The Hospital.

As I sit here listening to the calmness of classical music, I feel I'm ready to discuss my recent 'visit' to the hospital—the psychiatric hospital. I only hope that opening up about this will help others, maybe help them when they're desperate and cry for outside help from family. Family can only do so much when you're that low, when you've hit rock bottom. But sometimes we need more than that, on a professional level.

It was early December and by that point I wasn't on my medication yet, I hadn't been seeing a therapist so considering I was 'raw' during that time in my life, was a challenge. Even though I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2004, I never thought it would come back. I know that sounds naive and ignorant of me, but in my mind and my heart, I had hoped it would "go away." 

It didn't. It came back full force.

I wasn't back on the medication (from 2004) because in 2006, I felt great. Always in a good mood and my normal self and smiling, always laughing and smiling. It was a huge transition for me and at that time, my husband was in the middle of changing jobs, so for 3 long months, we had to go without health insurance. It was tough, but we managed. Regardless, trying to pay for my medication out of pocket would have cost us over $300+ per month. Well, I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that many people could afford that during tough economic times—even back then. Maybe some could, but for us, at that time—especially while my husband was in the middle of changing jobs/employer—it wasn't possible, and since I was feeling 'good,' we felt it wasn't necessary.

Until the past year when my world started to come tumbling down. We thought it might be situational—with my dad's cancer, our finances turning to shit, my brother completely ostracizing himself from our family and of course my close friends.

As it progressively got worse, we realized it wasn't situational—my dad was getting better (at that time), my brother and I had a good relationship, and although our finances weren't improving much, overall they still weren't THAT bad. Then after 3 weeks of my friend and I having our "timeout" (as he calls it), we became friends again. I loved it, talking with him again, sharing our most intimate secrets felt good—at least at that time.

(At this point, I have now switched to Madonna's Ray of Light album as I needed some music a little more upbeat)

As the months passed, it had gotten so bad that I couldn't stop crying. Crying so loud and so hard that it brought me into the brink of a crying depressed stupor. It scared my daughter to the point that out of desperation, she would call my husband at work and insist that he come home immediately, as she herself was crying so hard, that my husband would race home to make sure I was alright. They were both scared for my safety. Unfortunately, this had become a common sequence in our household. Seeing me so upset and so depressed had become a common nightly 'ritual.'

By December, we all knew I had reached rock bottom. They could no longer help me. It had to be taken to a new level; a professional level. One night as my husband was racing home to assist me—again—he looked at me and asked me point blank, if I wanted to be taken to the emergency room. It was then that I knew it was serious and I was ready to admit that I had a problem; even I couldn't take it any longer. I simply replied "yes."

It was time.

Once I was there—for over 2+ hours—they did nothing. Sent me on my way with a packet of what they thought was proper literature to help during my depression. Only to be repeated a few weeks later. 

Again, on my way home after 2+ hours of sitting and patiently waiting in the waiting room—all while I was sitting there still depressed and crying—taken back to a room with what they thought was a calming environment with tacky puke-like light green paint on the walls, with an armed guard sitting only a few feet away from me. I guess they thought I'd turn to violence—and perhaps that's a common reaction of the majority of patients who are admitted as 'psychiatric patients.' It's a humiliating experience, I assure you. Nevertheless, we felt it was necessary.

And again, my desperation and cry for help only turned to disappointment as I was released and on my way home with a packet filled with literature and brochures. On either occasion, I never took them out of the envelope, even though it was recommended by the emergency room physician. I don't want to sit there reading bullshit brochures and literature, I just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because at that time, that moment, I had contemplated suicide, but thankfully never did anything about it, nor did my thoughts go further than that moment in time. A moment in which I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I just wanted the pain to end. 

Towards the end of December, we went back for a third visit to the emergency room. Not only was my husband insistent that something be done immediately, I agreed and was just as persistent as he was. As my poor scared daughter sat alone in the waiting area, we knew that something needed to happen beyond the ER—a drastic solution. I hated every minute of it, but as we both looked at each other, with the doctor standing there watching us, watching our response, we decided the best treatment for me at that time was to voluntarily admit myself to the in-patient psychiatric hospital.

One of the most difficult decisions to make in anybody's lifetime. Sometimes you just have to sit back and peruse what the best option is for you, and for us and me at that time, was willingly admit myself to this facility.

We waited for another hour before I was escorted and driven by a security guard in a locked, 'secure' vehicle. I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner in my own clothing wanting to get well. It had to be done. So I went along with a vengeance because I was hoping and praying that I would get the help I desperately needed.

Upon arrival to the hospital at 11 p.m. at night, I was starving. I hadn't eaten a thing all day, so to have a hot meal delivered to me that evening as I arrived, was nothing short of heaven. I immediately thought to myself what a hospitable facility this was. It couldn't be so bad—could it?

Boy, was I wrong.

As I went through a series of body searches, removal of my jewelry and physical exams, I kept thinking to myself, I'm not crazy, why must I endure this? I'm here on my own accord. Shouldn't I be welcome with open arms and treated like a queen? Ha. No.

They didn't see it that way, because this was protocol for them. They didn't care that I came from an upper middle-class background, or that I had a college educaton. I was there as an equal, just like the other patients.

It was a humiliating and humbling experience, let me assure you. But I kept trying to convince myself that it was for the best. I would get better. Miraculously healed.

Bullshit.

The next day I sat through what felt like endless group sessions. Eating lunch in surgical scrubs by myself with plastic utensils, was a lonely experience—even though I wasn't hungry, they made it quite clear that I had to eat at a certain time or I would lose the privilege until dinner time. 

Ugh.

As I continued to eat their hideous over-starched quintessential hospital food, I headed towards another grueling group therapy session. Did they help? Not for me. But sitting there listening to everyone's story, everyone's plight and how they got there was nothing short of heart wrenching. All I kept saying to myself while listening to their story was, "I don't belong here. I am literally wasting money being here."

I fooled the psychiatrist. I made them think it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be there.

Guess what? It worked. He released me that day. I couldn't take another minute of the usual escort to take a shower and to go to the bathroom. I felt like a child.

Was it wrong of me to "fool" the psychiatrist? Of course it was, but I felt I wasn't getting the help or the medication that I needed. To them, I was simply a nameless patient. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure I am over exaggerating here, but at that time, it was real to me. It was what I felt and thought.

The only person that helped me throughout my short stay was my counselor—whom I didn't speak with until my discharge. He actually showed me he cared. Actually tried to help me with my discharge and my treatment. He gave me a list of several therapists and psychologists that I could call. We both realized what I needed was a therapist, not medication alone—which I must mention that no additional medication was prescribed by the hospital psychiatrist. My initial medications were prescribed by my internist, not a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse. Clearly, and admittedly, he was out of his realm of expertise, but wanted to help me nonetheless.

After receiving my list of therapists, I immediately made that call the following week—OK, not immediately but soon enough. I admit, I was sitting on it for a few days. I just didn't have the energy to call, even though I knew in the back of my mind that it needed to be done. Thankfully my husband was there to continually push me.

As I made the appointment with a therapist, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit from the first therapist I chose. Therapists are like a marriage—it has to be the right fit in order for it to work and succeed.

I have been seeing her since March and so far, I'm very happy with the results. I may get into that for another time, but for now, just know that our sessions have been helpful to me. 

In the meantime, she hooked me up with a psychiatric nurse to monitor and prescribe new medications. It was a trial and error sort of thing, but we now know what works for me and so far—knock on wood—have been a godsend.

In summary, after my stay at the psychiatric facility—even though during my stay I felt it was a waste of time—I realized afterwards that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to 'save' my sanity—no pun intended. 

If you're not seeing a therapist, make the appointment immediately! Medication can only be helpful if you're regularly seeing a therapist side-by-side with your meds. Trust me! We're human, we need to talk it out and to talk to a professional with unbaised opinions, and it works!!!

Good luck!

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