Showing posts with label psychiatric hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychiatric hospital. Show all posts
10 November 2009
Outpatient Therapy, Day 8 and my Phone Check-in With My Psychiatrist
This group therapy is getting old. It’s the same thing everyday—too emotional for me, at least as far as some of the others in my small group. I know this sounds callous, but from the moment I sit down, I am just counting down those two hours of “sharing” before we have our break. Yesterday was no exception. There is one woman who, they decided a week or so ago, that she needed to be hospitalized again. It wasn’t an involuntary commitment—evidently she agreed to it. Well, her first day back into the outpatient program, all she did was cry while she was sharing but refused to go into any details. She said she was afraid they would put her back inside if she told the therapist what was really evoking this emotion. I have a handle on that one—I’m certainly not going to voice that I am intentionally suicidal (they gauge how “safe” you are as to how forward thinking you are regarding your actual plans to commit suicide). I can say that I was feeling suicidal the previous evening, but I have to show a coping skill I successfully used to avert that situation. I can say without a doubt that there are nights when I am suicidal and I go through the motions of preparing everything. If I were to say that I have the intent to follow through, that would land me right back inside the Big House. I don’t follow through, not yet, but at one point when will the intent be stronger than the want not to do it?
I can feel my depression getting worse even with my doc tweaking the cocktail. So far, nothing he has done has yielded any progress as far as my depression and insomnia go. I am living one day to the next with, at best, two hours of sleep. Oh, and get this, the results of my fasting blood work has come in. My psychiatrist always gets a copy from my regular doctor. He looked at the results while we were on our phone call check-in today (I’ve been on the phone everyday between my weekly appointments even over the weekends so he can adjust the meds, if needed, on the fly and spare me the expense of an office visit). Evidently, while my haemoglobin is 11 (low side of normal), my iron stores are pretty low. My ferritin level is only 5 (normal is 15-200 ng/mL for females). Ferritin is a protein that stores iron and releases it in a controlled fashion, in single cells and multi-celled animals. It is a buffer against iron deficiency and iron overload. The last time, approximately 6 years ago, my ferritin level was only 2. I tried taking vitamins high in iron, then iron pills to no avail. My body wasn’t absorbing the iron. I ended up having to take Infed (used to treat iron deficient anemia) administered IV. I had to have three separate infusions over a few weeks. That cost me one hell of a bundle. I can’t afford that now in view of all of my other medical bills recently incurred. In addition, ketones and protein are spilling into my urine. Ketones are produced in the body when fats, rather than glucose are used to produce energy, but my glucose is 94. Protein in the urine is a warning sign. It may indicate kidney damage or disease or it may be a transient elevation due to an infection, medication, vigorous exercise, or emotional or physical stress. Well, yeah, I am under a considerable amount of emotional stress. I don’t know the other results yet, but I see my regular doctor on the 12th. I am sick of doctors; I am sick of medical tests. I just want to be left alone.©2009
02 November 2009
Outpatient Therapy, Day 5
Well, we did discuss my treatment plan. I asked why, under master problem list, it listed merely “depression” and no indication of persistent suicide ideation. She explained that I had not been honest from the beginning about that on my daily check-in sheets, and only just started mentioning it. I tried to explain to her that the ideation isn’t just something I think about here and there, but that I struggle with this almost every evening. The only thing that has kept me alive has actually been using one of the coping skills. I am discovering that my house…my fucking house (or rather, being in it all alone), has become a trigger. I have to leave the house and I end up going for a walk—a long walk. My reasoning? It’s late at night, and walking releases so much of my energy. When I finally get home, I’m worn out—physically and emotionally—utterly spent.
She looked at me and told me that she thought I needed go back inside the Big House—that this outpatient treatment program, in her opinion, wasn’t going to be sufficient to keep me safe. I pleaded with her not to make that recommendation (i.e., have me committed again), that I had shown that I was successful in using my skills. I practically begged her to let me go as long as I made the commitment to her that I would use my skills when I was in that head space. I tried to stay calm, although my heart was banging so hard. However, she relented but there was this look in her eyes that scared the shit out of me. All I kept thinking to myself was to just deep breathe and stay calm. I didn’t want to trigger any action on her part.
When I got home later, I looked at my entries on the blog and, sure enough, there was my entry about Friday that I posted on Sunday morning. Evidently, I did remember at that moment actually coming home, but it doesn’t say anything else about the rest of the day. And today, the last thing I could remember was someone making a comment about the fact that I actually smiled for the first time just before we left group. My mind is so fucked up. I swear there are times when I don’t know what is real and what isn’t.©2009
25 October 2009
Involuntary Commitment—Day 11, 20 October
(…continued from previous post)
Last night I actually got a little bit of sleep. My morning vitals had my blood pressure elevated again; the two meds, while reducing the BP as a whole, have not quite stabilized it yet.
I decided over the weekend, after I spoke with my shrink on Friday when he told me that today was a reasonable discharge date, that I didn’t want any of the patients to know I would be going home before I actually leave.
I know that nothing will be “final” until the shrink signs the papers for my release this morning and then faxes it to the court to await their decision. Apparently, I do not have to personally go before the judge. Being ever so hopeful, once shift change occurred @ 0700, I pulled aside the one staff person with whom I had a good relationship and told him that I did not want the rest of the patients to know of my discharge before I actually leave. I also asked if it would be possible to arrange my exit while everyone else was in a group therapy session so I could avoid the “goodbye scene.” He just smiled at me and said, “I love a good plan.” I would be leaving with just the clothes I came in with (no packed suitcase or anything), so strolling down the back hallway would mean nothing to anyone.
Then my shrink came onto the unit just while all of the patients were getting ready to go to breakfast, so they all saw me go into his office. I sat down with confidence, had a relaxed smile on my face (with my heart in my stomach) as he opened up my chart. We went through the usual “well, how were you yesterday?” chitchat as he reviewed all of the nurses’ and therapists’ notes. I also mentioned that I was grateful that I was finally able to get some sleep. Then dead silence. I wanted to jump up on the desk and yell, “Well, am I going home today or not?” as I just sat there watching him read my chart.
Finally, I took a deep breath and just spit it out, “So, Doc, is it a go for today?” and he looked at me and said it was and smiled. He took out all of the legal docs and asked me all of the requisite questions (e.g., do I currently feel suicidal? Do I feel homicidal? Do I attest to the fact that I do not have in my possession a gun? What is the name and phone number that can be called to confirm the latter? and so on). I gave all the proper answers to assure my release and watched him sign the papers.
Then he wrote up prescriptions for all my meds to carry me for the first month until I met with my own psychiatrist that had already been scheduled by the discharge therapist for the 27th. He increased my Lamictal dosage again, stood up, and shook my hand. I quickly got rid of my smile as I turned my back to walk out of the office. A couple of patients immediately asked me if I was going home today (the standard fare whenever anyone came out of their shrink’s office each morning). I simply replied that he changed my medication again which basically means I’d be there for another 24-48 hours. Well, I didn’t actually lie—sort of—just ducked the question.
Meanwhile, the whole staff now knew I wanted to keep this news under wraps. So, I had to go through all of the motions of the daily schedule with everyone until the court rendered its decision (whenever the hell that would be). Talk about being distracted during morning group. Then, halfway through group, I was called out (not an unusual occurrence as we were all on different med schedules) and I was immediately told that the court had faxed back my release. I just grinned like a Cheshire cat. My nurse asked me if I was good to go as they surreptitiously handed me back my wallet, keys and cell (it seemed, damn it, that one patient—of course the one with the big mouth— got pissed off during group and walked out and was now hanging around the nurse’s station). I told my nurse that all I had left to do was call a cab.
Then he told me that they could not let me leave the unit until the cab actually arrived, nor was I allowed to wait in the front foyer (on the other side of the locked doors) by myself. I nervously looked at the clock knowing that group would be over before the cab would arrive. Then he said, “Relax, Alix, I promised you that I had a good plan. I promise that you’ll be able to walk through everyone and they won’t even have a clue.” I wasn’t so sure.
Then the patient with the big mouth came up to me and demanded to know if I was going home, but I just blew her off and tried to casually walk over to the lounge area and wait. Thankfully, she didn’t pursue the matter. Meanwhile, my nurse kept calling up to the front desk to see if my cab had arrived. He was looking at the clock. I was looking at the clock. We both looked at each other. The doors to the two group sessions flew open and out poured all 17 patients. Then I got up and walked over to the nurse’s station with this panicked look on my face. He said to just hold tight for a minute. He quietly talked to the other nurses, then came back to me and told me to casually walk down the back hallway as if I was going to the laundry room (certainly not suspicious; we always had some free time between groups to take care of various things). He told me when I got to the end of the hallway, take the left and wait by the back door. He said he would follow me in about 30 seconds so it wouldn’t appear as if I was being escorted out.
I held my breath and nonchalantly walked through everyone as they were milling about getting coffee, talking on the phones and generally chit-chatting among themselves, praying that no one would notice me or stop me. When I got past everyone, headed down that back hallway and got to the end, I quickly dashed to the left and waited. My heart was beating so hard. Freedom—so close.
Sure enough, he casually came around the corner, quickly inserted his key and we walked through together. Turns out that my cab still hadn’t arrived, but they decided to let him accompany me and wait with me in the foyer. As we got to the front doors, my cab arrived. He turned and looked me and said, “I told you I loved a good plan.” The front door…my ride home…everything was perfect. I managed to play my role beautifully for 11 consecutive days convincing everyone that I was not suicidal and that my bipolar and borderline disorders were on their way to getting back under control again.
The ride home was an odd experience. I just stared out the window watching all of the traffic on the interstate. Everyone in the world was just going about his or her normal routines. My life had been on hold for the last 11 days.
It was so surreal when the cab pulled up to my house. As I was walking up my front walk to the porch door, I started to look around for any evidence that the paramedics had been there. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I still have no fucking memory of those first hours. I opened up the porch door and it had not been forcibly opened. Looked around my porch—nothing. Then I walked up to my front door. It appeared to be closed and locked properly, so that door wasn’t busted in. How the hell did the paramedics get into my house?
As soon as I walked though my front door, I could tell that there had been some commotion. My living room coffee table had been pushed all the way to one side and two of my surround sound speakers had been pushed out of position. This was eerie. Then I noticed that ALL my lights were on throughout the house. What the hell had happened that night? I can’t begin to tell you how disconcerting this whole “coming home” experience became.
All of the windows were closed and locked. The back door was intact and locked. It was odd knowing that strangers had walked through my entire house. Why? The last thing I remember was sitting on my couch around 2000 hrs Friday evening, 9 October, polishing off that killer Kamikaze (no pun intended). I have no memory of taking any pills or even thinking about suicide. What were they looking for? Nothing seemed to be out of place in any of the other rooms. (To be continued…)©2009
Last night I actually got a little bit of sleep. My morning vitals had my blood pressure elevated again; the two meds, while reducing the BP as a whole, have not quite stabilized it yet.
I decided over the weekend, after I spoke with my shrink on Friday when he told me that today was a reasonable discharge date, that I didn’t want any of the patients to know I would be going home before I actually leave.
I know that nothing will be “final” until the shrink signs the papers for my release this morning and then faxes it to the court to await their decision. Apparently, I do not have to personally go before the judge. Being ever so hopeful, once shift change occurred @ 0700, I pulled aside the one staff person with whom I had a good relationship and told him that I did not want the rest of the patients to know of my discharge before I actually leave. I also asked if it would be possible to arrange my exit while everyone else was in a group therapy session so I could avoid the “goodbye scene.” He just smiled at me and said, “I love a good plan.” I would be leaving with just the clothes I came in with (no packed suitcase or anything), so strolling down the back hallway would mean nothing to anyone.
Then my shrink came onto the unit just while all of the patients were getting ready to go to breakfast, so they all saw me go into his office. I sat down with confidence, had a relaxed smile on my face (with my heart in my stomach) as he opened up my chart. We went through the usual “well, how were you yesterday?” chitchat as he reviewed all of the nurses’ and therapists’ notes. I also mentioned that I was grateful that I was finally able to get some sleep. Then dead silence. I wanted to jump up on the desk and yell, “Well, am I going home today or not?” as I just sat there watching him read my chart.
Finally, I took a deep breath and just spit it out, “So, Doc, is it a go for today?” and he looked at me and said it was and smiled. He took out all of the legal docs and asked me all of the requisite questions (e.g., do I currently feel suicidal? Do I feel homicidal? Do I attest to the fact that I do not have in my possession a gun? What is the name and phone number that can be called to confirm the latter? and so on). I gave all the proper answers to assure my release and watched him sign the papers.
Then he wrote up prescriptions for all my meds to carry me for the first month until I met with my own psychiatrist that had already been scheduled by the discharge therapist for the 27th. He increased my Lamictal dosage again, stood up, and shook my hand. I quickly got rid of my smile as I turned my back to walk out of the office. A couple of patients immediately asked me if I was going home today (the standard fare whenever anyone came out of their shrink’s office each morning). I simply replied that he changed my medication again which basically means I’d be there for another 24-48 hours. Well, I didn’t actually lie—sort of—just ducked the question.
Meanwhile, the whole staff now knew I wanted to keep this news under wraps. So, I had to go through all of the motions of the daily schedule with everyone until the court rendered its decision (whenever the hell that would be). Talk about being distracted during morning group. Then, halfway through group, I was called out (not an unusual occurrence as we were all on different med schedules) and I was immediately told that the court had faxed back my release. I just grinned like a Cheshire cat. My nurse asked me if I was good to go as they surreptitiously handed me back my wallet, keys and cell (it seemed, damn it, that one patient—of course the one with the big mouth— got pissed off during group and walked out and was now hanging around the nurse’s station). I told my nurse that all I had left to do was call a cab.
Then he told me that they could not let me leave the unit until the cab actually arrived, nor was I allowed to wait in the front foyer (on the other side of the locked doors) by myself. I nervously looked at the clock knowing that group would be over before the cab would arrive. Then he said, “Relax, Alix, I promised you that I had a good plan. I promise that you’ll be able to walk through everyone and they won’t even have a clue.” I wasn’t so sure.
Then the patient with the big mouth came up to me and demanded to know if I was going home, but I just blew her off and tried to casually walk over to the lounge area and wait. Thankfully, she didn’t pursue the matter. Meanwhile, my nurse kept calling up to the front desk to see if my cab had arrived. He was looking at the clock. I was looking at the clock. We both looked at each other. The doors to the two group sessions flew open and out poured all 17 patients. Then I got up and walked over to the nurse’s station with this panicked look on my face. He said to just hold tight for a minute. He quietly talked to the other nurses, then came back to me and told me to casually walk down the back hallway as if I was going to the laundry room (certainly not suspicious; we always had some free time between groups to take care of various things). He told me when I got to the end of the hallway, take the left and wait by the back door. He said he would follow me in about 30 seconds so it wouldn’t appear as if I was being escorted out.
I held my breath and nonchalantly walked through everyone as they were milling about getting coffee, talking on the phones and generally chit-chatting among themselves, praying that no one would notice me or stop me. When I got past everyone, headed down that back hallway and got to the end, I quickly dashed to the left and waited. My heart was beating so hard. Freedom—so close.
Sure enough, he casually came around the corner, quickly inserted his key and we walked through together. Turns out that my cab still hadn’t arrived, but they decided to let him accompany me and wait with me in the foyer. As we got to the front doors, my cab arrived. He turned and looked me and said, “I told you I loved a good plan.” The front door…my ride home…everything was perfect. I managed to play my role beautifully for 11 consecutive days convincing everyone that I was not suicidal and that my bipolar and borderline disorders were on their way to getting back under control again.
The ride home was an odd experience. I just stared out the window watching all of the traffic on the interstate. Everyone in the world was just going about his or her normal routines. My life had been on hold for the last 11 days.
It was so surreal when the cab pulled up to my house. As I was walking up my front walk to the porch door, I started to look around for any evidence that the paramedics had been there. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I still have no fucking memory of those first hours. I opened up the porch door and it had not been forcibly opened. Looked around my porch—nothing. Then I walked up to my front door. It appeared to be closed and locked properly, so that door wasn’t busted in. How the hell did the paramedics get into my house?
As soon as I walked though my front door, I could tell that there had been some commotion. My living room coffee table had been pushed all the way to one side and two of my surround sound speakers had been pushed out of position. This was eerie. Then I noticed that ALL my lights were on throughout the house. What the hell had happened that night? I can’t begin to tell you how disconcerting this whole “coming home” experience became.
All of the windows were closed and locked. The back door was intact and locked. It was odd knowing that strangers had walked through my entire house. Why? The last thing I remember was sitting on my couch around 2000 hrs Friday evening, 9 October, polishing off that killer Kamikaze (no pun intended). I have no memory of taking any pills or even thinking about suicide. What were they looking for? Nothing seemed to be out of place in any of the other rooms. (To be continued…)©2009
Involuntary Commitment—Day 10, 19 October
(…continued from previous post)
Saw my shrink this morning (btw, I haven’t even mentioned that he did put me back on my Lamictal starting with 25mg daily to slowly ramp up to my normal dosage of 400mg daily, along with 2mg of Ativan QID and 20mg of Ambien @ hs—ironic, huh? Two of the same drugs that popped on my tox screen). I’m guessing that I’ve pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes sufficiently. He agreed that I could be released from this Godforsaken place tomorrow, the seventh “legal” day (what crap that weekends “don’t count”). The one catch is that I’d have to enter their three-day-a-week 0900-1200 outpatient program for two weeks. So, my head will continue to get shrunk for a little while longer—two more weeks of mastering my perfected façade. Then I can get back to my master plan.
I must say that my one savings grace has been my Army vet compadre. Over the last couple of days we actually started talking about all the bullshit we’ve been through that ultimately landed us both here. I could so identify with everything he said and vice-versa—we’ve sorta become comrade-in-arms. What’s nice about developing a connection in a place like this—full of strangers that you know you will never see again—is that you might just find that one person to whom you can remove your mask.
I am at a crossroads right this minute. I know I am only here because it was court ordered. I know the actions I chose (not that I still remember a damn thing) prior to the paramedics rushing me to the ER were stupid—stupidly resulting from the alcohol. Yet, even at this very moment, even now knowing that I am being discharged tomorrow, I feel more suicidal than I have in a long time. All that has been accomplished during my stay here has been the opportunity to reflect and dwell on just how pathetic and miserable my life is. The pain—the loneliness—is suffocating. I just want so much to just disappear down my lonely dark hole forever. (and to you DBT fans out there—no, I don’t want to use mindfulness, distraction, self-talk, or any of the other bullshit tools).
But I can’t show this. My mask must be firmly affixed for the next 36 hours. I have interviews with my primary therapist, my shrink, the discharge therapist and finally I go before the judge. Can I keep up this façade successfully enough to get through these interviews and truly convince them that I am sane enough to be discharged? I just hid in the bathroom while everyone else went to group (I had permission to skip to start preparing for my potential discharge. Potential because no papers have been signed yet). While in the bathroom, I promptly fell to pieces, crying uncontrollably. I couldn’t even tell you where it came from or what triggered it. I can’t let anyone else see me like this—not now, when I am so close to getting out of here.
You know, if they found this journal, I’d really be screwed. They issued me a pocket folder upon arrival where I was store handouts and other papers, and I’ve hidden it here, and this folder is always on my person at all times.
(later) Met with my discharge therapist. She’s all on board with my release. That’s one hurdle cleared. Now for the others whenever they tell me when they are ready to see me.
I know that any of you reading this probably think I’ve wasted a perfectly good opportunity to get my head on straight. But you just have to understand that I don’t want the help—not any more. I don’t have anything left in me. No emotions. There is nothing left to care about, and certainly no one that really cares about me. I can’t begin to explain the abject pain of my loneliness. All I have left is a darkness that pursues me and envelopes me.
I have made my decision and it is final. I have the resolve now; nothing has been clearer to me. As to when? I have to wrap up a lot of loose ends and put my affairs in order (what a classic phrase). This will take time because it needs to be executed perfectly. All Is dotted, all Ts crossed. Plus, what the hell, I might as well vacuum the house.
Tonight is probably my last night here. I have no idea how long processing out will take tomorrow. I just pray that there are no last minute hiccoughs with the judge. (To be continued…)©2009
Saw my shrink this morning (btw, I haven’t even mentioned that he did put me back on my Lamictal starting with 25mg daily to slowly ramp up to my normal dosage of 400mg daily, along with 2mg of Ativan QID and 20mg of Ambien @ hs—ironic, huh? Two of the same drugs that popped on my tox screen). I’m guessing that I’ve pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes sufficiently. He agreed that I could be released from this Godforsaken place tomorrow, the seventh “legal” day (what crap that weekends “don’t count”). The one catch is that I’d have to enter their three-day-a-week 0900-1200 outpatient program for two weeks. So, my head will continue to get shrunk for a little while longer—two more weeks of mastering my perfected façade. Then I can get back to my master plan.
I must say that my one savings grace has been my Army vet compadre. Over the last couple of days we actually started talking about all the bullshit we’ve been through that ultimately landed us both here. I could so identify with everything he said and vice-versa—we’ve sorta become comrade-in-arms. What’s nice about developing a connection in a place like this—full of strangers that you know you will never see again—is that you might just find that one person to whom you can remove your mask.
I am at a crossroads right this minute. I know I am only here because it was court ordered. I know the actions I chose (not that I still remember a damn thing) prior to the paramedics rushing me to the ER were stupid—stupidly resulting from the alcohol. Yet, even at this very moment, even now knowing that I am being discharged tomorrow, I feel more suicidal than I have in a long time. All that has been accomplished during my stay here has been the opportunity to reflect and dwell on just how pathetic and miserable my life is. The pain—the loneliness—is suffocating. I just want so much to just disappear down my lonely dark hole forever. (and to you DBT fans out there—no, I don’t want to use mindfulness, distraction, self-talk, or any of the other bullshit tools).
But I can’t show this. My mask must be firmly affixed for the next 36 hours. I have interviews with my primary therapist, my shrink, the discharge therapist and finally I go before the judge. Can I keep up this façade successfully enough to get through these interviews and truly convince them that I am sane enough to be discharged? I just hid in the bathroom while everyone else went to group (I had permission to skip to start preparing for my potential discharge. Potential because no papers have been signed yet). While in the bathroom, I promptly fell to pieces, crying uncontrollably. I couldn’t even tell you where it came from or what triggered it. I can’t let anyone else see me like this—not now, when I am so close to getting out of here.
You know, if they found this journal, I’d really be screwed. They issued me a pocket folder upon arrival where I was store handouts and other papers, and I’ve hidden it here, and this folder is always on my person at all times.
(later) Met with my discharge therapist. She’s all on board with my release. That’s one hurdle cleared. Now for the others whenever they tell me when they are ready to see me.
I know that any of you reading this probably think I’ve wasted a perfectly good opportunity to get my head on straight. But you just have to understand that I don’t want the help—not any more. I don’t have anything left in me. No emotions. There is nothing left to care about, and certainly no one that really cares about me. I can’t begin to explain the abject pain of my loneliness. All I have left is a darkness that pursues me and envelopes me.
I have made my decision and it is final. I have the resolve now; nothing has been clearer to me. As to when? I have to wrap up a lot of loose ends and put my affairs in order (what a classic phrase). This will take time because it needs to be executed perfectly. All Is dotted, all Ts crossed. Plus, what the hell, I might as well vacuum the house.
Tonight is probably my last night here. I have no idea how long processing out will take tomorrow. I just pray that there are no last minute hiccoughs with the judge. (To be continued…)©2009
24 October 2009
Involuntary Commitment—Days 4 through 9, Tuesday through Sunday, 13-18 October
(...continued from previous post)
The day-to-day routine got old really fast. So far I have been able to hoodwink my psychiatrist and primary therapist (the two responsible for reporting back to the court) that I am indeed improving. However, and this is where I think the healthcare industry has a fine racquet going on—I was told on Day 5 (remember, my minimum legal hold was five to seven days not counting weekends, so Day 5 in real time was only actually Day 3 legally) by both of them that they were still unwilling to sign my release papers for at least two more days. That would bring me through Friday forcing me to stay another weekend. Their chief concern was that I lived alone and had no visible support structure to return to (OK, here is where I sorta fucked up…no one knew I was here and I had no visitors or phone calls). Translation: I needed to stay on until they felt I had sufficient time to develop and practice those oh so cool coping skills (a decided subjective scale I was being graded on).
So, for each of these days I towed the party line as best I could. During this time on Day 6, my roommate was discharged and for the first time I enjoyed having some actual privacy—well, as good as it got if you don’t count all the nurses and techs constantly sticking their heads in to make sure I was doing “fine.” Of course I was!
On Day 7 (legal Day 5), I was told that it was a reasonable expectation that I could be discharged on the 20 October, next Tuesday, followed by two weeks of outpatient therapy and one additional week just regrouping at home before I had to return to work. So I called my manager back and left a voicemail indicating that 9 November was a potential return to work date. I also gave him the fax number of the hospital to give to the medical disability company (thankfully, an outsourced function due to HIPAA regulations—my employer does not get to know where or why I am here) so that FMLA paperwork could be filed and I would continue to be paid. It was nice to know I still had some time before I had to go back to my incredibly stressful job.
Days 8 and 9 (the weekend) was not so bad. Yeah, there were still groups to go to, although the schedule was pared back and not as rigid. A lot more down time for me. The weather was autumn beautiful and with the extra smoke breaks, I got to spend a lot more time outside in the sun. My privacy/solitude bubble was burst Saturday night. There was a new female admit and they assigned her to my room. Boy was I pissed. And I thought I was getting royally screwed. She was only 17 years old (she should have been in the adolescent unit but there were no beds, so I was stuck with her until one opened up). Geez, all I needed was some whiney, needy teenager to share my breathing space.
By the time she had processed her admission paperwork it was already late in the evening. I purposely took my evening meds earlier than usual (we had a one-hour swing on when we could take our 2100 hrs meds…any time from 2000 to 2200 hrs). I turned off the lights in my room (but I did leave the bathroom light on with the curtain drawn), hit the sack and pretended to be asleep when she came in, hoping that she would be too intimidated to turn the lights on and “wake” me up. It worked beautifully.
This morning, when we had our 0530 vitals taken, I said absolutely nothing and simply walked out the room to catch the first smoke break of the day. When I came back to the room still saying nothing, I went into the bathroom and took a long enough shower so she would be gone for breakfast by the time I got out. The rest of the morning was busy work with group therapy, and during the lull before lunchtime, I sat on my side of the room at my desk writing in this journal. She picked up the hint. She said nary a word.
(later) Well, it’s 1945. Time for the last, although most informal, group meeting for the day (a la “what new things did I learn about myself today” bullshit). It’s run by one of the techs and mostly we had to fill out this required check sheet and turn it in (how many times could I word the same bullshit in different ways each night surprised even me). My roommate has continued to stay quiet. Now, mind you, I haven’t been ugly or mean, or even rude to her by a long shot. I’ve simply shown no interest in wanting to get to know her, much less have a conversation.
As soon as group is over at 2000 hrs, I will spend the rest of evening outside until I have to take my evening meds at 2200 hrs. Thank God for such beautiful weather. I would go stir crazy (no pun intended) if I had to stay indoors for the entire weekend (yeah, even in the rain we still take our smoke breaks as there is a covered patio we can sit under aside from the rather nice back yard they have here). The campus is fairly large as each unit has their own “back yard.” Ours backs up to the detox unit’s, but, believe this or not, while inside the building each unit is locked separately apart from each other, we are not allowed to interact through the fence with the detox unit patients while we are outside. Crazy rules for crazy people.
Tomorrow is Monday, back to the weekday grind. Hopefully, only two days to go. (To be continued…)©2009
The day-to-day routine got old really fast. So far I have been able to hoodwink my psychiatrist and primary therapist (the two responsible for reporting back to the court) that I am indeed improving. However, and this is where I think the healthcare industry has a fine racquet going on—I was told on Day 5 (remember, my minimum legal hold was five to seven days not counting weekends, so Day 5 in real time was only actually Day 3 legally) by both of them that they were still unwilling to sign my release papers for at least two more days. That would bring me through Friday forcing me to stay another weekend. Their chief concern was that I lived alone and had no visible support structure to return to (OK, here is where I sorta fucked up…no one knew I was here and I had no visitors or phone calls). Translation: I needed to stay on until they felt I had sufficient time to develop and practice those oh so cool coping skills (a decided subjective scale I was being graded on).
So, for each of these days I towed the party line as best I could. During this time on Day 6, my roommate was discharged and for the first time I enjoyed having some actual privacy—well, as good as it got if you don’t count all the nurses and techs constantly sticking their heads in to make sure I was doing “fine.” Of course I was!
On Day 7 (legal Day 5), I was told that it was a reasonable expectation that I could be discharged on the 20 October, next Tuesday, followed by two weeks of outpatient therapy and one additional week just regrouping at home before I had to return to work. So I called my manager back and left a voicemail indicating that 9 November was a potential return to work date. I also gave him the fax number of the hospital to give to the medical disability company (thankfully, an outsourced function due to HIPAA regulations—my employer does not get to know where or why I am here) so that FMLA paperwork could be filed and I would continue to be paid. It was nice to know I still had some time before I had to go back to my incredibly stressful job.
Days 8 and 9 (the weekend) was not so bad. Yeah, there were still groups to go to, although the schedule was pared back and not as rigid. A lot more down time for me. The weather was autumn beautiful and with the extra smoke breaks, I got to spend a lot more time outside in the sun. My privacy/solitude bubble was burst Saturday night. There was a new female admit and they assigned her to my room. Boy was I pissed. And I thought I was getting royally screwed. She was only 17 years old (she should have been in the adolescent unit but there were no beds, so I was stuck with her until one opened up). Geez, all I needed was some whiney, needy teenager to share my breathing space.
By the time she had processed her admission paperwork it was already late in the evening. I purposely took my evening meds earlier than usual (we had a one-hour swing on when we could take our 2100 hrs meds…any time from 2000 to 2200 hrs). I turned off the lights in my room (but I did leave the bathroom light on with the curtain drawn), hit the sack and pretended to be asleep when she came in, hoping that she would be too intimidated to turn the lights on and “wake” me up. It worked beautifully.
This morning, when we had our 0530 vitals taken, I said absolutely nothing and simply walked out the room to catch the first smoke break of the day. When I came back to the room still saying nothing, I went into the bathroom and took a long enough shower so she would be gone for breakfast by the time I got out. The rest of the morning was busy work with group therapy, and during the lull before lunchtime, I sat on my side of the room at my desk writing in this journal. She picked up the hint. She said nary a word.
(later) Well, it’s 1945. Time for the last, although most informal, group meeting for the day (a la “what new things did I learn about myself today” bullshit). It’s run by one of the techs and mostly we had to fill out this required check sheet and turn it in (how many times could I word the same bullshit in different ways each night surprised even me). My roommate has continued to stay quiet. Now, mind you, I haven’t been ugly or mean, or even rude to her by a long shot. I’ve simply shown no interest in wanting to get to know her, much less have a conversation.
As soon as group is over at 2000 hrs, I will spend the rest of evening outside until I have to take my evening meds at 2200 hrs. Thank God for such beautiful weather. I would go stir crazy (no pun intended) if I had to stay indoors for the entire weekend (yeah, even in the rain we still take our smoke breaks as there is a covered patio we can sit under aside from the rather nice back yard they have here). The campus is fairly large as each unit has their own “back yard.” Ours backs up to the detox unit’s, but, believe this or not, while inside the building each unit is locked separately apart from each other, we are not allowed to interact through the fence with the detox unit patients while we are outside. Crazy rules for crazy people.
Tomorrow is Monday, back to the weekday grind. Hopefully, only two days to go. (To be continued…)©2009
Involuntary Commitment—Day 3, Monday 12 October
(...continued from previous post)
Morning vitals still showed my BP to be very elevated, so they started me on yet another medication. Actually, in this case, they added an additional med (lisinopril) along with a prn order for Tylenol for my headache (like that’s gonna do me any good—no, not drug seeking behaviour attitude, but give me a break…Tylenol??? At least Excedrin has the caffeine in it like those old APC compounds you used to be able to get which worked great for headaches…aspirin, phenacetin and caffeine). I was actually more concerned about the dizziness.
Monday morning…I’d finally get to see what kind of shrink they lined up for me. That’s when I was told the “good” news. My court-ordered 72-hour hold had now been stretched into a minimum five to seven days starting with today (get this….weekends don’t count!). While I was pissed off as shit, I mustered my best façade from the get-go, determined to get the fuck out of Dodge ASAP. I could play their games. Been there, done that. I was required to attend all group therapy sessions as a condition of my release along with participating in their outpatient treatment center after release (not a long-term thing, perhaps two to three weeks tops). So I looked appropriately cheerful and eager to understand all about my labeled diagnoses (no surprise here…Bipolar 1 and Borderline Personality Disorder). Read all the handouts they gave me so I could spit it out effectively in group to also include being able to identify what my triggers were and the supposed corresponding effective coping skills (this place was steeped in DBT…don’t even get me started with that subject). Now, granted, coping skills can work IF you choose to use them. Personally, I just no longer give a damn. But they didn’t need to know that. I now began marking off my time to discharge (picture the prison wall with hash marks on it…LOL).
The other patients were a pain in the neck. I made myself as unapproachable as possible. There was one exception, however. There was an Army vet with PTSD that was in the same boat I was. Neither of us wanted to be there (well, I get that no one WANTED to be there). Neither of us wanted to interact with anyone else, and soon we ended up isolating ourselves together against the herd. He was doing the same as me…The Master Façade. During our limited, brief conversations we both realized that we actually “got it” about each other. No, we didn’t hang together, but when forced into a group of people, we could isolate together. Nothing ever had to be said, and no one ever bothered us for the most part. We took great pains to dare anyone to even come up to us and start a conversation (this whole attitude was, of course, after all the official therapists and shrinks left for the day. During the day, all of us were always being observed, so I had to tow the party line for at least some part of the day).
The schedule was quite structured. My only freedom was the frequent smoke breaks and choosing not to eat the meals. Having to sit with everyone in the cafeteria listening to their chirpy, Xanax-driven banter was more than I could handle. And I got so fucking tired of the other patients who actually dared approach me asking me how I felt (like the response, “How the fuck to you THINK I feel?” wouldn’t be so far out of line), why didn’t I smile more, why didn’t I socialize with the group, etc., etc., etc. A simple reply of “fuck you” usually did the trick (again, after hours).
I survived the various group therapy sessions. Thankfully, the current census of 17 patients was split into two smaller groups, so that made it palliative. Yes I participated and spoke (I considered it the ultimate audition), and yes, I offered what appeared to be constructive feedback when others spoke (oh how I had to censor what came out of my mouth). I did what I had to just to make it through the day. And God, what a long day it was. (the hardest one to endure was the rec therapy where they forced us to have “fun.” If I was going to lose any points it was gonna be with this session.) I could actually breathe a sigh of relief once dinnertime came around and all the psych staff left for the day. I felt like I could let my guard down somewhat. Yeah, I couldn’t be blatant about my “fuck you” attitude as a nurse could always write something in my chart for my therapist to see the next day, but they weren’t around in our faces all the time, so I could pretty much get away with it And the thing about skipping the meals was no big deal. Evidently, the dietary folks kept the two huge refrigerators we had access to loaded with fresh fruits, veggies and juices. The only thing missing was caffeine. All the coffee and teas were decaffeinated. The ironic part was that we had access to vending machines with drinks. I found Mountain Dew to be highly effective in combating caffeine withdrawal today. I don’t particularly like carbonated beverages, but one does what one must—necessity is the mother of invention. Luckily, I actually had a bunch of singles in my wallet that I could get access to upon request.
So, the day finally winded down, I took my evening meds (my BP was finally getting under better control), disappeared to my room, sacked out on the bed and just stared at the ceiling (I didn’t really envision getting any better sleep here than I did when I was at home) until the tech would roll around at 0530 to start taking morning vitals. Oh goodie, yet another day to endure. (To be continued…)©2009
Morning vitals still showed my BP to be very elevated, so they started me on yet another medication. Actually, in this case, they added an additional med (lisinopril) along with a prn order for Tylenol for my headache (like that’s gonna do me any good—no, not drug seeking behaviour attitude, but give me a break…Tylenol??? At least Excedrin has the caffeine in it like those old APC compounds you used to be able to get which worked great for headaches…aspirin, phenacetin and caffeine). I was actually more concerned about the dizziness.
Monday morning…I’d finally get to see what kind of shrink they lined up for me. That’s when I was told the “good” news. My court-ordered 72-hour hold had now been stretched into a minimum five to seven days starting with today (get this….weekends don’t count!). While I was pissed off as shit, I mustered my best façade from the get-go, determined to get the fuck out of Dodge ASAP. I could play their games. Been there, done that. I was required to attend all group therapy sessions as a condition of my release along with participating in their outpatient treatment center after release (not a long-term thing, perhaps two to three weeks tops). So I looked appropriately cheerful and eager to understand all about my labeled diagnoses (no surprise here…Bipolar 1 and Borderline Personality Disorder). Read all the handouts they gave me so I could spit it out effectively in group to also include being able to identify what my triggers were and the supposed corresponding effective coping skills (this place was steeped in DBT…don’t even get me started with that subject). Now, granted, coping skills can work IF you choose to use them. Personally, I just no longer give a damn. But they didn’t need to know that. I now began marking off my time to discharge (picture the prison wall with hash marks on it…LOL).
The other patients were a pain in the neck. I made myself as unapproachable as possible. There was one exception, however. There was an Army vet with PTSD that was in the same boat I was. Neither of us wanted to be there (well, I get that no one WANTED to be there). Neither of us wanted to interact with anyone else, and soon we ended up isolating ourselves together against the herd. He was doing the same as me…The Master Façade. During our limited, brief conversations we both realized that we actually “got it” about each other. No, we didn’t hang together, but when forced into a group of people, we could isolate together. Nothing ever had to be said, and no one ever bothered us for the most part. We took great pains to dare anyone to even come up to us and start a conversation (this whole attitude was, of course, after all the official therapists and shrinks left for the day. During the day, all of us were always being observed, so I had to tow the party line for at least some part of the day).
The schedule was quite structured. My only freedom was the frequent smoke breaks and choosing not to eat the meals. Having to sit with everyone in the cafeteria listening to their chirpy, Xanax-driven banter was more than I could handle. And I got so fucking tired of the other patients who actually dared approach me asking me how I felt (like the response, “How the fuck to you THINK I feel?” wouldn’t be so far out of line), why didn’t I smile more, why didn’t I socialize with the group, etc., etc., etc. A simple reply of “fuck you” usually did the trick (again, after hours).
I survived the various group therapy sessions. Thankfully, the current census of 17 patients was split into two smaller groups, so that made it palliative. Yes I participated and spoke (I considered it the ultimate audition), and yes, I offered what appeared to be constructive feedback when others spoke (oh how I had to censor what came out of my mouth). I did what I had to just to make it through the day. And God, what a long day it was. (the hardest one to endure was the rec therapy where they forced us to have “fun.” If I was going to lose any points it was gonna be with this session.) I could actually breathe a sigh of relief once dinnertime came around and all the psych staff left for the day. I felt like I could let my guard down somewhat. Yeah, I couldn’t be blatant about my “fuck you” attitude as a nurse could always write something in my chart for my therapist to see the next day, but they weren’t around in our faces all the time, so I could pretty much get away with it And the thing about skipping the meals was no big deal. Evidently, the dietary folks kept the two huge refrigerators we had access to loaded with fresh fruits, veggies and juices. The only thing missing was caffeine. All the coffee and teas were decaffeinated. The ironic part was that we had access to vending machines with drinks. I found Mountain Dew to be highly effective in combating caffeine withdrawal today. I don’t particularly like carbonated beverages, but one does what one must—necessity is the mother of invention. Luckily, I actually had a bunch of singles in my wallet that I could get access to upon request.
So, the day finally winded down, I took my evening meds (my BP was finally getting under better control), disappeared to my room, sacked out on the bed and just stared at the ceiling (I didn’t really envision getting any better sleep here than I did when I was at home) until the tech would roll around at 0530 to start taking morning vitals. Oh goodie, yet another day to endure. (To be continued…)©2009
Involuntary Commitment—Day 2, Sunday 11 October
(…continued from previous post)
I woke up with the hangover from hell, but I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I would be transported to my ultimate end destination soon. I asked where I was to be shipped and breathed a sigh of relief. I had been there before in 2005 with a previous overdose. I was afraid that the first available bed to open up was going to be at the state-run facility—a place I had never seen, but about which I had heard horrible things.
This private facility houses five different units: geriatrics, adolescents, detox, the certified, thorazine drooling-in-your-oatmeal lunatics, and the unit I was assigned to—adults classified as mood disordered and/or dual diagnosis (mood disorders plus alcohol/chemical dependence) and PTSD.
My unit was comprised of quite a cross-section of the human population. The patients had either self-checked in realizing that they required additional help, or were on the other side of the coin like me: court-ordered involuntary commitment as a direct result of an attempted suicide gone wrong (translation: we were the unlucky few who survived our erstwhile efforts). In every case, it all came down to one thing: everyone was either seriously considering cashing in their chips, or had actually tried and failed.
The age range was equally as diverse. During my stay, the oldest was a 71-year-old woman (you’d never have guessed by looking and listening to her) and the youngest was a 17-year-old dropout who, by all normal rules should have been on the adolescent wing, but there were no available beds. I remember the night she checked in, arms sliced to ribbons. For her, it was her cutting ritual gone out of control rather than a slice-the-wrist suicide attempt.
I had more difficulty with the younger patients—those roughly 18-23. To hear them talk as they cycled through, it almost became a game of one upmanship to see just how far each pushed the envelope in their suicide attempts. What a new spin on competition.
I was lucky enough to have a few older folks around (50+ years) like me to help balance out the group. None of them let the kids get away with their bullshit. Me? I was always on the sidelines, on the outside looking in. I always kept my distance from everyone—my walls and mask surfaced the minute I crossed the threshold. I did not want to be here; I had nothing to accomplish here. My sole goal was simply to go through the motions until the judge signed my release papers.
Anyway, the trip over took about 30 minutes. There was the usual admission paperwork followed by a normal history and pseudo-physical. Again, my blood pressure was skyrocketing, even though the numbers had come down since they started the clonidine HCL. All I wanted to do at this point was to lie down and go to sleep.
I was shown my room (unfortunately this one already had another person assigned as well, so I was stuck with a roommate). They gave me back my sandals and watch, and provided me with a few pair of real scrubs to change into. They also provided minimal necessary toiletries since I came in with nothing. Evidently, all of the other patients were off doing lunch or some type of group therapy. I told my nurse that I wasn’t hungry, but that I would like to take a hot shower and go to bed. She was very pleasant and understanding and left me alone…actually ALONE.
After my long, hot shower, I hand washed my underwear and set them out to dry. I put on one of the pair of scrubs and just collapsed onto the bed. I actually slept hard throughout the afternoon and was finally awakened by some tech to take my blood pressure yet again. It was still well above normal despite the medication. I finally put two and two together and figured out that my “hangover” (hammering headache from hell and feeling quite dizzy) was due to my escalated BP.
Slept through dinner and most of the evening minus the BP checks. Since I had been admitted over the weekend after the docs had already seen their patients that morning, there were still no standing orders for me except for the clonidine that came over from the previous joint. However, the nurse was concerned that my BP wasn’t really responding effectively to the clonidine, so she put in a call to my assigned doctor. He changed the medication and told her to keep monitoring me every 30 minutes.
To make a long story short, I was eventually rushed back to the nearest ER by ambulance. The new medication was not reducing the BP (in fact, it had risen) and my attendant symptoms were worsening. Upon arrival I was taken immediately back (mind you, I now have THREE separate hospital bracelets on my arm). They hooked me up to a cardiac monitor, started some O2, two IVs and some serious IV BP shit. They were also nice enough to ask me if I wanted something for my headache (being that it was known I was on “suicide precaution” which included being accompanied by one of the psych facility’s techs, I just assumed any request on my part for pain medication would be interpreted as drug seeking behaviour, so I didn’t even bother to try). What a relief when the vise came off my head.
I finally left that ER at 0500, hit the sack and just stared at the ceiling just waiting for the next day to start all over again. (To be continued…)©2009
I woke up with the hangover from hell, but I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I would be transported to my ultimate end destination soon. I asked where I was to be shipped and breathed a sigh of relief. I had been there before in 2005 with a previous overdose. I was afraid that the first available bed to open up was going to be at the state-run facility—a place I had never seen, but about which I had heard horrible things.
This private facility houses five different units: geriatrics, adolescents, detox, the certified, thorazine drooling-in-your-oatmeal lunatics, and the unit I was assigned to—adults classified as mood disordered and/or dual diagnosis (mood disorders plus alcohol/chemical dependence) and PTSD.
My unit was comprised of quite a cross-section of the human population. The patients had either self-checked in realizing that they required additional help, or were on the other side of the coin like me: court-ordered involuntary commitment as a direct result of an attempted suicide gone wrong (translation: we were the unlucky few who survived our erstwhile efforts). In every case, it all came down to one thing: everyone was either seriously considering cashing in their chips, or had actually tried and failed.
The age range was equally as diverse. During my stay, the oldest was a 71-year-old woman (you’d never have guessed by looking and listening to her) and the youngest was a 17-year-old dropout who, by all normal rules should have been on the adolescent wing, but there were no available beds. I remember the night she checked in, arms sliced to ribbons. For her, it was her cutting ritual gone out of control rather than a slice-the-wrist suicide attempt.
I had more difficulty with the younger patients—those roughly 18-23. To hear them talk as they cycled through, it almost became a game of one upmanship to see just how far each pushed the envelope in their suicide attempts. What a new spin on competition.
I was lucky enough to have a few older folks around (50+ years) like me to help balance out the group. None of them let the kids get away with their bullshit. Me? I was always on the sidelines, on the outside looking in. I always kept my distance from everyone—my walls and mask surfaced the minute I crossed the threshold. I did not want to be here; I had nothing to accomplish here. My sole goal was simply to go through the motions until the judge signed my release papers.
Anyway, the trip over took about 30 minutes. There was the usual admission paperwork followed by a normal history and pseudo-physical. Again, my blood pressure was skyrocketing, even though the numbers had come down since they started the clonidine HCL. All I wanted to do at this point was to lie down and go to sleep.
I was shown my room (unfortunately this one already had another person assigned as well, so I was stuck with a roommate). They gave me back my sandals and watch, and provided me with a few pair of real scrubs to change into. They also provided minimal necessary toiletries since I came in with nothing. Evidently, all of the other patients were off doing lunch or some type of group therapy. I told my nurse that I wasn’t hungry, but that I would like to take a hot shower and go to bed. She was very pleasant and understanding and left me alone…actually ALONE.
After my long, hot shower, I hand washed my underwear and set them out to dry. I put on one of the pair of scrubs and just collapsed onto the bed. I actually slept hard throughout the afternoon and was finally awakened by some tech to take my blood pressure yet again. It was still well above normal despite the medication. I finally put two and two together and figured out that my “hangover” (hammering headache from hell and feeling quite dizzy) was due to my escalated BP.
Slept through dinner and most of the evening minus the BP checks. Since I had been admitted over the weekend after the docs had already seen their patients that morning, there were still no standing orders for me except for the clonidine that came over from the previous joint. However, the nurse was concerned that my BP wasn’t really responding effectively to the clonidine, so she put in a call to my assigned doctor. He changed the medication and told her to keep monitoring me every 30 minutes.
To make a long story short, I was eventually rushed back to the nearest ER by ambulance. The new medication was not reducing the BP (in fact, it had risen) and my attendant symptoms were worsening. Upon arrival I was taken immediately back (mind you, I now have THREE separate hospital bracelets on my arm). They hooked me up to a cardiac monitor, started some O2, two IVs and some serious IV BP shit. They were also nice enough to ask me if I wanted something for my headache (being that it was known I was on “suicide precaution” which included being accompanied by one of the psych facility’s techs, I just assumed any request on my part for pain medication would be interpreted as drug seeking behaviour, so I didn’t even bother to try). What a relief when the vise came off my head.
I finally left that ER at 0500, hit the sack and just stared at the ceiling just waiting for the next day to start all over again. (To be continued…)©2009
Involuntary Commitment—Day 1, Part 2, Saturday 10 October, 1000
(...continued from previous post)
The holding facility—unbelievable. They brought me in the back door for all holding patients, rather than through the front door. There were high fences with security patrolling the back entrance. I am “helped” out of the transport van by two of the ice cream men (the only thing missing in this picture so far was the handcuffs and shackles). After waiting about five minutes after they buzzed their arrival, someone inside finally got around to looking at the security camera feed and released the door lock (I guess retinal scanning technology hadn’t found its way there yet).
I was ushered in like cattle. They all but strip searched me and used a hand-held metal detector (as if I had a Sig Sauer stuck up my ass, puh-lease). I was so hoping they’d scan down to my feet as I have surgical screws in my right ankle. I just wanted to hear the detector go off so I could fuck with them. But, they didn’t scan that low. After all, I was Shoeless Joe Jackson here.
They walked me out into the hallway, pointed to a chair and told me to sit as a nurse’s aide came over to take my vitals. Well, lo and behold, my blood pressure topped out at 228/156. Never having had a history of hypertension, I was thinking that it was most likely situational. I mean, face it, it had been rather stressful up to this point (at least the part that I can remember).
I felt sorry for the nurse practitioner. She actually had to get off her lazy ass and do something about it. She started barking all of these questions at me and I just stared back at her in return and said nothing. The next thing I knew, someone was handing me two white pills. I told them I wasn’t going to take a damn thing until I saw them bring me the medicine over still in their own individual blister packs so I could see what the name of the medicine they were giving me. Then I demanded to read a print out about the medication to learn of its indications, contra-indications and side effects. Hell, up to this point, as far as I knew, no one had bothered to take a history on me and as far as I was concerned, they had no earthly idea of what medications I was already taking. Do I look stupid enough to blindly take 2 faceless white pills from someone who would much rather be somewhere else flexing their biceps with beer cans?
Once satisfied (each was 0.2mg of clonidine HCL), I took the pills and then they herded me into this day room with not enough chairs. I was rapidly informed of the rules (confined to the day room, if I had to hit the head, I would be escorted into the bathroom with a security guard, and a variety of other crap, which I paid little attention to). This place was a veritable prison. I wondered how long I would be in this hellhole until I was transferred to the actual psych hospital. Meanwhile, I found a place along the wall and just stood. Then they told me that they would be monitoring my blood pressure every 30 minutes (over the course of my stay, the clonidine would drop my pressure only about twenty points or so, so they kept feeding me the medicine).
Lunch and dinner came and went, neither of which I partook. At one point, when this other patient got up to go to the bathroom, I immediately grabbed his chair and sat down. I was cold, tired, pissed off and spoiling for a fight. For all I knew, he was some crazed maniac killer. I was so hoping he would challenge me for “his” char upon his return. I wasn’t disappointed. He walked right up to me, stuck his mouth in my face and yelled at me to get the fuck out of his chair (at least he didn’t spit when he yelled). I just stared at him blankly and grinned, refusing to move (I mean, I might as well be in an insane asylum, why not act the part?). I wanted so bad for him to do something even so benign as to poke me in my chest so I could stand up and beat the shit out of him, but one of the guards came over as soon as he started yelling. I just looked down at the floor and stared and said nothing…but I got to keep “my” chair.
At 2100 they gathered us all together and marched us through this maze—men to the left and women to the right (something about Nazi Germany came to mind right about this point). Oh goodie, a room full of bunk beds. We had 15 minutes before lights out (and no, up to this point, I had not even considered the fact that I would be spending the night in this five-star hotel). Another blood pressure reading followed by another round of pills. I lied down on my bed and just stared at the ceiling as they shut off the lights. Needless to say, I got no sleep with them taking my blood pressure every 30 minutes. 0600 finally came around with a start as the guards clamored in cranking on all of the lights. Yet another day to unfold in this never-ending nightmare. (To be continued…)©2009
The holding facility—unbelievable. They brought me in the back door for all holding patients, rather than through the front door. There were high fences with security patrolling the back entrance. I am “helped” out of the transport van by two of the ice cream men (the only thing missing in this picture so far was the handcuffs and shackles). After waiting about five minutes after they buzzed their arrival, someone inside finally got around to looking at the security camera feed and released the door lock (I guess retinal scanning technology hadn’t found its way there yet).
I was ushered in like cattle. They all but strip searched me and used a hand-held metal detector (as if I had a Sig Sauer stuck up my ass, puh-lease). I was so hoping they’d scan down to my feet as I have surgical screws in my right ankle. I just wanted to hear the detector go off so I could fuck with them. But, they didn’t scan that low. After all, I was Shoeless Joe Jackson here.
They walked me out into the hallway, pointed to a chair and told me to sit as a nurse’s aide came over to take my vitals. Well, lo and behold, my blood pressure topped out at 228/156. Never having had a history of hypertension, I was thinking that it was most likely situational. I mean, face it, it had been rather stressful up to this point (at least the part that I can remember).
I felt sorry for the nurse practitioner. She actually had to get off her lazy ass and do something about it. She started barking all of these questions at me and I just stared back at her in return and said nothing. The next thing I knew, someone was handing me two white pills. I told them I wasn’t going to take a damn thing until I saw them bring me the medicine over still in their own individual blister packs so I could see what the name of the medicine they were giving me. Then I demanded to read a print out about the medication to learn of its indications, contra-indications and side effects. Hell, up to this point, as far as I knew, no one had bothered to take a history on me and as far as I was concerned, they had no earthly idea of what medications I was already taking. Do I look stupid enough to blindly take 2 faceless white pills from someone who would much rather be somewhere else flexing their biceps with beer cans?
Once satisfied (each was 0.2mg of clonidine HCL), I took the pills and then they herded me into this day room with not enough chairs. I was rapidly informed of the rules (confined to the day room, if I had to hit the head, I would be escorted into the bathroom with a security guard, and a variety of other crap, which I paid little attention to). This place was a veritable prison. I wondered how long I would be in this hellhole until I was transferred to the actual psych hospital. Meanwhile, I found a place along the wall and just stood. Then they told me that they would be monitoring my blood pressure every 30 minutes (over the course of my stay, the clonidine would drop my pressure only about twenty points or so, so they kept feeding me the medicine).
Lunch and dinner came and went, neither of which I partook. At one point, when this other patient got up to go to the bathroom, I immediately grabbed his chair and sat down. I was cold, tired, pissed off and spoiling for a fight. For all I knew, he was some crazed maniac killer. I was so hoping he would challenge me for “his” char upon his return. I wasn’t disappointed. He walked right up to me, stuck his mouth in my face and yelled at me to get the fuck out of his chair (at least he didn’t spit when he yelled). I just stared at him blankly and grinned, refusing to move (I mean, I might as well be in an insane asylum, why not act the part?). I wanted so bad for him to do something even so benign as to poke me in my chest so I could stand up and beat the shit out of him, but one of the guards came over as soon as he started yelling. I just looked down at the floor and stared and said nothing…but I got to keep “my” chair.
At 2100 they gathered us all together and marched us through this maze—men to the left and women to the right (something about Nazi Germany came to mind right about this point). Oh goodie, a room full of bunk beds. We had 15 minutes before lights out (and no, up to this point, I had not even considered the fact that I would be spending the night in this five-star hotel). Another blood pressure reading followed by another round of pills. I lied down on my bed and just stared at the ceiling as they shut off the lights. Needless to say, I got no sleep with them taking my blood pressure every 30 minutes. 0600 finally came around with a start as the guards clamored in cranking on all of the lights. Yet another day to unfold in this never-ending nightmare. (To be continued…)©2009
Involuntary Commitment—Day 1, Part 1, Saturday 10 October, unknown time
This post begins a sequence of events that will be followed by additional posts as I upload them. For necessity’s sake, I’ve had to resort to keeping a handwritten journal, so it will take me some time to key it all in and upload each post. I’ve written a lot, so this may take me a few days to complete. Some of what is accounted for in this particular post is third-hand information for me as I have no memory whatsoever of how this fucking nightmare began.Officially on this date at an unknown time, a probate court judge signed papers involuntarily committing me to a psychiatric facility because I posed a danger to myself as a result of an overdose. I have no memory of how the 911 call got placed, the paramedics coming to my home, then taking me to the Emergency Room, much less anything that took place while in the ER.
My first recollection was waking up in what appeared to be a hospital room except the one entire wall directly in my field of vision was glass. Anyone walking by could see into this room; I had no privacy. The clock on the wall said it was 0500. The only evidence of what day it was appeared on my hospital bracelet.
Being rather disoriented it took me a while to get my bearings. Where was I and how did I get here? Those glass doors were closed, but I did notice that there appeared to be what looked like a nurse’s station; however, no one seemed to be around. I looked around my bed and could find no call button to summon someone to my bedside. Additionally, I noticed that there was a phone on the rollaway table, but it was too far away to reach. I saw people dressed in various colors of scrubs and white jackets, but they were all on their way to or from somewhere else.
Then I noticed the oddest thing. There was a hospital security guard posted right outside my room. I hadn’t noticed him before as he was in a chair all the way to the right of that glass wall. He just sat there and stared at me.
Then I noticed that all my clothes were gone. I was in these Tyvek-like paper disposable scrubs. The clock on the wall said 0600. Absolutely no one had even come in to see me. At this point, I felt a little more alert and oriented. I thought this “silent treatment” was for the birds.
I collapsed my right side bedrail, sat up and touched my bare feet on the cold hard tile. I felt a little woozy, so I just stood there for a minute holding on. Then I turned to make my way towards the glass wall only to realize I was hooked up to all this crap. I had two IVs, leads on my chest going to a cardiac monitor, oxygen, and a pulse-ox cap on my finger.
That just pissed me off even more. If I needed all this crap attached to me, why the hell haven’t I seen a nurse yet? I wanted answers right then and there. I tore the leads off my chest, ripped the nasal cannula off my face, threw the pulse-ox on the floor and went to grab at the IVs. But, I thought better about that one and left the IVs in place. So, I grabbed the machine the IVs were running through, unplugged it and headed for the glass. At this point, this super cop wanna-be jumped out of his chair, slid the glass door open and ordered me back in bed. What a little turd he was. I wanted to squash him like a bug. I was rudely informed that I was not allowed out of my bed and he just stood there until I ever so gracefully tried to climb back up onto the bed while wearing those stylish paper scrubs.
I shot at him a barrage of questions, practically yelling at the top of my lungs. God, I was so fucking angry. I wanted to know where I was, how did I get here, how long had I been here, where the hell was my nurse, and, oh by the way, what the FUCK is going on. He just gave me this dopey goofball stare and said I’d have to wait for my social worker. Why the hell did I need to talk to a social worker? I was in a hospital, wasn’t I? Again, I just got this glazed look from him as he turned and walked out of the room. Meanwhile, that stupid cardiac monitor was alarming, yet no one bothered coming by to check on that. Good thing I hadn’t really flatlined, huh?
OK, the clock now said it was 0745. All I wanted was to talk to a damn nurse, process whatever discharge papers there were to sign, get dressed and split. I was not in a generous mood. In fact I was itching to pick a fight with that small pea-sized brain dick outside in his chair. I yelled at him to come inside.
I made it incredibly clear that for the past three hours I had essentially been imprisoned with no one giving me any information. I told the little jerk to go and get someone with any medical authority for whatever unit I was on right that very minute or he would be very sorry. I came so close to just punching that asshole in the face. He actually got right back in my face (well, he tried—he came up to about my chin) and actually asked me if I was threatening him. Immediately, two more super cops appeared out of nowhere. It was like I was starring in my own Fritz Lang production, or something borrowed out of a Kafka novel.
Finally, about 20 minutes later, a guy dressed up in white came in and told me that I was just going to have to calm down or they were going to have to put me in restraints. Then he said (oh to my surprise) that he couldn’t discuss my case with me and that I was going to have to wait to talk with the social worker. I got the point and asked where the hell was I and why and when the hell was I going to see this damn social worker. He did verify that I was at the local trauma center in an observation area right off the main drag from the ER.
About 30 minutes later, FINALLY, someone came in with a clipboard full of papers. I was thinking that it was damn time I got discharged. However, as he started talking, the words coming out of his mouth didn’t even come close to what I was expecting to hear. The phrase “72-hour hold in protective custody” hit me like a ton of bricks. I just put up both of my hands and said, “Whoa, rewind.” (oh, yeah, and this idiot dick couldn’t have been more patronizing).
It was then that I learned that the hospital received signed legal documents placing me in protective custody for 72 hours to be transferred to a psychiatric facility yet to be determined. Upon arrival to the ER, my tox screen revealed Ativan and Ambien and my blood alcohol count was four times the legal limit. The court determined that I was a danger to myself as evidenced by my suicide attempt. I actually started to laugh, but mostly I was pissed off because I couldn’t remember a damn thing. Then this inferior prick went on to tell me that he thought my laughter was absurdly inappropriate as he scribbled something down on paper. I just laughed all the more as he shook his head, turned around and sashayed his skinny little ass out of my room.
I must have dozed off for a bit at this point. I have some foggy memory of a man sitting in a chair next to my bed, but I guess that was a dream. Eventually, three guys dressed up like ice cream delivery truck drivers (and yes, two security guards) came into my room. One of them was holding a plastic bag and I recognized my shirt, sweatpants and Birkenstocks. They were coming to “get me.” (I swear, this whole scenario could have come straight out of a Hollywood B movie, I kid you not).
As they grabbed me out of my bed, they told me I was going to be transferred to a holding facility until a bed opened up at one of the local psych hospitals (all I had was this image of a state mental hospital complete with Nurse Ratched!). As they walked me out of the room, I asked if I could at least put on my sandals and they told me I wasn’t allowed to wear shoes because I was deemed a flight risk (“Crazed woman, last seen in the vicinity of County Hospital, escaped today clad only in blue paper scrubs…film at 11.”). This was so fucking surreal. (To be continued…)©2009
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