Documenting my journey through the mental health system

“Please, don’t make me take seroquel anymore, the RLS is unbearable. Please,” I begged the doctor on my sixth day, plagued with jerking and twisting legs all night, kicking, moaning, and walking around my room in anxious desperation. Room checks, where I was offered more PRNs, startled me every 15 minutes.

“Okay…okay,” the doctor said reassuringly. “There are always other options. I can increase your nightly trazodone to help you sleep.”

I’d been in the hospital six days. The nurse was extolling me to eat, my appetite shot with the queasiness induced by heavy anti-psychotic medication. My med list was as follows:

Zyprexa (anti-psychotic): 12 mg (maximum dosage) twice a day
Abilify (anti-psychotic): 15 mg, morning
Trazodone (anti-psychotic): 100 mg, twice a day
Seroquel (anti-psychotic): 100 mg, twice a day (later discontinued because of side effects)
Prozac (anti-depressant used in conjunction with zyprexa): 50mg (maximum dosage)
Remeron (anti-depressant): 15 mg nightly (appetite stimulant)
Depakote (mood stabilizer): 1000mg, twice a day
Vistaril (anti-anxiety): 100mg, twice a day

I had been nibbling at my food as it came, still trying to detect poison, terrified at the thought, trying to determine what kind of poison it could be, what it would do to me. I had lost another five pounds, and was down to 101 pounds. I couldn’t hear any voices. The anti-psychotics were strong and absolutely sedated me, my mind still spinning but quieter. My body was heavy, slow as molasses, and my eyes remained half shut when I could wake up. I suppose I became easier to manage as a patient, as I laid curled up in my anti-suicide blanket, shivering and barely conscious, barely able to move. The doctor was standing against the wall, talking at me.

“How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” I whispered. It was true. The meds might as well have been poison, as sedated as I was. I didn’t like it.

“These meds have side effects that make a person very groggy but that should get less severe with time. How are the voices?”

“I can’t hear anything,” I closed my eyes. Too tired to hold them open.

“Are you eating? The nurse said in our morning meeting you didn’t eat anymore than a couple bites of dinner last night and nothing yet today.”

“I’m trying. My stomach hurts.”

“That’s a side effect that will get easier with time. But you’re not maintaining your current weight, you’re losing. Angel, if you can’t increase your caloric intake, and drink the high calorie milkshakes at each meal, we’ll have to consider a feeding tube.”

“What??” I gasped softly, my heart beating faster. “No, no tubes.” I tried shaking my head, dizzy all of a sudden.

“If you don’t gain some weight in the next few days, we’ll have to strongly consider that step, you’re severely underweight. We would place a feeding tube in your nose. In restraints if necessary.”

I started to cry. The doctor tried to assure me it was only a last resort option. “Eat your lunch and dinner. It’s okay if you take a long time. We’ll also have additional snacks and milkshakes for you between meals. I’ve ordered a high calorie diet. We’ll send in the nutritionist to determine foods you like, that you’ll be more likely to eat. I’m also going to prescribe another medication to stimulate your appetite, it’s just an anti-depressant.”

I groaned.

He left and I cried in my blanket, wishing I was dead. An MHT came in, looking concerned. “It’s time for lunch, Angel – let’s try to eat something, okay?”

I reluctantly peeled myself out from under the blanket, it’s heavy warmth insisting I climb back in. I shivered from the cold, wearing only the scrub shirt and it was short sleeved.

I got up to follow the MHT and made it a few steps before feeling really dizzy. My vision darkened at the edges and I blinked, willing the spots and flashing lights to stop. I collapsed, fainted, and hit the floor hard.

The next thing I remember is lying on my back on the floor, blinking at the bright ceiling light. Always hated fluorescent lights. I looked around – a nurse was checking my pulse, the doctor was there, pressing his stethoscope onto my chest. “Angel? Angel?” They were calling to me. “He’s waking up.”

“Check his blood sugar. It’s probably tanking,” someone said. I felt a poke in my finger and winced. Someone held my hand as I tried to pull it away.

“62,” the nurse said. He needs to eat right away.”

I made to sit up. They insisted I go slow. I was confused and asked why I was on the floor.

“You fainted. Your blood sugar is too low. Drink this juice,” and someone pushed a cup of orange juice into my hands. I started drinking it, struggling to keep my eyes open.

They helped me up and walked me to the common area tables where my tray was waiting. I tried, I really tried, to eat. I drank the whole milkshake, fluids were easier. I ate part of the meat and a couple pieces of broccoli. I started dozing off in my chair. I felt a nudge and opened my eyes, looking over at the person touching me. An MHT was holding a tissue, and gestured to my mouth. I had been drooling. I blushed hard and got up, stumbling to my room, the MHT quickly following me in case I fell again. Goddamn these drugs.

I climbed slowly into my suicide blanket and shuddered, closing my eyes, too tired from the effort of holding them open. The MHT put the tissues next to me and told me a group was about to start.

“I can’t,” I murmured. “I’m so sleepy…” And I sunk into the oblivion of unconsciousness, a little taste of death.

I slept till dinner, barely waking up for room checks every 15 minutes. I couldn’t roll over, it took too much effort. A nurse woke me up, insisting I get up to eat. “I’m gonna help you walk,” she said firmly, holding my arm. “Okay…I mumbled numbly – the drugs made me less resistant and defiant.

I drank the milkshake and very slowly ate the chicken and mashed potatoes. I sat there long after the other patients were done, dozing off occasionally, gently tapped awake when I did so. I was given a lot of encouragement and praise for finishing half my dinner. My stomach roiled, and then it was time to line up for meds.

I leaned against the wall, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor, drooling onto my chest.