*I wrote this blog in 2017, so some of my opinions have
changed. Commentary on any differences will be provided at the end.
I’ve contemplated writing this blog for over a year. In many
ways, it feels like one of the bravest things I’ve ever done. And one of the
scariest.
Because, hello, mental health is incredibly stigmatized.
I guess this all started about 5 years ago when I was a
senior in high school. I remember that for weeks I would barely sleep. I was
going, going, going. I always had plans and each one had to be more enthralling
than the last. My lust for life insatiable. Then, I got mono and my body took a
radical break check. I was sooo sick for so long and I became depressed.
Staring at walls for hours, no emotion. Emptiness. They found the tumor at the
end of the year and I hoped that that was the explanation for all my sickness
and weird emotions, but fast-forward a year and I was hit again with another
bout of debilitating depression. I stopped showing up to classes, stopped going
to work. I can remember the forth of July in 2014, sitting on the couch in the
house that I shared with some sweet friends and just feeling nothing. I stared
for hours at nothing in the living room and let the emptiness slowly envelop
me.
I remember a conversation I had with my roommate Jess
Cameron (she’s the best). We sat in that very same living room and she said in
her kind but real way, “Maybe you have depression; it would explain a lot.” I
distinctly remember a breeze blowing through the window at the exact moment she
said that and thinking that it was a relieving sign from God.
I did set up an appointment with a therapist, but in the
interim had some incredible encounters with God. And some more sleepless
nights. I really believed I could hear the Lord’s voice and that he would tell
me to do things. This was later used as evidence of mental illness.
I saw a therapist—both my parents came; they were so worried
about me—she was great; her name is Laura. She set me up with a psychologist
who gave me a 596 question test to fill out. About a month later I got it back
in.
Bipolar. And ADHD. Those had very little meaning to me, in
real life, so I didn’t care about the diagnostic work up the Dr. gave me. I
just took the pills. (Oh, the pills. I haven’t been off them since.)
Things went on for the next yearish. Then, something
happened that I had no paradigm for. A psychotic break. Now just FYI, a
psychotic episode can happen to anyone, it does not mean you are crazy. It
contains three categorical definitions: delusions, hallucinations, and
paranoia. I was living alone at Virginia Tech, about to head to Turkey for a
mission trip. When one night I was watching a movie and became extra cautious
about locking my door before I went to bed. I was jittery, scared. The next day
my mind seemed to unravel and I degraded into full-fledge paranoia. While
driving, I thought everyone was maliciously intent on running me off the road
and killing me. This triggered anger in me in attempt to defend myself. I
rushed back to my apartment, locking my door in an attempt to barricade myself
from reality. I called my mom who lived 5 hours away and told her she needed to
come pick me up. She had some work so said she was sending me dad. I listened
to Erik Satie’s Trois Gymnopedies to calm down. My dad came the next day.
I went to my psychiatrist and increased to five or six meds.
I lived with my mom at this time. A few months later, while staying in
Yorktown, I had my second psychotic episode this time featuring “the Voice.”
This voice was not like what I heard when I believed God was talking to me.
This was an insidious, evil voice that told me to harm myself.
The circumstances surrounding me getting admitted into the
hospital are hazy, but they include immense amounts of anger and fear. My mom
cried a lot.
Before you can get checked in to the mental hospital, you
need to have a clear physical. The night I got to the ER, my lithium levels
were through the roof. I had to be hydrated. I ended up spending the night in
the ER under the watchful eye of a nurse. Suicide (or crazy) watch. I was not
allowed to be left alone. There was also a cop outside my room but I couldn’t
figure out if he was the there to watch me. This is the point where the feelings
of degradation began. I wasn’t just a patient in need of help, I was a psych patient. One of the nurses even
referred to watching me as “baby sitting.” Ugh. Don’t get me started. But in
the midst of it, there were profound tokens of human compassion that I will
never forget. A Russian nurse asked me to speak Arabic with her as she had done
a stint in Egypt. I told her I don’t speak Egyptian Arabic but we still said ‘ahlan’
(hello) to each other. Then there was George, I don’t know his real name, but
he seemed like a George. He reminded me of one of my best friends from school
which was comforting in and of itself, but he also went above and beyond to
dignify me. He made jokes and went on a rant about the medical inaccuracies
rampant in Greys Anatomy (</3). He helped me get my blankets just right. He
even let us close the door to my room a tad to make it darker. (the door had to
be open for “the man” to keep his ever watchful eye on me). I met George at the
beginning of a long, hard road, but I hope I will always remember the ways he
showed me honor in a endless sea of opprobrium.
Next was probably the low point of this entire ordeal. I was
in a holding cell (hospital room) while I waited for my room to be ready on the
psych ward. My dad brought me food (the last decent food I would have for a
week). I was furious at my parents and the hand they’d played in getting me
admitted to the looney bin. My mom cried a lot.
The police officer showed up after a while. ‘Why is he
here?’ I thought. Well, lo and behold, he was my “escort” to the ward. I had to
sit in a wheelchair with a blanket over my legs. I cried and felt less than
human.
Next I got to my bright, sunlit room. Two bossy nurses came
in and told me to take off my clothes for an inspection. ‘Um, hello, I’m not
crazy. I’m not hiding a shank,’ I thought. They made me anyways; it was just
like the movies except instead of having Angelina Jolie’s rebellious spunk (The
Changeling), I just cried and felt my dignity swirling down a drain in the
floor.
I laid in my bed and cried until someone came and got me for
dinner. “We use tough love on this floor,” one of the nurses said.
These memories, they’re colored by my perspective, so I’ll
get all Glass Menagerie on you.
I remember the golden light of sunset. I remember a kind old
gentleman offering me a seat next to him. I remember wanting to sink down into
my seat until I no longer existed. I tried not to make eye contact with any of
the “crazy” people. Night time. Sleep.
The next morning, I slept in. I would never have dreamt that
there’s an actual schedule in a place like this. I thought everyone just sat
and ruminated in their mutual insanity. But nope. I got in trouble. I was the
last one in the dining area so naturally I sat alone. Trying to look as normal
as possible to the nurse that keeps staring at me.
I get called in for my first meeting with the doctor. He has
a guy with him that kinda seems like his lackey. His name is Dr. Angelelli so
that was points of favor for him (I like Italians because I’m obsessed with The
Godfather). However, the first thing he did was accuse me of smoking crack.
Like, what? You don’t just say that. Well, in the psych ward you do. I put on
my best “I just had a bad day I shouldn’t really be in here” façade and
answered with thrilling decorum. He basically took me off all my meds. Phew,
don’t need them anyways. He started me on Effexor for depression.
There are group sessions with a social worker that I don’t
start going to until I realize that perfect attendance is a prereq for release.
I go. Don’t sit next to anybody.
I get my snack every break like the rest. We line up like
sheep getting doled our precious pretzels, ice cream, and soda. A nurse says
something to me that makes me feel like she thinks of me as a crazy person.
Double consciousness.
From the moment you enter the psych ward, you are compelled
to declare your sanity and desperate to secure your release. I get called in
for another session with Dr. A. ‘This should be easy,’ I thought. He tells me
which chair out of three he wants me to sit in. I get annoyed, like, I’m sane
enough to choose my own seat. He says, “The nurses say there’s a dark cloud
looming over your head. I can see that you are so lonely.” Excuse me? Which
nurse said this? Cause I’ll happily give her a piece of my mind. No release
date in the foreseeable future.
Here’s an excerpt from my journal after my thwarted release
efforts: “Can you make a caged bird sing? Nay, I suffer not.” Oh, the
melodrama.
There was an extremely psychotic gang member on the ward. He
started to make shanks so they blocked off an eighth of the ward to “contain”
him. They took away our coloring pencils. Another blow to the communal account
of dignity.
I was the second youngest in the ward. James was the
youngest. Multiple suicide attempts landed him here. We walked around the ward
for hours and hours talking about nothing really, except that we wanted to get
out. I talked to him about God some. He knew I was really fervent about my
relationship with Jesus.
My parents visit everyday. They feel so bad that I’m in here
We watch Lone Survivor one night. I laugh at the blatantly inappropriate
choice for a mental ward.
One afternoon, it was finally my turn to choose what we
watched. I chose Kardashians reruns. The men were not thrilled.
Eventually, I began to identify with the people around me.
It was like a weird version of youth bible camp. You are all at the lowest
points of your lives, so there’s really nothing to hide. Most of the people in
at the same time as me were full grown men with hard, physical jobs. I think
about how I’d never come across them at Virginia Tech. I think about the
academic bubble I live in.
Here are some of the people I remember. If the name has an
asterisk it means I forgot it and made one up:
Maria*- an Armenian woman who spoke
Lebanese. I was so excited the day she got there because that’s the dialect of
Arabic I speak. She was sassy. Anger issues.
Carl-he dropped out of high school
and has worked at the shipyards ever since. He has a little boy whom he loves.
He was like a big brother to me. Suicide attempt.
Brennan-he has kids my age. He was
funny and brought an edge to our little rag tag group. Drugs and depression.
Ron*-he was so lost in his mind. He
didn’t know where he was. Dementia.
Sue*-elderly, always through things
to the ground for attention. Had a beloved husband who visited her every day.
Old age, inability to care for herself.
Anne*-we respected each other but
steered clear of one another. I don’t know why, really. Alcoholism and
depression.
Mark*-He reminded me of a movie
star, like Matt Damon or something. Suicide attempt.
Tiffany*-a slight girl, not much
older than I but she looked years beyond me. Anorexia.
This was us. My little family. There were more characters on
the periphery. Each just as valuable, but these are the ones who made a lasting
impression on me.
I started to get into the swing of things. I felt a lot more
comfortable even safe. Believe it or not, I actually became quite popular. I
know, funny that the one place I fit in is the looney bin. Ah, c’est la vie.
One day I saw all my stuff in the hallway. Wow! Maybe I get
to go home! Nope. A confused lady, who was yellow due to some medical reason,
had gone in my room and taken out all my stuff. I was furious. I felt violated
for a reason that I can’t quite grasp now. I demanded that the doctor come back
immediately.
He did. And boy, did I go on a diatribe. Mainly berating the
“Us” vs. “Them” mentality that seemed so apparent between the normal people and
the crazy people. The nurses talk down to us. Some crazy lady went in my room
and touched all my stuff. Blah blah blah. Suffice to say, I was to leave that
afternoon and not a second later. Dr. A waited for me to finish, seemingly
amused at my contribution to the mental health dialogue. “Right,” he said. ”You’ll
leave tomorrow.”
I walked on egg shells to appear normal for the next 24
hours. I just had to appear normal and then I could go home. I laughed with my
friends, all the guys (there weren’t many girls) and we stayed up into the
night talking about life. It was sweeter because I could finally see the light
at the end of the tunnel and it didn’t seem so much like a prison any more.
The next day, I stood waiting by the exit with all my stuff.
Carl was reading a book someone loaned him. He walked up and asked me what a
certain word meant, I think it was ‘flamboyant.’ It had something to do with
flames. “You seem like the type of person who would know.” I taught him to look
at the root of the word to decode its meaning. “You getting out today?” “Yes,
what about you?” “Tomorrow.” “Yes!!” I think about Carl from time to time.
Actually, I think about all of them. Even the faces that
have lost their names in my mind. The biggest thing I learned in the psych ward
was that God bestows dignity upon man by creating them in his image. And then,
once he creates them, he never leaves them. He never quits pursuing them. He is
a gentleman and honors the very least. I had to look into the eyes of some of
society’s most rejected to see the worth of a human life. I would never take it
back.
“There is no greater honor to the poor peasant than for the
king to visit their hovel and dignify them with his presence.” Dick Brogden
*commentary: 3 years after this experience, I feel far
removed and even forgot about some of the stuff I wrote here. I’m glad I
recorded it. I was reading Matthew 24 about the signs of the End of Time, and
one feature Jesus described is that ”most people’s love will grow cold”
(Matthew 24:12). I immediately thought of my time in the psych ward. I HATED
God for the mental anguish I was enduring prior to my admittance. So much so
that I didn’t even bring a bible to the hospital just to spite him. My love
wasn’t necessarily cold, but flaming hot in the other direction. I hated all
the people there I deemed “crazy” and “beneath me” and refused to share the
gospel with or show intentional love to any of them. But the Lord breathed his Spirit
in me and turned the flame of my affections back towards him. It soon became
that I couldn’t stay stuffed up in my room in rebellion anymore but had to go
interact with the ones whom God loves. He breathed his Love afresh in me. And taught
me a lesson on the inherent dignity of the human being in the process. "Then God said, 'Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness...God created man in His image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them" (Genesis 1:26,27). Thank
you, God.
