Documenting my journey through the mental health system

My 7th night saw me pass out shortly after meds, practically asleep before my head hit the pillow. I pieced together my episodes of sleepwalking from medical records, chart notes, and verbal reports. That night I actually got up and started walking around my room. I went out and headed straight for the main doors. Staff attempted to talk to me, to redirect me, but I went to the doors and tried to open them. Of course they were locked and a special key card was required to open them. I wandered around the unit until someone gently took my arm and guided me back. The next morning I was told about this but I never remember sleepwalking. It is only disconcerting when I wake up somewhere other than where I went to sleep.

“Do you have a history of sleepwalking?” The doctor was asking me.

“A little,” I answered, yawning. “I used to as a kid. I did a little in the past couple years and once got picked up by the police when I got outside. It comes and goes.”

“The police?”

“Yeah I was outside wandering in traffic so someone called the police. I simply did not wake up. They called an ambulance and took me to the hospital.”

“I’m going to adjust your meds, make you a little less sedated. I’m changing your morning dose of trazodone and zyprexa to nighttime only, but we’ll leave the vistaril in the morning for your anxiety. How are the voices?”

“I don’t hear anything,” I answered softly. I didn’t have much energy to even talk. After he left, I got my new dose of morning meds and went to breakfast like I was told. I asked for coffee. It had been so long since I had coffee. They gave me some coffee with milk and sugar, just the way I like it, and I mostly sipped on that during breakfast. I picked at my eggs and sausage, managing a few bites. I got weighed and had gained back three pounds. For now, I was avoiding the feeding tube.

The coffee really hit the spot. I actually felt a little more awake, especially since I wasn’t getting trazodone and zyprexa in the mornings. I decided to take a shower, it had been a few days since I had one. They gave me my towels and shower bucket and I washed up, sitting down from exhaustion on the shower floor. I wasn’t completely un-sedated, trazodone has a long half-life, and I fell asleep right there in the shower.

“Angel? Angel?” Someone shook me awake and I jumped. A nurse was looking at me after shaking my shoulder. I instinctively made to cover myself and she looked away.

“Are you okay? We hadn’t heard from you in a little while, I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Yes,” I answered quietly, my voice a little hoarse from sleep. “I’m fine.”

I clambered out of the shower and dried off. It took two of their small hospital towels. I sat down to comb my long hair and work the puny black comb through my curls. I wished I had some kind of product to prevent the frizziness that happens with curly hair. I wished I had my own face wash and razors. I wonder if they will let me shave? I thought. I put some lotion on my dry skin and face and decided to ask.

Under strict supervision, I was allowed to shave, handing the shitty razor back before I even rinsed. I put on more lotion and stared at myself. My eyes were sunk, dark circles under them. My skin was pale as milk, my ribs poked through my skin, my cheeks were hollow from weight loss and my lips were still chapped. But I did look better – I was a lot less disheveled.

I finally attended a group instead of climbing back under the suicide blanket. I was more awake without the trazodone and zyprexa in the mornings, plus being able to have some coffee actually elevated my mood just slightly. The group leader smiled brightly when she saw me. The other patients stared at me.

“Dude what meds were you on?” Chris, the exuberant one, asked.

Was it that obvious? I suppose drooling in the med line would be pretty obvious. “A lot of meds,” I answered, and left it at that.

The group was about managing conflict and interpersonal relationships. Use “I” statements, listen, meet halfway, walk away when things get too heated, etc. I sat quietly and listened but did not speak.

The rest of the day moved slowly. I was definitely more awake. The staff praised me for getting out of bed and out of my room. I learned that the next day, I’d be taken to the general psych unit.

I had to make some phone calls. No one knew where I was except my brother. I had virtually disappeared for nearly two weeks. I needed to call my landlord. They had a unit phone, and they let me use it in the common area. I had my notebook with me. I called my boss and learned that the social worker had called her, and she was very understanding. “Just get better. You can come back to work when you’re ready.” I’m not sure if she knew I was in the psych ward and I didn’t volunteer the information. I called my therapist and social worker at the VA and rushed through a slightly manic rundown of everything that happened. I didn’t tell her some things because it was too painful for me – the flashbacks of restraints, physical and chemical, plus the seclusion room and my descent into madness was still terrifying in my mind. I told her I was going to be moved to the general psych unit because I was more stable. She emphasized focusing on recovery and not worrying about getting out. “Follow what the staff say. Focus on yourself, getting better. We’ll talk again when you get out, I can make an appointment for that same week.”

So I agreed to what she said and hung up. I didn’t know who else to call. No way in hell was I calling my mother. She doesn’t believe I have any mental illness. She doesn’t believe she has mental illness, and it’s so obvious she does. She refuses to get help, believes she can’t even if she wanted to (she can) and she gets literally mad at me if I’m hospitalized. She seems to think I do it for fun. Because the psych ward is an absolute blast. I hate her sometimes, I really do.

I didn’t know who else to call. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. I had cut off communication with all my friends in grad school, too ashamed to face them. My brother was living in my apartment watching the cats and my dog, so I just decided to hope for the best and leave it alone. Hopefully he didn’t burn my apartment down. My job was still intact. That amazed me. My mind felt quieter, a weird lull in a storm dominated by tsunamis.

I decided to lay down for a nap after lunch. I slept for a couple hours when someone came and got me for my assessment. The trazodone’s harsh effects were not feeling so strong, as the slow half life ran its course. The nurse asked me, of course, if I had thoughts of hurting myself. For once, the answer was no.

“I’m trying to figure out how to move on with my life now. I don’t know how to move forward after everything that happened.”

“That is a huge improvement from your condition upon admit. How are the voices?”

“It’s quiet.”

“Tomorrow we’ll move you to the general psych unit. Now that you’re more stable, I think you’ll be better served with expanded group and therapies. Keep up on eating all your meals and snacks.”

That doctor had smashed down the madness of mania with an iron fist, and now that I was not so doped up, now that I was more clear-headed, I had some hard thinking to do.