I just want to send a quick and heartfelt thanks to those of you who have been thinking of me these past few days. I am home now. I never, ever should have ended up in the situation I did, and I suspect I am going to have to process the trauma of that on top of everything else. All my own fault, really. I was ignorant of the process. The up side is that it was a life-altering experience...now that I have escaped, I can see that in some very strange ways, I have benefitted. See, that's why I call myself Hope. Always trying to find the good stuff.
Here's my story. It's long, so no need to read if you're not interested. I want to say that I am not particularly angry or upset about all this. I know there are good reasons for all of what happened to me. It's just that there is a huge difference between people who are actively suicidal and me, who was just feeling very frightened and self-destructive and in need of some love and support. If ANYBODY is really feeling like they're going to hurt themselves or someone else, they absolutely should go to the ER!!! And the folks I met on the unit where I've been really benefitted from the safety it provided them. It's just that I was an egregious mismatch for the unit.
Maybe it will help me to spew it out. After an emergency appointment with my husband, me and my therapist last Wednesday, we decided that it made sense to go to the ER and be evaluated. I was feeling extraordinarily scrambled and agitated and not safe. I do have a self-destructive part, and it was pretty actively bugging me. I was feeling very, very tired of fighting it off.
When the psych evaluator finally came in to the ER at 10:30 PM, she did not want to evaluate me until I'd had ativan, and I agreed to take it to try to calm the agitation. She never came back. I stayed the night in a windowless room monitored by closed-circuit TV for about 18 hours. The first nurse on duty was quite nice and did some yoga/reiki with me. Otherwise, I was left alone. Had I known what was in store for me, I would never have stayed.
In the morning, I was evaluated by a different psych person. I was then told they were waiting for a bed to open at my local city hospital because that is where my insurance company required I go. And, they told me I would have to go by ambulance, even though my husband was right there and willing to drive me. That should have tipped me off that something was amiss.
Turns out that the psych evaluator designated me "Section 12." A danger to self or others. I was transported by ambulance to a locked psych unit and placed in a "rubber room" (I thought those only existed in movies). After the intake with a nice nurse (gigantic man), I was told I could sign a form to switch from Section 12 to "conditional voluntary" meaning that I agreed to stay for 3 days of observation (vs. having to go through a judge to be released). I signed the form.
What they did not tell me was that 3 days meant 3 BUSINESS days. This was a Thursday night, and a long weekend. I discovered on Friday when I met with a very nice psychiatrist that I would have to stay at least until Tuesday (today...6 days). It was clear at my exit meeting today that they DID NOT want to let me out, but that I, my husband, and my fabulous wonderful therapist had made so much noise that they decided to let me go. Whew.
So, all not so bad, really, right? Except that the unit is a mixed one dealing with all sorts of issues, mostly people detoxing from alcohol and drugs. Which is one of the issues from my past as my dad was an alcoholic. Anyway, the whole experience was a total re-traumatization for me....trapped/locked in, nobody understanding what I needed or able to provide it, trying to be a "good girl" until I could escape. Childhood and adolescence all over again.
I spent 6 days in total hypervigilance with no access to anything at all that might calm me (hugs, massage, music, a quiet place to be alone, someone to talk to about how scared I was, etc.) The only answer any of them had was....Ativan.
So...I could go on and on. I won't. I made friends with the patients. Great people with HUGE problems and pain. A wildly eclectic cross-section of men and women from all walks of life and a variety of countries. I wish I were multi-lingual. Most have issues way bigger than my issues I think (or maybe that's just my parts talking). There were a handful of good staff folk who seemed to understand my situation (one mental health worker said, "yeah, people like you don't stay here long." And he went on to tell me EXACTLY what to say at my meetings today. Which I did. And I was successful in getting discharged.) The staff did all they could. It was not so different from a school where some teachers are inspired and connected and talented, and others are just biding time until retirement. I asked to see the hospital chaplain who was awesome and came to see me twice. We did not discuss religion. We had a good conversation. I will be writing her a thank you note.
I was horrified and deeply saddened by the state of this unit, which happens to be at a really good hospital. It was dirty. The groups were pathetic--so very basic and unhelpful. (One group was focused on "Look in the mirror every day and tell yourself that you love yourself.") The art room had dried out paints and magic markers. There were few activities. Coffee had to be microwaved in styrofoam cups. There were two decks of cards for 26 people, and a constant game of Texas Hold 'em where the chips were puzzle pieces from puzzles that nobody could complete because they were missing pieces. Most of us could not have music because we were not allowed "strings" (no bathrobe ties, no earphones, etc.). No phones. No computers. No smoking (AGH). No caffeine after noon. It goes on and on. It has to be one of the most depressing situations I have ever been in. Mostly because is doesn't have to be this way.
I have become politicized in a weird way. I think I am going to try to do something nice for this unit. Am still thinking what kinds of things would be helpful and welcome.
So what did I learn? (I won't talk about the negatives). I learned that I have a rather radical part of myself. I stole a piece of wire from the chainlink fence surrounding the outdoor porch and tried to pick the lock of my window. I failed. It was the best of four escape options I'd imagined. And it failed. And after that, I had a realization that I needed to accept that the situation I was in then was different from my childhood. It took four days for me to come to acceptance of that. And then I sort of had "fun" in a perverse sort of way. I figured, "Well, I'm in the looney bin, so I might as well let it all hang out." I discovered some parts of myself that had been buried deep inside me, and I engaged with them.
And my heart broke open. And suddenly, the addict who had terrified me the night before became just a sweet person in deep physical and psychological pain. And all the other people who had been upsetting me became just people, like me, who were trying their best to live their lives. And something hard in me that judges myself softened a little and I have begun to accept that I am pretty mixed up, and I have decent parts and troubled parts, and that it is all real, and that people now actually do want to help me if I can figure out how to tell them what I need.
It has been a transformational experience. It is completely surreal to be back at home looking at my son's senior photographs and talking with my daughter about her crush. And thinking about going to a yoga class tonight. Yes, I can walk out my door of my own free will.
I am not yet aware of all the reverberations it will have on my life. I experienced my own version of the show "Orange is the New Black" if anyone has seen that. I don't quite know what's next. I am trying to stay safe and calm, one moment at a time. Lots of people are working very hard to get me admitted to an inpatient program for women who suffer from trauma and dissociation. It will be 2-4 weeks before that can happen. So I need to figure out how to manage the next few weeks.
The upshot of all of this is, I suppose, that I finally managed to at least somewhat articulate how bad things really are inside me, and that my husband and my therapist are now aware of that. And maybe, as bad as this whole experience was, maybe it is another step in my healing.
Thanks all. I was so sad to be cut off from one of my major sources of comfort and support. There are times that the internet can be used for healing. Namaste. Love. Peace. To all. I am glad I am here.
Here's my story. It's long, so no need to read if you're not interested. I want to say that I am not particularly angry or upset about all this. I know there are good reasons for all of what happened to me. It's just that there is a huge difference between people who are actively suicidal and me, who was just feeling very frightened and self-destructive and in need of some love and support. If ANYBODY is really feeling like they're going to hurt themselves or someone else, they absolutely should go to the ER!!! And the folks I met on the unit where I've been really benefitted from the safety it provided them. It's just that I was an egregious mismatch for the unit.
Maybe it will help me to spew it out. After an emergency appointment with my husband, me and my therapist last Wednesday, we decided that it made sense to go to the ER and be evaluated. I was feeling extraordinarily scrambled and agitated and not safe. I do have a self-destructive part, and it was pretty actively bugging me. I was feeling very, very tired of fighting it off.
When the psych evaluator finally came in to the ER at 10:30 PM, she did not want to evaluate me until I'd had ativan, and I agreed to take it to try to calm the agitation. She never came back. I stayed the night in a windowless room monitored by closed-circuit TV for about 18 hours. The first nurse on duty was quite nice and did some yoga/reiki with me. Otherwise, I was left alone. Had I known what was in store for me, I would never have stayed.
In the morning, I was evaluated by a different psych person. I was then told they were waiting for a bed to open at my local city hospital because that is where my insurance company required I go. And, they told me I would have to go by ambulance, even though my husband was right there and willing to drive me. That should have tipped me off that something was amiss.
Turns out that the psych evaluator designated me "Section 12." A danger to self or others. I was transported by ambulance to a locked psych unit and placed in a "rubber room" (I thought those only existed in movies). After the intake with a nice nurse (gigantic man), I was told I could sign a form to switch from Section 12 to "conditional voluntary" meaning that I agreed to stay for 3 days of observation (vs. having to go through a judge to be released). I signed the form.
What they did not tell me was that 3 days meant 3 BUSINESS days. This was a Thursday night, and a long weekend. I discovered on Friday when I met with a very nice psychiatrist that I would have to stay at least until Tuesday (today...6 days). It was clear at my exit meeting today that they DID NOT want to let me out, but that I, my husband, and my fabulous wonderful therapist had made so much noise that they decided to let me go. Whew.
So, all not so bad, really, right? Except that the unit is a mixed one dealing with all sorts of issues, mostly people detoxing from alcohol and drugs. Which is one of the issues from my past as my dad was an alcoholic. Anyway, the whole experience was a total re-traumatization for me....trapped/locked in, nobody understanding what I needed or able to provide it, trying to be a "good girl" until I could escape. Childhood and adolescence all over again.
I spent 6 days in total hypervigilance with no access to anything at all that might calm me (hugs, massage, music, a quiet place to be alone, someone to talk to about how scared I was, etc.) The only answer any of them had was....Ativan.
So...I could go on and on. I won't. I made friends with the patients. Great people with HUGE problems and pain. A wildly eclectic cross-section of men and women from all walks of life and a variety of countries. I wish I were multi-lingual. Most have issues way bigger than my issues I think (or maybe that's just my parts talking). There were a handful of good staff folk who seemed to understand my situation (one mental health worker said, "yeah, people like you don't stay here long." And he went on to tell me EXACTLY what to say at my meetings today. Which I did. And I was successful in getting discharged.) The staff did all they could. It was not so different from a school where some teachers are inspired and connected and talented, and others are just biding time until retirement. I asked to see the hospital chaplain who was awesome and came to see me twice. We did not discuss religion. We had a good conversation. I will be writing her a thank you note.
I was horrified and deeply saddened by the state of this unit, which happens to be at a really good hospital. It was dirty. The groups were pathetic--so very basic and unhelpful. (One group was focused on "Look in the mirror every day and tell yourself that you love yourself.") The art room had dried out paints and magic markers. There were few activities. Coffee had to be microwaved in styrofoam cups. There were two decks of cards for 26 people, and a constant game of Texas Hold 'em where the chips were puzzle pieces from puzzles that nobody could complete because they were missing pieces. Most of us could not have music because we were not allowed "strings" (no bathrobe ties, no earphones, etc.). No phones. No computers. No smoking (AGH). No caffeine after noon. It goes on and on. It has to be one of the most depressing situations I have ever been in. Mostly because is doesn't have to be this way.
I have become politicized in a weird way. I think I am going to try to do something nice for this unit. Am still thinking what kinds of things would be helpful and welcome.
So what did I learn? (I won't talk about the negatives). I learned that I have a rather radical part of myself. I stole a piece of wire from the chainlink fence surrounding the outdoor porch and tried to pick the lock of my window. I failed. It was the best of four escape options I'd imagined. And it failed. And after that, I had a realization that I needed to accept that the situation I was in then was different from my childhood. It took four days for me to come to acceptance of that. And then I sort of had "fun" in a perverse sort of way. I figured, "Well, I'm in the looney bin, so I might as well let it all hang out." I discovered some parts of myself that had been buried deep inside me, and I engaged with them.
And my heart broke open. And suddenly, the addict who had terrified me the night before became just a sweet person in deep physical and psychological pain. And all the other people who had been upsetting me became just people, like me, who were trying their best to live their lives. And something hard in me that judges myself softened a little and I have begun to accept that I am pretty mixed up, and I have decent parts and troubled parts, and that it is all real, and that people now actually do want to help me if I can figure out how to tell them what I need.
It has been a transformational experience. It is completely surreal to be back at home looking at my son's senior photographs and talking with my daughter about her crush. And thinking about going to a yoga class tonight. Yes, I can walk out my door of my own free will.
I am not yet aware of all the reverberations it will have on my life. I experienced my own version of the show "Orange is the New Black" if anyone has seen that. I don't quite know what's next. I am trying to stay safe and calm, one moment at a time. Lots of people are working very hard to get me admitted to an inpatient program for women who suffer from trauma and dissociation. It will be 2-4 weeks before that can happen. So I need to figure out how to manage the next few weeks.
The upshot of all of this is, I suppose, that I finally managed to at least somewhat articulate how bad things really are inside me, and that my husband and my therapist are now aware of that. And maybe, as bad as this whole experience was, maybe it is another step in my healing.
Thanks all. I was so sad to be cut off from one of my major sources of comfort and support. There are times that the internet can be used for healing. Namaste. Love. Peace. To all. I am glad I am here.
