Documenting my journey through the mental health system

My first week in the hospital, a living nightmare, had passed. On day seven I felt so groggy, so heavy and sedated, I barely noticed when they came for vitals at 6am. The doctor came to see me first thing.

“How are you feeling?”

“Shitty,” I could barely mumble. I kept my eyes closed.

“Dirty?” He asked, not quite understanding me.

“That too,” I sighed. It had been a couple days since my last shower. I laid in the fetal position, wrapped in my suicide blanket. “I’m cold.”

“We can get you a scrub jacket.”

I don’t remember what he said after that. I passed out.

Later, someone shook me awake for breakfast. They had a scrub jacket for me. I startled, my heart beating faster, which felt weird in my groggy body. I shook my head no to breakfast and closed my eyes again. They came back after breakfast to let me know it was time for meds. I managed to heave myself up, shuffled to the doorway, and over to the med line. I sat on the floor, too weak to stand.

I slept until lunch. I was getting a lot of sleep. They tried to get me for groups – some yoga, mindfulness, boundaries, coping skills, etc. I slept.

At lunch I forced myself up when I was woken again. I was very scared of the doctor potentially shoving a tube up my nose so I wandered to the common area tables and sat at my tray. I didn’t acknowledge the other patients. There were only eight of us. A few of them stared at me. Lunch was pasta with alfredo sauce and chicken. I ate slowly, sometimes dozing off and nearly pitching face first into my food. The nurses and MHTs would gently bring me back, offer more fluids, offer more milk (I love whole milk). I finished the high calorie milkshake.

The nutritionist came to see me. I tried to sit up, exhausted from the effort. We went over foods I liked – cheeseburgers are basically my favorite food, but also I like pasta, lots of vegetables, cheese, beef and basically any meat. I told her what I don’t like – things like wheat bread, scrambled eggs, rice, any non-whole fat dairy products.

“I can put a cheeseburger on every dinner tray if you like. You can have pizza if you want.”

I nodded, saying that would be fine. She talked about the importance of caloric intake when trying to gain weight and encouraged me to eat the high calorie, high carb and high protein foods I was given. Eat all my snacks, drink all the shakes, avoid the feeding tube…

At my assessment the nurse told me they had a morning meeting and discussed me at length. They wanted to see how I would do in the general psych unit, but believed I was not quite ready. She asked if I felt ready. Was I having thoughts of hurting myself? Was I making a plan for suicide, did I have intent? For once, the answer was no, not really. I am too tired.

“I know the meds are strong. We’ve seen how slow you’re moving compared to your first few days. Any voices today?”

“No,” I replied dully. “I hate these meds. I don’t feel good.”

“I know,” she said sympathetically. “We can talk to the doctor about adjustments now that you’re a bit more stable. We’ll discuss among the treatment team when to put you in the general unit. How is the depression?”

“I don’t really feel alive anymore. Like I’m already dead, just a shell, a husk, of who I used to be. I just exist and I don’t know why.”

The doctor wanted to do some psychological testing on me. The MMPI, or Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, contained 567 true/false questions designed to detect mental and personality disorders. It can even tell if you’re lying. I sat at the table with a flexipen and the long questionnaire, feeling overwhelmed. It took me over two hours. I laid on the floor at one point, face down, needing to feel the floor so it would stop moving. They asked me to get up and not lay on the floor. I also took the PHQ-9, assessing depression, and the GAD, assessing anxiety. I was already diagnosed with bipolar disorder but the doctor added “with psychotic features.”

“Have you ever been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder?” He asked after the testing.

“No,” I mumbled quietly.

“Your testing showed strong borderline characteristics, including poor self image, interpersonal difficulties, and emotion dysregulation.”

“Okay,” I answered, not sure what else to say.

I was wrapped up in my suicide blanket, and moaned softly. “I don’t feel good.”

“I want you to try and move around a little bit. Get a shower, keep eating. Go to a group.”

“I’m so tired…this is torture, doc…” I muttered and struggled to keep my eyes open.

“We can look at med adjustments now that you’re calmer and less volatile. I know you’ve been very groggy.”

I was losing consciousness again. The fog of drug induced haze pushed my eyelids down and I slept till dinner. I cried quietly as I was roused and told to get up to eat. I dragged my feet, a typical shuffle in patients doped up on anti-psychotics. I kept crying as I ate and I wasn’t sure why. My stomach was queasy and knotted. I felt so heavy. The other patients were looking at me. I had tried to sit by myself but another patient was across from me.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” I shook my head and wiped my hand across my face.

I laid back in bed, curled up on my side, pulling the thick, heavy blanket up to my neck and sobbed. My situation seemed hopeless, I was too damaged and fucked up to ever get better, I was being drugged against my will, and wished fervently for death.

Then the sleepwalking started.