yet but 911 was being called for police assistance.

“Angel, try to calm down,” he urged, staying back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Get out of my way!” I yelled, glaring, marching directly at him, for the door. He did jump out of the way, where a crowd of staff were waiting, also trying to talk me down. I did not listen.

“I’m leaving! Get out of my fuckin way!” And I shot back at the doctor behind me, “so I can play my fuckin games in peace!”

I shoved at staff. I headed for the main doors. They blocked me, a so-called “show of force” used to calm or encourage a patient to be cooperative. They grabbed me and I screamed, yelling at them to let me go, as I was quite literally dragged toward the seclusion room. Foothills stabilization did not use restraints. I was tossed inside and the door slammed shut. I pounded on the door, glaring at them as they looked at me through the observation window.

“Let me go!! Let me go you fucking bastards!!” I pounded on that window hard. All the other patients had been moved to their rooms. Staff were talking with each other, writing notes. The door had no knob or latch or anything. I kicked it, beat on it, screamed for release. The little room was the size of a walk-in closet, soft padding on the floor and walls.

I saw through the window two police officers coming. “They’re coming to make you their prisoner,” the voice said. I started to cry. My anger was giving way to fear. I beat on that window in desperation. “Let me out of here!!”

The officers studied me. The doctor was telling them something. Paramedics were coming in behind them, hauling a gurney. “See?” the voice taunted. “They’re coming to take you away forever.”

Tears welled in my eyes as the cop tried talking to me through the window. “Angel? What’s going on?”

“Let me go!” I yelled, hammering on the window. I got a small measure of satisfaction when he jumped just slightly.

“We can’t do that, Angel. We’re going to get you some help.”

I heaved with sobs and panic, my hands pressed against that window. “We’re going to open the door now Angel. We’ll take you to Sacred Heart and get you some help. Can you back away from the door?” The second cop was saying.

“Let me go! I don’t want your hospitals or drugs or experiments! Let. Me. Go,” I pounded on the window, emphasizing each word.

The door opened and the police tackled me, shoving my arms behind my back and holding me down. I screamed. I was just as abruptly hauled up and slammed on the waiting gurney. “Angel, try to relax,” one of the paramedics said, restraints being wrapped tightly around my wrists and ankles while I struggled and screamed. They put straps across my chest and over my legs. I was being taken away, moving down the hall. I yanked and pulled at the restraints, yelling, cursing, demanding release. I was ignored and they talked about me in front of me: “he needs a higher level of care than we can provide here. Suicide attempt last night.”

“He’s paranoid about human experimentation.”

“He’s not been on his medication for over two months.”

“He trashed my office.”

I was taken to the waiting ambulance where I was still struggling, pulling, demanding release, crying, sputtering.

“Angel, relax. Relax, you’re tied down,” one of them said gently, patting my shoulder. I pulled away, screaming absolute bloody murder.

The two paramedics looked at each other. “It’s going to be okay Angel, no one wants to hurt you.”

“They’re definitely going to hurt you,” the voice interrupted and I wept bitterly. I ignored those paramedics while they tried to reassure me, looking away, straining at the restraints even though it was futile.

I was taken to Sacred Heart, a hospital with its own psychiatric ER and two inpatient psych units – one a smaller unit for acute patients and one a general unit. I was moved, still struggling and yelling to be released, into a small psych holding cell, and surrounded by half a dozen staff and security guards. They ignored my pleas and unstrapped me, lifting my whole body forcefully and slamming me hard onto the waiting bed, holding me down by my chest, arms legs…as I was strapped down. I screamed with the voice screaming in my head. “Let me go, godammit! Let me go!” I strained, I struggled, I sobbed…and they all left the room, shutting me inside. I could see them peering in at me through the observation window, talking about me amongst themselves. I was unhinged, sobbing, terrified, angry. I pulled so hard on those restraints I gave myself bruises.

A security guard and a nurse walked in. She was holding a needle.

“Angel, I have a medication that will help you relax and feel better,” she tried to sound reassuring.

“NO! NO DRUGS!” I screamed, remembering what the voice had said. White hot terror flowed through me anew as the security guard held down my arm and shoulder. The nurse pulled down the sleeve of the shitty T shirt that wouldn’t kill me and poked the needle into my arm. I thrashed as hard as I could but got nowhere under the full weight of that guard. I wailed in fury and agony, my head tossing back and forth violently. I sobbed bitterly when they let up off me, already a dark cloud coming over my vision. I pulled at the restraints, much weaker this time, and moaned. I struggled against the drug, tried to fight it like the voice said…but I was getting heavier and heavier, sinking deeper and deeper. I felt staff around me again, and saw blurred shapes and faces hovering over mine, shining lights into my eyes, putting blood pressure cuffs on me, poking needles in me, talking to me from what sounded like a far, far away place. I couldn’t understand them very well. I tried to blink the fog away and moaned again. It got darker and darker, and eventually, I couldn’t see, hear, or move at all.