my life in a psychiatric ward pt. 3

And so the days continued.

“A couple of days” turned into more.

I talked. I went to groups. I laughed at Trey. I shared with Bill. I listened to Mia. I talked with Marie. I took my meds.

I picked at my food.

Trey watched me trying to eat a salad one afternoon with raised eyebrows. I was picking off vegetables with my fingers, one at a time, chewing each one at least twenty times.

“It’s going to take you ten years to finish that.” He glared at me, shuffling a deck of cards. We were supposed to be playing cards, but I couldn’t make myself eat any faster.

There was a scale in the lounge, but I wasn’t sure if I could use it. I wanted to use it. It was killing me that I had no idea how much I weighed. At home, I weighed myself every single morning. And now I had no idea where my weight was.

I had to meet with a dietician. I told her I had “safe foods.” She tried to talk to me about it for a while, and I was sort of cooperating. She told me I could write in anything I wanted on the menu and they would send it to me if they had it.

“You can even order double portions or two things if you want to try a little of each.” She smiled.

I forced a smile back and nodded back like I was totally alright with that. With requesting even more food. The very thought of it made me feel sick with panic.

Then she mentioned a treatment program for people with eating disorders. She asked if I would start therapy there after I was discharged. That’s when I closed up.

I met with a psychologist another day, bright and early in the morning. I hadn’t even had any coffee. I was immediately crabby about it. The psychologist was probably my age and pretty. I curled up in my chair and tried not to glare at her. She didn’t have any questions for me really, she was just there to listen if I wanted to talk. I thought about saying I didn’t want to talk, but then suddenly I was.

I talked about my mother. How she wanted to make sure no one knew where I was. That led into my childhood. And it just all came out. And she listened. She wasn’t like the school counselor I had seen in college. I don’t know why it was different, but it was. I talked for almost two hours without even realizing it.

And it was good.

It was really good.

I found out I could use the scale. I waited until the lounge was mostly empty, no witnesses. Then I weighed myself. 115 lbs exactly. I walked away, smiling.

Then it was Friday. My doctor informed me that they would be checking back in on Monday. My hopes of being discharged before the weekend were crushed. I begged for my status to be changed so I could go on the daily walk outside. He studied me, and then granted me a tiny change in status. I couldn’t go on the walk, but I could go with a group to the gym if I wanted to.

I was excited about that. I was. But I hadn’t been outside in days and days and it was killing me.

So I went to the gym. We followed our chaperone through the maze of the hospital, past curious stares. I found myself hiding behind my hair again. I was wearing my scrubs and sandals. They were the only shoes I had to wear.

Because shoelaces are not allowed.

I didn’t care too much about my shoes. I walked on a treadmill and stared at the beautiful sunshine out the window and tried not to cry. I just wanted to be outside. I would have been ok with five security guards. They could handcuff me for all I cared. I just wanted to feel the wind on my face. To breathe.

At the gym I met a guy my age named Noah. He hopped on the treadmill next to me, grinning cheekily. “Let’s go on a walk!” He said in some sort of accent. Scottish? Irish? I couldn’t place it, but it startled a smile out of me.

We talked for a while. He told me he wanted to burn all the hospitals to the ground. He smiled so nicely as he said it. I had no idea how to respond. So he kept going. He didn’t think he had any problems. He wanted to get out. He hated hospitals. He wanted them to leave him alone.

I told him if it hadn’t been for this hospital, I would have killed myself.

“Oh.” He said, a little taken aback. We walked quietly for a while. Then he asked me what kind of music I liked.

Noah became my workout buddy. We walked on the treadmills every day. Sometimes he said rather frightening, startling things. Most of the time we talked about things like music or movies or hobbies. Sometimes we were just silent, which suited me fine.

I had visitors every single night. The Mr. never missed a day. My siblings came a few more times. My best friends. Some other friends surprised me. Not very many other people received visitors. I felt guilty about that, so eventually I stopped hiding my friends and family in corners and sat at the main tables in the lounge. Marie joined us often, telling my friends over and over about her book and how she didn’t talk to young people very often, but her goal was to change that. We played cards and board games and colored pictures.

I told my best friends some more of the truth. I told them that I struggled with food, which was a monumental step. I told the Mr. about the dietician recommending the eating disorder treatment center. He didn’t push me, but he gently encouraged me to think about it.

Friday night was hard. After my visitors left, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I was locked in a psych ward on a Friday night. I could have been home with the Mr. I could have been out with my friends. If only I’d just fucking….got it together. Stopped being so fucked up. Why couldn’t I stop being so fucked up?

Why can’t I?

So I sat down and I tried to read, but I ended up writing instead. And here I am. Left with the same question I started with. Why can’t I just stop being so fucked up?

….

It’s been almost two weeks now since I was discharged from the hospital.

But that Friday night still feels like yesterday.

That weekend was rough. I remember it clearly. All day Saturday I felt like I was in an escalating state of panic. To the point where I came close to trying to cut my arms up with my comb, but Bill’s warning kept ringing in my head.

Hospitals are hard.

You want to be honest. You’re supposed to be honest. But sometimes being honest will land you in a worse situation. Like in the other side of Orange 8, the ICU.

I asked Trey why the ward was split up one of those first days. I could see patients on the other side through the nurses’ station, but they were kept separated from us.

“That’s the ICU. That’s where all the really crazy people are.” He’d whispered.

I didn’t want them to take away my comb. Or take me away from my room, my nice roommate, and put me in the ICU with all the really crazy people.

I watched it happen to another patient.

He was admitted right before the weekend. He was always withdrawn, but he had a lot of visitors. On my last night (Monday night), he freaked out over taking one of his pills. I was sitting in the lounge, reading, listening to music over the wireless headphones you could use, when I was startled by a loud crash. I looked up to see the nursing staff advancing towards me, speaking very urgently. I took off the headphones to realize that patient was right behind me, throwing chairs. The nurses were yelling at me to get to my room to stay safe.

I scrambled into my room, shutting the door and standing in the darkness and watching out the window. The patient ended up right in front of my door. He kept shouting in broken English that this was a mental health hospital, and he did not have any mental health problems.

Six huge security guards showed up and escorted him into the ICU where I’m sure he was sedated. And that’s where he stayed. I never saw him again.

I know they had to do it. He could have easily hurt someone. He could have easily hurt me. But he didn’t. And I don't’ think he would have. But I can’t prove that. It’s just a feeling, and it could easily be wrong.

Still though. There were times when I felt like throwing chairs.

Trey was discharged before the weekend. “You’re gonna miss me once I’m gone.” He told me the day he left. I rolled my eyes at him, but he was right. Mia left the same day. And I missed them both.

So I started hanging out with Bill and Marie more. Both at least 30+ years older than me.

Bill and I wrote silly poetry together. Each of us taking four lines. I love reading and writing, but I’ve always despised poetry. Bill used to teach creative writing, so he was not put off my declaration of hatred. And I actually really enjoyed it. It was fantastical and imaginative and calming.

And when we weren’t writing, we talked. Particularly about the difficulties of using science to treat something like depression.

We both hated being asked the question, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how are you feeling today?”

Bill told me he stopped answering that question how they wanted him to and started answering it honestly, like saying “I feel teal today.”

I loved his answers. They always confused the nurses, but they made so much more sense to me.

Honestly, trying to catalogue the complicated messy mass of my emotions into a number is one of the most ridiculous things I have ever experienced.

Marie asked me a lot about the Mr. She slowly revealed throughout the week that her husband was terribly abusive. Which broke my heart.

“You’re best friends aren’t you?” She asked me one night after the Mr. left.

“Yes.” I answered simply. Because we are.

She looked off into the distance for a while. “I think that’s important.” She finally said quietly.

I do too.

I got braver. I talked to more patients, listened to their stories. There was always something I could relate to. Most of them were sad, desperate, lonely tales.

That Saturday, after I forced myself to put my comb back down, I sat in the lounge and folded about a dozen origami paper cranes. Just to give my fingers something to do that wasn’t destructive. The paper was bright and cheerful, so I ended up giving most of them away to other patients. I saw a few of them carrying those little birds around with them wherever they went.

Monday morning I got a new doctor. My favorite, the physician’s assistant or resident intern or whatever the hell they’re called, his “rotation” in the psych ward was over. I’d known this. He’d prepared me, but I was not prepared for the woman I got Monday morning.

First of all, she informed me that the 600 question personality test, the test that had taken me two hours to complete, had come back invalid.

I blinked at her. Invalid?

What the hell does that mean?

“Did you not understand the questions?” She asked, and I could hear the patronizing in her voice.

“I understood them.” I said tightly. “I answered them all honestly.”

Which was the truth.

I still don’t understand how I somehow failed their personality test, but it made Bill laugh so hard he cried, so I don’t mind so much now.

Then she tried to talk to me about my eating. Her brilliant solution? Just eat! Just eat and everything will be fine!

I stopped talking.

The meeting did not go very well. I was in a dark mood afterwards, certain that I’d just sentenced myself to another week in this place. So I was shocked later that morning when the doctor asked me how I felt about being discharged tomorrow.

How did I feel? I felt excited.

And terrified.

I told the doctor, yes. Yes, I would like to be discharged.

I will be honest, the majority of that decision was made up of a desperation to get outside.

I felt really anxious afterwards. I was terrified that I would struggle with wanting to cut myself. I was afraid of facing my boss. Of dealing with the real world and all it’s expectations again.

I talked to the psychologist again. I actually requested her. And that helped. I told her that I was considering the eating disorder treatment center. She said she thought that would be good. I told her my fear of being laughed at, of not being skinny enough. You know. If you’ve ever struggled with food, you know. She told me that if the therapist did that, I was to report that person’s name so she could get them fired.

And then it was Tuesday. Discharge Day.

I packed up all my stuff. Origami birds, art projects, poems, and everything. I collected all my belongings. Things I hadn’t thought about all week. Like my purse. Wallet. Makeup.

They gave me my meds. And instructions for going to the walk in psychiatry clinic within a week to get set up with a permanent doctor. Then the Mr. was there, and I was saying tearful goodbyes to the nurses, to the patients, and then we walked out those double locked doors.

I ripped off my armbands on the way to the elevator. All the people were overwhelming. As soon as I stepped outside into the fresh air, I started crying. I cried the entire way to the parking garage. The Mr. just held my hand and smiled.

It was chillier now. It felt like fall. But we drove with the windows down anyways because I couldn’t get enough of the breeze.

And here I am. Back in the real world. And that transition has been wonderful, horrible, terrifying, overwhelming, stressful, and beautiful. I’ll write more about that later.

For now know that I'm not ok, but I am alive.