Bolted down. Incarcerated.
Eyes open slowly and encircle a dingy room. Faded green colored walls appear sad and everything is bolted; windows, a desk, chairs, and including this bed.
Is it daybreak? A rap on the door abruptly startles me, followed by a female voice stating, “Debbie, breakfast and meds”.
I feel shut-in. My roommate sobbed throughout the night. Next-door neighbors screamed; wailing and pleading for aid. I believe I fell into my slumber around 2:00 am.
This the H-2 Ward. A locked ward. This is also hospital ‘incarceration’, better known as the “psych” hospital.
Meandering to the nurse’s station, waiting unwearyingly in a line-up to ingest a handful of colored pills washed down with a cup of ice water. A cocktail of these supposed healing ‘tablets’ will be administered twice daily.
Recalling last evening, brings a shudder. The Distress Center phone call a mistake, I realize, sharing at length obsessive suicidal feelings. Thoughts dancing in my head are daunting, yet I am obsessed with concocting schemes for my demise. I plead to this crisis counselor to end my life, our chat extends and feelings are overpowering words….I become silent. Nothing else to say, I don’t want to talk, I hang up. Fifteen minutes pass. I am curled in a fetal position on the couch, sobbing, writhing in suicidal pain. Suddenly, a loud thump at the door, I open to the two police officers. A few soft words are exchanged along with questions and I am escorted without incident to their cruiser.
Neighbors, who as a rule don’t walk their dogs, now saunter by the police car, peering in, along with other neighbors peeking through window blinds and curtains. The back seat of this cruiser is larger than I expected, however, I am seated with my mind in a muddle, confused, uncertain of the future yet despising the present.
Both police officers chat quietly in police jargon; I deduce awaiting direction where to take me. Suddenly, a call is received and I am on my way to the hospital. The drive is a speedy drive, yet for me, a lengthy one. A time to reflect… a time to sob…. a time to sit in wonderment. In the back of a cruiser – how can this be? Punishment? I’ve never committed a crime in my life. Will I go before a judge; am I to be sentenced and charged for suicidal ‘thinking’ and selfishly wishing to end my life?
I arrive at the hospital and am tagged a ‘voluntary’ admission, however, placed on the ‘suicide watch’ ward.
In actuality I was calling out for help; frightened. All fuzzy, similar to a television set on an empty channel. Knowingly, I prayed to terminate this life, yet scared stiff to carry out my plans. I only wished out of this soreness of depression. Mental illness is ‘incarceration’ all on its own. Who would desire days in darkness, peering out of the ‘bars’. One feels in jail, tossed into a cold cell awaiting the guard to slam shut the heavy metal door. Lying there frozen, shivering, and alone peering down to shackled ankles. Why do I deserve this?
Back in bed dressed in hospital pj’s, I lay back where my mind begins to drift. Eyes well up with tears. I smiled way back when, had responsibilities, was intelligent and not a piece of nothing. That was 1994, doomsday was to follow, life spiraled downward swiftly and the trudge through black mud depression began.
Incarceration: Day 1. I waste my day perched in front of the lounge television, waiting for the staff psychiatrist to arrive. Typically, he arrives close to dinner time and I am hurried through my visit, clocking a mere 12 minutes. He has little to say, just mumbling that I am to remain on ‘suicide watch’, and removed privileges, therefore no visits outside the hospital until the end of the week. I protest and state that this is unfair, however, this is heard to deaf ears – whatever the pdoc says is the way it will be. This is not new to me and not my first hospitalization.
Three days pass, and the healing ‘tablets’ aren’t taking affect, thus explaining my prolonged ‘incarceration’.
I still dread nighttime. My roommate was moved to another unit, for which I feel relieved, as her weeping throughout the night made me feel powerless. I have adapted to the screaming during the night coming from various other hospital rooms, unable to identify who these patients really are.
Daytime hours are spent in front of the TV. Fellow patients seem as uninterested as I. Occupational therapy is provided, however, I resist. Craft making such as constructing bird houses and gluing fridge magnets do not interest me.
Mealtime seems to bring pleasure to most; however, complaints run rampant as to missing tray items. I learn to live with absent rice pudding or ketchup packets. Yesterday was comical to say the least, as I did not want my crusty roll and offered out it for free. Due to this advertisement, four people dove over the table to fetch this prized bread item.
Doctor’s visits are here and there. Meds have changed slightly, but my mood still remains the same. I am taken off ‘suicide watch’, based on my improved behavior within the ward. The nurses, once again, shine through and are my savior during this stay. This nasty beast called depression is the catalyst in handing me over to the next beast called suicide. I suppose it really wasn’t my time, but at this point, I really don’t want to be saved. I don’t love life, and I don’t feel guilty for feeling suicidal, but I do feel tremendously angry.
Fellow ‘inmates’ are precious people. We have all come together, each one of us to wage war on this illness and share our stories. Chatter is similar, depression or mental illness has affected all of our lives, including our spouses, family and friends. We have lost relationships, careers and so much more. It took us so long to comprehend and come to accept that mental illness is NOT a character ‘flaw’ nor is it our fault. Who would ask to be ill?
A few more days have passed, and I am beginning to see through the clouds. Faith is still lacking though, however I must plod along. I am preparing myself for discharge today, actually grateful in a way, as I was very close to a transfer to another ward, not as obliging as this ward, or so I am told. Although I am peeking through the clouds, the black cloud still hovers overhead, and when it will disappear is anyone’s guess.
Eyes open slowly and encircle a dingy room. Faded green colored walls appear sad and everything is bolted; windows, a desk, chairs, and including this bed.
Is it daybreak? A rap on the door abruptly startles me, followed by a female voice stating, “Debbie, breakfast and meds”.
I feel shut-in. My roommate sobbed throughout the night. Next-door neighbors screamed; wailing and pleading for aid. I believe I fell into my slumber around 2:00 am.
This the H-2 Ward. A locked ward. This is also hospital ‘incarceration’, better known as the “psych” hospital.
Meandering to the nurse’s station, waiting unwearyingly in a line-up to ingest a handful of colored pills washed down with a cup of ice water. A cocktail of these supposed healing ‘tablets’ will be administered twice daily.
Recalling last evening, brings a shudder. The Distress Center phone call a mistake, I realize, sharing at length obsessive suicidal feelings. Thoughts dancing in my head are daunting, yet I am obsessed with concocting schemes for my demise. I plead to this crisis counselor to end my life, our chat extends and feelings are overpowering words….I become silent. Nothing else to say, I don’t want to talk, I hang up. Fifteen minutes pass. I am curled in a fetal position on the couch, sobbing, writhing in suicidal pain. Suddenly, a loud thump at the door, I open to the two police officers. A few soft words are exchanged along with questions and I am escorted without incident to their cruiser.
Neighbors, who as a rule don’t walk their dogs, now saunter by the police car, peering in, along with other neighbors peeking through window blinds and curtains. The back seat of this cruiser is larger than I expected, however, I am seated with my mind in a muddle, confused, uncertain of the future yet despising the present.
Both police officers chat quietly in police jargon; I deduce awaiting direction where to take me. Suddenly, a call is received and I am on my way to the hospital. The drive is a speedy drive, yet for me, a lengthy one. A time to reflect… a time to sob…. a time to sit in wonderment. In the back of a cruiser – how can this be? Punishment? I’ve never committed a crime in my life. Will I go before a judge; am I to be sentenced and charged for suicidal ‘thinking’ and selfishly wishing to end my life?
I arrive at the hospital and am tagged a ‘voluntary’ admission, however, placed on the ‘suicide watch’ ward.
In actuality I was calling out for help; frightened. All fuzzy, similar to a television set on an empty channel. Knowingly, I prayed to terminate this life, yet scared stiff to carry out my plans. I only wished out of this soreness of depression. Mental illness is ‘incarceration’ all on its own. Who would desire days in darkness, peering out of the ‘bars’. One feels in jail, tossed into a cold cell awaiting the guard to slam shut the heavy metal door. Lying there frozen, shivering, and alone peering down to shackled ankles. Why do I deserve this?
Back in bed dressed in hospital pj’s, I lay back where my mind begins to drift. Eyes well up with tears. I smiled way back when, had responsibilities, was intelligent and not a piece of nothing. That was 1994, doomsday was to follow, life spiraled downward swiftly and the trudge through black mud depression began.
Incarceration: Day 1. I waste my day perched in front of the lounge television, waiting for the staff psychiatrist to arrive. Typically, he arrives close to dinner time and I am hurried through my visit, clocking a mere 12 minutes. He has little to say, just mumbling that I am to remain on ‘suicide watch’, and removed privileges, therefore no visits outside the hospital until the end of the week. I protest and state that this is unfair, however, this is heard to deaf ears – whatever the pdoc says is the way it will be. This is not new to me and not my first hospitalization.
Three days pass, and the healing ‘tablets’ aren’t taking affect, thus explaining my prolonged ‘incarceration’.
I still dread nighttime. My roommate was moved to another unit, for which I feel relieved, as her weeping throughout the night made me feel powerless. I have adapted to the screaming during the night coming from various other hospital rooms, unable to identify who these patients really are.
Daytime hours are spent in front of the TV. Fellow patients seem as uninterested as I. Occupational therapy is provided, however, I resist. Craft making such as constructing bird houses and gluing fridge magnets do not interest me.
Mealtime seems to bring pleasure to most; however, complaints run rampant as to missing tray items. I learn to live with absent rice pudding or ketchup packets. Yesterday was comical to say the least, as I did not want my crusty roll and offered out it for free. Due to this advertisement, four people dove over the table to fetch this prized bread item.
Doctor’s visits are here and there. Meds have changed slightly, but my mood still remains the same. I am taken off ‘suicide watch’, based on my improved behavior within the ward. The nurses, once again, shine through and are my savior during this stay. This nasty beast called depression is the catalyst in handing me over to the next beast called suicide. I suppose it really wasn’t my time, but at this point, I really don’t want to be saved. I don’t love life, and I don’t feel guilty for feeling suicidal, but I do feel tremendously angry.
Fellow ‘inmates’ are precious people. We have all come together, each one of us to wage war on this illness and share our stories. Chatter is similar, depression or mental illness has affected all of our lives, including our spouses, family and friends. We have lost relationships, careers and so much more. It took us so long to comprehend and come to accept that mental illness is NOT a character ‘flaw’ nor is it our fault. Who would ask to be ill?
A few more days have passed, and I am beginning to see through the clouds. Faith is still lacking though, however I must plod along. I am preparing myself for discharge today, actually grateful in a way, as I was very close to a transfer to another ward, not as obliging as this ward, or so I am told. Although I am peeking through the clouds, the black cloud still hovers overhead, and when it will disappear is anyone’s guess.
Written by: Me
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