I saw an article on The Mighty recently that spoke of the things people don’t tell you about getting help / being hospitalized. There’s a lot that people don’t talk about when it comes to the recovery and treatment side of mental health. We use hashtags like #staystrong and share positive quotes – and we may even talk about how it okay to not be okay …
But not everyone talks about how shitty treatment is. Yes, there are great facilities, doctors, and medications that WILL help – but there’s also a lot of situations where your “treatment” may make you worse.
Here are just a few highlights from my oh-so-exciting mental health journey.
The County Hospital from Hell (AKA Arrowhead Regional)
The police handcuffed me. I wasn’t even suicidal then – just self-harming, but in California, they don’t have you meet with a crisis worker to see if you’re really suicidal or not. All someone has to do is call 9-1-1 and do a 51/50. Even if I was suicidal, though – actually, especially if I was suicidal – our police need to be trained better in handling this kind of situation.
The handcuffs were tight on my wrists and I struggled to get into the back of the officer’s car. The “good” cop gently informed me that there was a little slot I could put my hands into. They talked to me on the ride to the police station, though I can’t really remember what was said. I was then taken to a cell that had a metal bed and toilet and cement floors and locked inside while they looked for open beds at a psychiatric hospital for me.
I was scared. I was pregnant and scared. I had never been in a hospital like that. Eventually, the “good” cop took me to the hospital and assured me that it won’t be that bad. It’s not the 70s. They don’t do terrible things at these places anymore. I will be safe. My baby will be safe.
I wanted to believe him.
Like most pregnant women at the time, I had to pee A LOT. It was taking the hospital a really long time to admit me so the officer let me out of the handcuffs, assuring the staff that I have been calm and stable, and let me go to the restroom. The staff was livid and after that rushed to admit me.
I was there for over a week. I believe it was 10 days. When I arrived, the first thing they did was prescribe me Haldol, withheld my anti-seizure medication for DAYS, and when I asked if I absolutely had to take the Haldol – crying because I was pregnant and I didn’t want to take anything that might hurt my baby – they said if I refused, they would simply give it to me in a shot. I took the pill.
I don’t remember much after taking the pill. I slept a lot. There was a lot of screaming on this unit – most of it from the staff. I’d get phone calls from my family, but I was too scared to ask to use the phone or even approach the staff. The girl in the room next to me was crying, and I remember the staff telling her to shut up or they’ll give her a shot.
I didn’t cry anymore. I took my Haldol and Ativan that they started each morning with. I asked about my seizure medication because my neurologist wanted me to stay on my Keppra while pregnant because it was less harmful than convulsions to a fetus. I tried to eat but I had such terrible morning sickness, which for me translated to every-time-of-day sickness … so I mostly just slept. I remember going outside with some of the others during their smoke break and being alarmed by how high the walls were. Not that I even intended on trying to escape, but the walls were so high you couldn’t see anything. There were no windows in the rooms on this unit. No color. Nothing.
After a few days, I started experiencing a frightening side effect from the Haldol. My neck started twisting – I felt like I was in the Exorcist – and I couldn’t stop it! My muscles were tight and eventually, my neck was twisted completely to the right side of my body and I couldn’t move it back. I was positive this was a type of seizure, as I’ve only experiencing uncontrolled body movements with my epilepsy, and because I thought it was a seizure, I was so scared as to what it was doing to my baby. I asked for my seizure medication again. I was told no again. I asked to speak to my neurologist. I was told no. I was offered a muscle relaxer and with a frightened voice I pleaded, “I rather not take that if I don’t have to.”
The next day I was moved to a different unit for the “good” patients. It was there that the new psychiatrist took me off the Haldol immediately, prescribed my seizure medications, and made the Ativan “as needed”. He then decided that Celexa would be a safe drug to take while pregnant. After that, I met with the therapist, who started arguing with me that I had to have a history of sexual abuse because I cut myself. “Only people who have been sexually abused self-harm”. I bit my tongue and kept my mouth shut. Finally, a nice nurse who I still think about often told me that if I want to be released I need to go to the day room more and eat more. I wasn’t eating 75% of my meals. She brought me Powerade from the “outside”, juices, and made sure I got food that I could stomach with my morning sickness.
On my last day, I remember finally being able to get dressed in my clothes that I came in with, and pacing the circular hall, ready to go home and see my OB/GYN at Loma Linda. I was worried about my baby.
When I did get the ultrasound the following week, my baby didn’t have a heartbeat.
I died inside when the nurse told me, “At least you know you can get pregnant.”
But all I could think is how this was my fault.
The New-Age Therapist & A Letter From God
While I was still in California, I was seeing a therapist who had crystals and pagan symbols lining her walls. She told me to carry a teddy bear around so I can hold it when I feel like cutting. (I was 20 at the time). She asked me inappropriate questions about my sex life. And then came the day that she told me to write a letter to myself as if I were God. Now, back then, I wasn’t really struggling with the whole God-must-hate-me thing. Instead of giving me COPING SKILLS that I so desperately needed, she all but forced me to write this letter. After telling her no several times, I finally caved in. She told me to meditate and then write it and really let myself feel that Higher Being.
I rolled my eyes to myself, silently praying, “God this is weird.” And wrote what I knew she wanted to hear. She came in about fifteen minutes later and read what I had written. With tears in her eyes, she told me, “This is beautiful! I really believe God spoke to you!”
The Creepy Italian Psych Tech
At another county unit (aren’t those the best?) I broke my no-crying rule for the 1st time. See, I had been living in Utah for a few years now. I’ve had a few hospitalizations in that time, and I realized that not all hospitals were like the scary place in California. Other hospitals you could refuse medication, you could speak with your treatment team, be taught coping skills, see a normal doctor and get medication for your non-mental health problems, and the list goes on. Oh, sure, you still gotta do a skin check and squat and cough and be treated like a child, but it’s safe. You feel safe.
I didn’t feel safe at this hospital.
Every time you get admitted, a nurse or tech goes over your belongings. They have a list of what you came into the hospital with. I looked at my list and it wasn’t showing A LOT of what I came in with. I calmly and politely explained this to the creepy old Italian tech and he snapped at me, “Just sign it!”
I broke down crying. I wasn’t sad. I was so mad! And when I thought I couldn’t get any angrier, he reached over, placed his hand on mine, rubbing me with his thumb, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
I looked at my hand. Looked at him. Then back at my hand and pulled it away from him. “It’s fine. I’m sorry for crying.” And then I signed the paper and walked away. I felt wrong. I felt scared of him.
There was another girl in the unit. She was young and I believe she had schizophrenia. She seemed jumpy around men, but she was fine with us female patients and the female staff. She was having a bad day, though, and a staff member was required to watch her. The creepy guy took on the role and it made her so much worse. Another patient who had a broken leg that was healing – his entire leg started turning blue and black and they refused to get him a doctor as if he was making his leg change colors…
For those of us who willingly get admitted, we do so that we may feel safe. But not all hospitals are created equally … and sometimes you can feel worse.
The Joys of Medication
Celexa was one of the first drugs I was put on to help with my depression. While it did help, I noticed something else stopped working.
… I couldn’t experience an orgasm.
Now, I knew this is a potential side effect of antidepressants, but I didn’t know what to do about it. When I had seen my psychiatrist, he continued the Celexa since it helped with my moods, but how was I – Miss Innocent Sara – going to tell him that I couldn’t enjoy sex anymore? It was hard to even tell my ex that I couldn’t and that it wasn’t his fault, confessing that I had tried myself without any success. I’m pretty sure there was even an episode I had crying to myself because my “vagina is broken!”
Weeks passed and finally, I got up the nerve to be like, “So… like… there’s this thing … when I like … have … you know … sex … with him … that I can’t … well, you know …”
“Orgasm?”
“YES!”
I felt so embarrassed to even bring it up, but the doctor assured me it is an easy “fix” and then we started to play the game of finding the right medication, and as we did so, I began to wonder if the inability to orgasm was so bad after all.
Remeron – I slept for 3 days after taking my first pill. I missed my classes and I literally did not remember anything from that week.
Paxil & Prozac – I was so emotionless that I remember telling my ex-husband that I feel nothing, even towards him – that he could cheat on me and I wouldn’t even care. The world could literally end and I’d be chill.
And we pretty much went through the list of drugs, some of which I never even tried for my mental health, because I had already attempted to take them for my seizure disorder and was allergic. We finally settled on Zoloft and Abilify. I don’t remember too many adverse effects from Zoloft and Abilify back then – but that being said I was on so many medications back then… for the seizures, the Lupus, anxiety, etc. I was basically a zombie those days as is.
However, having stopped and then started my medication due to insurance issues over the few years, I can say that I have almost passed out while working the cash register at Macy’s because the Zoloft made me so sick that I couldn’t eat for days. Abilify would make my entire neck go numb at night and I’d feel like I’d need to peel it off.
And now, here I am on a drug from hell AKA Effexor XR that should have never been prescribed with my cycling moods … being tapered from the said drug with the assistance of Prozac, Ativan, and Seroquel – experiences brain zaps and shivers, seizures, sweats, chills, nausea, vomiting, palpitations, hypomania with oh-so-fun delusions, and so much more.
Again, can someone please tell me why this drug is legal in all of the US but marijuana isn’t?
Coloring Pages & Playing Jenga with a Felon
This most recent hospitalization, while not my worst, was definitely not the best I’ve experienced. It was as if they had already decided that the minimum stay for all patients, regardless of their mental state, was 5-6 days. It didn’t matter that I ate all my food, socialized with the other patients, attended all groups and even contributed to the discussions – all that mattered was my insurance was paying them. I knew better than to argue to be released. I know how to “play the game”, which I feel is too often was hospitalization consists of. I know how to “get out”.
So I colored every day and taught a man with shaking hands who had spent most of his life in prison how to play Jenga. I was beyond restless and bored. I felt as if I was going to go crazy if they made me stay there any longer.
I share these stories because I know people are often confused or even annoyed when we don’t want to take our medications or go to the hospital if we’re feeling suicidal. In most cases, it’s not that we don’t want help – we do! It’s just that we know sometimes, we won’t get it. You don’t get to pick and choose what hospital you go to. Or what medication does to your body. Or if the therapist your insurance pays for you to see will actually be decent.
That being said, I’ve had a lot of great experiences too. I’ve been at hospitals where I felt safe, made friends who I still talk to, learned coping skills, received a diagnosis that explained so much of what I was going through. I’ve had therapists who gave me books to read when I was feeling restless and overwhelmed because they knew I loved books so much. And my current therapist encouraged me to speak about my existential anxiety, which is something I’ve desperately needed to speak to someone … ANYONE … about. I’ve had therapists come play games with us patients when they had some free time, treating us like their peers. I’ve learned that God hears you even when you feel like you are isolated from everything and everyone else. You can feel the spirit even in scary places.
I’ve learned that I am strong and I can survive horrible things.
I’ve learned that I am not alone.
But if I ever seem hesitant to try a new medication or to reach out for help – it’s not that I don’t want to get better.
I have every reason to be scared.
A few weeks ago I had recorded myself dealing with an anxiety attack. It’s a side of me most people don’t get to see. I tend to hide away in my room or the bathroom when my anxiety is getting the best of me. I may text or talk to people — but they don’t see me fall apart. I hate it when people see that, but I realize although it is a fear of mine, that is a part of me that I shouldn’t have to hide. No one should have to hide their mental health. I feel like one of the biggest issues is we hide everything so much, because people judge it and our behaviors. It makes use feel even worse. Hiding yourself is NEVER a good feeling.
Serendipity Minds 