My Week In The Psych Ward

*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.