The Big Story
Sharing my experience with mental illness has been, at times, quite scary. Sometimes I'm afraid of losing friends. I think people don't want to hear negativity, or I worry that they don't understand and won't want me around. This is perhaps ironic because I work even harder to show my friends how much I care about them. I've also worried that being honest about my condition could somehow lead to losing my job even though I know I work very hard. In some cases, I may work harder to prove myself because I'm always worried I'm not good enough.
In any case, my fears have led me to withhold some information or stories in an effort to avoid judgment. I think I'm ready to share one of my biggest stories, however - one that only a few people know.
More than ten years ago, I was in a pretty bad place. I was lonely and anxious and felt like I didn't have anyone I could consistently reach out to. In the midst of this, someone did something that hurt me tremendously at a time when I needed them the most.
I was devastated. I was in a lot of pain, and I didn't think I could overcome it. I decided to try to look up if I could overdose on the antidepressants I was on at the time. I don't know how serious I was, and overdose was not possible, but I chose to inform my parents about what I was feeling. They called my counselor, who recommended that they take me to the only area hospital with a psychiatric unit.
To the hospital we went. We started in the ER, but the psychiatrist on duty recommended that I be admitted. I was told it was not an emergency and that it would be a voluntary stay, but I agreed to it. I had no idea what was going to happen or what the experience would be like.
I was taken to the psychiatric floor and told to change into a hospital gown. All of my clothes were placed into a plastic bag that I would get back when I was released. The rationale was that we weren't allowed to have anything that we could use to injure ourselves. I remember that the nurses debated if a bra was considered dangerous or not; ultimately, I was allowed to keep it.
The first night in the hospital, I had a roommate. I was very nervous because I didn't know what conditions the other patients had or how they would act. Luckily my roommate - Kathy - was very kind and explained a little about what to expect. She was discharged the next day, and I was not given another roommate the following night.
It was difficult to sleep, mostly because I was scared. Hospital staff also walked around and checked each room with a flashlight every 15 minutes. Early in the morning, I was woken for a blood draw. After that, I had to shower and get fresh hospital clothes. Each patient was required to bathe and wash their hair every day. They only provided cheap shampoo and no conditioner, so it was very challenging to comb my curly, tangled hair after the shower.
We could have personal items as long as they were not dangerous, so my parents brought me a book and a set of crossword puzzles. In order to use a pencil or pen, however, I had to go to the common room so that I could be observed with the implement. I attended a couple group therapy sessions, during which people seemed not to understand why I was there.
In fact, the medical professionals didn't really understand, either. Two young, pretty medical students from a local medical school came to speak to me alone and asked if I was covering up any abuse or anything else significant. They thought that it seemed like things were going okay in my life, so they didn't see why I was so depressed. Later, when I spoke to the psychiatrist, I talked about leaving optometry school and being anxious about my future. He asked if I had considered going to the medical school that the two girls attended.
I remember how frustrating those conversations were. Even people with medical training didn't seem to understand how depression could be affecting me. They never asked about family history or anything of that nature. Like the counselor who had suggested that I join a sorority to solve my problems, they made suggestions without taking into account my history, personality, and goals. I knew I wanted to leave and get back to people who cared more about me, so I said what I needed to say to get out as soon as I could.
There were some interesting people in the hospital with me. The girl I liked talking to most, Robin, was a drug addict who had accidentally overdosed. She kept talking about how she needed to be moved to detox because her problem was drugs, not depression. An older gentleman named Joe ordered extra food and constantly remarked that he would call his lawyer to get out of there. He didn't seem to realize that his wife had taken him to the hospital for his own good. The most intimidating patient was Yolanda. She fought with the staff all the time. At night, she was placed in a room on the side of the floor that had locked doors. The next morning, I heard her screaming at the staff to get the camera out of her bathroom, even though they politely insisted that there was no camera. Later, after changing her medicine, she appeared at a group session and proclaimed she was feeling much calmer. I remember reflecting on her condition and being grateful that my problems were not as extreme.
I was released after only two nights, much to my relief. I was scared and lonely in the hospital. Even so, sometimes I think about the experience and think about the positive aspects of it. I was physically unable to do anything other than what was available in the hospital. I had to focus on myself, not on anyone else or any duties I had. Sometimes I think it would be nice to disengage from the distractions of the outside world and just commit to getting better.
But I don't really want to have to go back to the hospital to do that.
In any case, my fears have led me to withhold some information or stories in an effort to avoid judgment. I think I'm ready to share one of my biggest stories, however - one that only a few people know.
More than ten years ago, I was in a pretty bad place. I was lonely and anxious and felt like I didn't have anyone I could consistently reach out to. In the midst of this, someone did something that hurt me tremendously at a time when I needed them the most.
I was devastated. I was in a lot of pain, and I didn't think I could overcome it. I decided to try to look up if I could overdose on the antidepressants I was on at the time. I don't know how serious I was, and overdose was not possible, but I chose to inform my parents about what I was feeling. They called my counselor, who recommended that they take me to the only area hospital with a psychiatric unit.
To the hospital we went. We started in the ER, but the psychiatrist on duty recommended that I be admitted. I was told it was not an emergency and that it would be a voluntary stay, but I agreed to it. I had no idea what was going to happen or what the experience would be like.
I was taken to the psychiatric floor and told to change into a hospital gown. All of my clothes were placed into a plastic bag that I would get back when I was released. The rationale was that we weren't allowed to have anything that we could use to injure ourselves. I remember that the nurses debated if a bra was considered dangerous or not; ultimately, I was allowed to keep it.
The first night in the hospital, I had a roommate. I was very nervous because I didn't know what conditions the other patients had or how they would act. Luckily my roommate - Kathy - was very kind and explained a little about what to expect. She was discharged the next day, and I was not given another roommate the following night.
It was difficult to sleep, mostly because I was scared. Hospital staff also walked around and checked each room with a flashlight every 15 minutes. Early in the morning, I was woken for a blood draw. After that, I had to shower and get fresh hospital clothes. Each patient was required to bathe and wash their hair every day. They only provided cheap shampoo and no conditioner, so it was very challenging to comb my curly, tangled hair after the shower.
We could have personal items as long as they were not dangerous, so my parents brought me a book and a set of crossword puzzles. In order to use a pencil or pen, however, I had to go to the common room so that I could be observed with the implement. I attended a couple group therapy sessions, during which people seemed not to understand why I was there.
In fact, the medical professionals didn't really understand, either. Two young, pretty medical students from a local medical school came to speak to me alone and asked if I was covering up any abuse or anything else significant. They thought that it seemed like things were going okay in my life, so they didn't see why I was so depressed. Later, when I spoke to the psychiatrist, I talked about leaving optometry school and being anxious about my future. He asked if I had considered going to the medical school that the two girls attended.
I remember how frustrating those conversations were. Even people with medical training didn't seem to understand how depression could be affecting me. They never asked about family history or anything of that nature. Like the counselor who had suggested that I join a sorority to solve my problems, they made suggestions without taking into account my history, personality, and goals. I knew I wanted to leave and get back to people who cared more about me, so I said what I needed to say to get out as soon as I could.
There were some interesting people in the hospital with me. The girl I liked talking to most, Robin, was a drug addict who had accidentally overdosed. She kept talking about how she needed to be moved to detox because her problem was drugs, not depression. An older gentleman named Joe ordered extra food and constantly remarked that he would call his lawyer to get out of there. He didn't seem to realize that his wife had taken him to the hospital for his own good. The most intimidating patient was Yolanda. She fought with the staff all the time. At night, she was placed in a room on the side of the floor that had locked doors. The next morning, I heard her screaming at the staff to get the camera out of her bathroom, even though they politely insisted that there was no camera. Later, after changing her medicine, she appeared at a group session and proclaimed she was feeling much calmer. I remember reflecting on her condition and being grateful that my problems were not as extreme.
I was released after only two nights, much to my relief. I was scared and lonely in the hospital. Even so, sometimes I think about the experience and think about the positive aspects of it. I was physically unable to do anything other than what was available in the hospital. I had to focus on myself, not on anyone else or any duties I had. Sometimes I think it would be nice to disengage from the distractions of the outside world and just commit to getting better.
But I don't really want to have to go back to the hospital to do that.
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