So now I have made it through admission at the psychiatric hospital and am on unit. I gave you the description of orientation, which certainly did not orient me to anything. Not much goes on that first night. All I know is that once the others got back from dinner, they were back for about two minutes while they passed out cigarettes for smoke break. I learned very quickly that people here smoke, a lot. Although they only get 3 smoke breaks a day, if it comes one minute late there is hell to pay.
After smoking they all file back in and head to various areas of the unit. Some go to their rooms, some color on the lovely copied coloring book sheets spread out on the tables, some file in to the conference/group therapy/individual therapy/TV room. I was in the TV room, I knew no where else to be.
The unit I was on was for non-psychotic patients. So depression, anxiety, bipolar, anger, and any other mood issue were represented here. We shared a wing with the chemical dependence unit. My first impression of the people? We have quite a mix. I would say the oldest is about 60, the youngest was 20. One guy said he was 19, but we doubted it. He looked about 30, and acted 12. Loud, gangster wanna-be from Arkansas. Most of the people were very laid back. Calm and quiet. Either medications were working or they were plotting. I could think no differently. These people were in here for some serious things right? I mean they weren't all just here for reasons like me, were they?
That night I got my first taste of "Group." Some knucklehead with a clipboard starts yelling "Group!" over and over as he heads to the catch all room we were in. This was evening goals group. Basically you say how you are feeling and if you met the goal you set in the first goals group of the day. I have no goal to share as I have just arrived. My mood? Freaking the fuck out inside. "I'm ok, little anxious, but other than that ok I guess." 'Why are you anxious?' "Well... this is my first time in a place like this." 'Ahh so just nervous about being here?' "I guess so." And we move on. Most people lie in group I come to find out. Responses of great, fantastic, outstanding, spectacular, and even stupendous flow out of people's mouths. There are two common goals. These apply to I would say 80% of the folks in there. The first is to attend groups. The second is to get out of here. They both sound like fine goals to me. I will probably use the first one tomorrow morning.
After group was over it was pushing 10 o'clock. Seems like a good time to go lay down. Luckily I had no roommate yet. They said I would likely get one though. Doors have to remain open, and the light in the hall is very bright. A lot of thoughts got through your mind that first night. Mostly "What am I doing here? I need to be here. Does this mean I am crazy? God, what will tomorrow be like?" I begin to think about my kids and my wife. What they just had to witness and go through. The tears begin again. Remorse, shame, and regret are now my roommates.
When I got here and throughout the evening I never payed much attention to the staff floating around. They were here, they were there. At night though, you are acutely aware of the staff. The reason? Q15 status. Every 10 to 15 minutes the staff has to note where you are, what you are doing, and mood if you are showing one. This is 24 hours a day. The night guy, he does his rounds with a floodlight. You know those big flashlights with the brick of a battery? One of those. Every 12 minutes like clockwork he is there shining that beam on your face. If you have the blanket pulled over your head in an attempt to be shielded from the spotlight inquisition you are asked to pull it down so he can see you. Because, I could have wadded up things to make it look like someone was there when really I was tunneling out using a rock hammer I fashioned out of crayons and markers. With sleep interruptions like these you never know what time it is. You have windows, the blinds are between the panes of glass and are closed. There is an orange streetlight right outside, so the window is perpetually glowing that color regardless of the time. The only clock is all the way down the hall at the nurses station. So if you really want to know, you can stroll down there and check. Let's just leave it at, you never need an alarm clock in the psychiatric hospital.
That night I am up at 2:00am. The reason? Someone comes into my room, takes a crap in my bathroom, flushes and comes around the corner, realizes it isn't their room and heads out. I figured it was a good time to get upi and venture out to the lobby. No TV after a certain time and the room gets locked anyway. I discover that the refrigerator on the unit is stocked with chocolate milk. Salvation. Chocolate milk in hand I sit down on the plastic couch and begin looking through a magazine. "Who will be our next president?" Ok, we are a little over a month from the election. I begin to read the story. Quickly it becomes painfully obvious. It begins talking about if Bush would be back, or if John Kerry, Hilary Clinton, or some other characters would take his place after one term. Flip to the cover. The date February 2004 . Well then. It is 2:30am and I can either read this time warp of a magazine that I already know the endings to, or stare at the wall. Hello wall.
Time goes very slow when you have no where to go and no one to talk to. Being committed, if you want to call it that, gives you a lot of time in your own head. Good, bad, or ugly, it is just you and your thoughts. And for most of us in there, that is a dangerous place.
My first full day in the looney bin. The loud Arkansas native was sent packing. They pretty much discharged him and sent him out on the street. He couldn't find anyone willing to pick him up, so off he went. We all figured he would be back, but alas he must have found his way somewhere. I began to meet the other patients. Most of whom were very good, nice people. They just had problems, like me. A fairly good percentage were either former military or current military. Some there for help, some there to get medically discharged.
I begin to get fairly close to two of the other guys. One just a couple years older than me, the other is only 20. They both have similar stories as mine. Both in there because they did something they shouldn't have. The 20-year-old had already been there for 11 days. That was after the military had to send someone to Florida to get him, as he had done his stupid act while on leave. He hadn't been home for the entire month. We shall refer to him as "A" from here on out. He may have only been 20, but his eyes revealed someone much older. I'm not sure if it was the meds or just him.
Medications are a whole other story in there. The doctors... they like to tinker. Let's change this, let's add that. I wouldn't allow them to add anything. I made them stop giving me benzodiazipines. They put me in a fog, and had made things worse to that point, so I wanted to go without. My inpatient psychiatrist doesn't think it is a good idea, but I don't care.
Later that day I meet with the medical doctor. Things are going great until he looks at me and says "It's time to stop lying. We know you use drugs." Ummm I do? News to me skippy. "You tested positive for high amounts of opiates. So we know you abuse drugs, and since you didn't tell us upfront about it we can't believe anything you say." I am dumbfounded. The last "opiate" I took was a Lortab when I had a kidney stone over a month ago. He will hear none of it. I tell him to contact the hospital I was just at and see if I tested positive there, or to check the one I did for school 2 weeks ago. He just scoffs and looks through my chart. Whaddaya know, negative yesterday. So ummm, where during nearly constant observation between then and now would I have scored myself large amounts of opiates? I later find out from one of the nurses that they get false positives from their tests all the time.
That first day you have a lot of meetings. Medical doctor, psychiatrist, psychologist, social worker, nurse, another social worker, and an expressive therapist. They all pretty much ask you the same things. I assume to see if you change your story, or become irate. I do neither.
All the days are pretty much the same. Schedule is pretty well set, although on the weekend, things don't always take place. Some group sessions are absent. The groups over the weekend were primarily art therapy and music therapy. Plastic scissors, glue sticks, crayons. Kindergarten all over again. Except the art you are making is something you would have expected to come from Marilyn Manson or a young Ozzy Osbourne. And music therapy? A woman with a keyboard sings you songs that are supposed to be uplifting and inspirational. The only uplifting that occurred were the lifting of people's asses out of chairs and out the door.
There are a handful of things very popular in the psych ward. I already mentioned smoking. The others include various card games, football, Criminal Minds, and chocolate milk. I swear to you we went through probably 3-4 gallons of chocolate milk a day. Trash cans filled with those little 8 ounce cartons.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention one of the employees there. He is the epitome of what you don't want to have as an employee, especially with the clientele. He is the guy who works at a place like this solely so he could exert his "power" over the patients. On Sunday coming back from lunch, he was bragging about carrying a gun in his pants. I ask to see it, he tells me it is there, and if he shows it to me it would be to shoot and kill me. I press again, "Where are you hiding it? You have no bulge on the small of your back, hips, or front of your pants, pockets have noting in them, and it isn't by your ankle because you just lifted your pant leg to scratch your leg. So where is this gun in your pants?" If you can't tell I have had it with him at this point. He had been talking down to me and others all day. He responds with, "It's a small gun." Regrettably I could not keep myself from responding "Man, your girlfriend must hate that small gun in your pants." This guy during my stay will make 4 other patient's cry, after I hurt my knee (I will explain in a bit) he told me he was going to kick my white ass up and down the hall, told me to stand up so he could kick me in my knee and watch me fall, and asked when I was being discharged so he could wait for me in the parking lot so he could show me his gun. Not the most therapeutic person.
So the knee story. While at "gym time" we were playing volleyball. Mind you the court is carpet over concrete. At one point I jump, land, and pop with pain. Sharp behind my knee right at the top of my calf. I think maybe it is just a bad cramp or pulled muscle. The rest of gym time I spend hobbling around. It hurts so bad by dinner I decide to stay on unit and not go to the cafeteria to eat. It took over 24 hours to be seen by anyone for my knee, the medical doctor who finally sees me tells me after the exam it appears I tore my ACL. So if being here could get worse, it just did.
The other guy I become close with, we shall call him "D", is having some troubles. They tell him he is to be discharged in the morning. He confides in me that he doesn't think he is ready and that if he is released he will kill himself. The fact that they are willing to release someone in that mindset is a testament to just how messed up our system is. They send people out who are not ready, don't have the tools to deal. I go to my social worker and my psychiatrist and tell them what he told me. I had to right? Even though he told me in confidence, I couldn't live with myself if he was discharged and followed through. He later thanks me for telling them. He ends up staying.
A lot of talk is made of keeping in contact with people. I think when you are in there, and you go through some of the experiences with these people and you come out feeling very close to them. Then out in the real world you just don't want to relive the time in the hospital by seeing them. I should call them though, if for nothing more than to know they are still fighting.
Being released is an odd feeling. You don't quite know how to react. You are happy to be out, but scared to death at the same time. You are treated differently than before. At least it seems that way. A long shower and a shave are a welcome perk of being free. Inside you don't really get to shave. Someone has to watch you while you do it and you have to use a single blade bic using just soap, but the biggest hurdle is getting a male staff member to watch you.
I'm out. Now begins the journey of truly seeking help.
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