I’ve been hospitalized twice in my life, both times for ‘behavioral health’ analysis. The first time was when I was only seven or eight years old. My family had moved and I wasn’t adjusting well to the new setting. I spent some time in Children’s Hospital in D.C. I was there with other kids, many with ‘issues’ far worse than mine. I did relatively well in that setting and was released, but continued therapy and medication on and off for the next couple of decades.
Nearly 24 years later, in early May 2008, a psychiatrist referred me to Laurel Regional Hospital for inpatient therapy. It was a Thursday evening. No time to plan for it. No stopping at home first. My parents drove me straight from the doctor’s office to the emergency room.
Like any emergency room, I had to wait. I found it interesting that the hospital still had a record of me from when I was a child – apparently the last time I was there. I called a friend to tell him where I was. Eventually, they put me on a bed behind a curtain. I don’t remember all the details except that it was getting late and I was worried about what I hadn’t taken care of. I was getting hungry so someone brought me a bag of white popcorn. I tried to sleep but couldn’t. I asked for something to help me sleep but they said they’d have to use a needle. I don’t like needles, but that’s all they had. I let them. They stabbed it in my thigh.
I woke about 18 hours later.
Everything was blurry. Someone kept telling me they were working to bring me ‘upstairs’ and that they should’ve skipped the ER and brought me straight ‘upstairs.’ Finally, they did bring me upstairs (perhaps in a wheel chair – I don’t remember. Others arrived in wheel chairs). It was in a locked wing of the hospital that said “Behavioral Health.” That I remember, despite being heavily drugged. I was wearing some sort of blue hospital patient clothing – pants and a shirt, and blue socks. I had to turn in my stuff, including my clothes, jacket and keys. My dad took my phone.
When I got inside, I’m pretty sure I scarfed down a meal that was originally meant for someone else who didn’t eat. The meals were served on a tray and brought up from the cafeteria. I think they weighed me and took my blood pressure and gave me some pills before sending me to my room. That would be a routine thing each evening.
I went to bed again, probably only a few hours after waking from my 18-hour nap. The first couple of days were a blur and I was told that I hardly spoke. Though I was drugged for most of the week, nothing compared to those first few days. I was a zombie.
The hospital was a bit like a prison in that we weren’t allowed out. The front door was locked and the back door to the stairs had alarms on it. There was a courtyard where we could go outside but it was enclosed by the brick walls of the building. When my dad came to visit, he brought my cell phone, which I wasn’t supposed to use. From there I secretly checked my e-mail and sent a few messages. I had my dad send the important messages, and had him cancel a party that I had scheduled two weeks later. A staff member – an Indian lady who I couldn’t stand – caught me trying to sneak a milkshake my dad had brought me back to my room. Apparently, I was allowed to eat outside food only during visiting hours in the designated visiting areas.
There were two psychiatrists who worked with the patients. One was a fat Russian man who annoyed me and the other was a young guy with big blue eyes that the women swooned over. I couldn’t stand the Russian guy but the other one I got along with well. They would always ask how I was feeling and if I was having suicidal thoughts. Some staff asked similar questions almost daily, when they weren’t busy checking on me during routine counts. I always answered truthfully as they scribbled notes. I’m not exactly clear on how they made their decisions as to which medication to use, but I think I was on about three or four for the main treatment, and perhaps others for various reasons. It wasn’t always clear as they gave it to me each night. I also learned that the doctors discussed many things about me but ended up ruling out conditions, such as Asperger’s Syndrome.
There wasn’t much to do in the hospital when activities weren’t scheduled. They had playing cards, puzzles, and a television. I think there was ‘quiet time’ when the TV had to be off. I didn’t watch it very often. I had George Pelecanos book – The Night Gardener – but I didn’t like sitting in bed reading all the time. I had to move my legs, so sometimes I’d get up and pace the hallway like an old man in a nursing home. Another day I know I took three showers in three hours because I was bored.
We had an art room in our wing with plenty to do, such as gimp string, which I hadn’t used since summer camp. We got to cut pictures out of magazines and glue them onto cardboard. I got to color in drink coasters, make paper flowers and other things normally reserved for 7-year olds. I even made a mosaic duck. Some of that stuff is still around and makes me remember where I was when I made it. There was also a radio in there and I remember hearing REO Speedwagon’s Take it in the Run, then downloading it from iTunes when I got home. Now, whenever I hear that song, I think of the art room. The art room didn’t end after the week as an inpatient – we also went there when I was an outpatient for the following several weeks.
I was given a drug that helped with my weight, because I had dropped about 15-20 pounds in the previous few months. The drug worked – too well, in fact. I was inhaling every meal and often tried to eat the leftovers from untouched trays. My dad and mom would come to visit and I’d insist they’d bring McDonalds – after I already ate dinner. At night I would wake up, desperately craving something to eat. Then I’d go to the kitchen, looking for anything. I found myself slurping up mini peanut butter cups in the drawers with other condiments. I was rapidly gaining weight, and the binging continued after I left the hospital. A month or two later, I peaked at about 180, 45 pounds heavier than I had been in April and 30 pounds over my average weight of 150. Since I got off of certain medications, I’ve dropped to about 160.
One night – I don’t remember which – I felt a side effect of one of the meds. I went to bed and my legs started moving, like tentacles. I couldn’t control them as they shifted around. I got up, went to the front desk and they gave me something to sleep. Haven’t experienced anything like that before or since.
A couple of weeks later, I started a new medication, then went to my roller hockey game and realized my vision was blurred (being on the rink made it more apparent). I stopped that medication after only one day.
I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep without some form of medication since all of this happened. Sometimes the sleep aid was prescribed, other times it was just Target brand. I remember once I thought I had taken the medication – along with another – but the pill slipped out before I swallowed. I didn’t sleep that night and couldn’t figure out why, until I found the pill had gotten stuck in the crease of the cup. I’m not sure what they were giving me at the hospital but I do know I got plenty of sleep.
In September of 2008, I took a medication with terrible side effects. It made me feel lethargic. I told this to my psychiatrist and he gave me something else to offset the side effects. But then it got way worse, yet I kept taking it. It put me in a trance. I felt it at work, while out with people, at a kickball game, while playing poker, at the Renaissance Festival, while driving to Pittsburgh, and during the High Holidays. I couldn’t do anything but sit and stare, or lay down. I left work early several times and got in trouble.
Now I’m on the same medication that I had been taking before I was hospitalized. The doctor said I didn’t get an accurate test of that medication before because of the events in my life at the time, so he tried it again. I’ve been on it for more than a year now, and I think it may be working but really don’t know for sure.
In the hospital, we weren’t allowed to have razors for obvious reasons, though we could arrange time with the staff to shave. I didn’t bother and instead grew a beard for the first time in my life. When I got out of the hospital I shaved but left the goatee and have had it since. I don’t think I would’ve done that if it weren’t for the hospital.
Most people stayed in the behavioral health unit for seven days. When I first arrived, I had convinced myself that I would be out of there in no time, certainly before my birthday on May 7. That didn’t happen. I celebrated my 32nd birthday with the other patients, and a cake that the staff had brought up from the cafeteria.
Even though most of us were only there for a week, there was a big difference between the newcomers and those who had been there for a few days. The newcomers were drugged up more, slept more, and weren’t as involved. We had chores to sign up for, goals for the day to state, discussions, and scheduled activities. I didn’t even know about the daily schedule on the board until 3 or 4 days in. That’s when I read it and learned I was actually supposed to attend meetings during the day instead of lying in bed (although several of the newcomers missed the meetings the first few days as they slept and adjusted to their medication).
Several of the patients stood out to me. There was a married woman – with kids named after U.S. states – who kept complaining about her husband (a few weeks she told me he left her). There was a homeless guy who was about my age (who somehow had the means to stay at the hospital). There was a man in his 40s or 50s who was there voluntarily due to alcoholism. There was a redneck woman who talked way too much and whose boyfriend came to visit. There were several middle-aged, heavyset women unhappy with their lives. There was another woman who was married with kids who was suicidal. But she didn’t act weird or anything was very calm while in the hospital. And there was a young black woman with a large tattoo on her throat who had a newborn.
I had a roommate for the first few days. Someone 10-15 years older than me. I wasn’t entirely sure what his issues were but I think at some point I heard him state one of his goals as “to tell the staff when I hear voices.” Other than that he seemed pretty normal and forgettable. I was happy when he left because I had the room to myself. I think I was the only white male there after he left.
There was a young black kid who behaved horribly. I remember him refusing to take pills because he claimed his mother had committed suicide using pills. So he insisted on needles. Then someone had told me that they saw the staff secure him as he violently resisted while trying to give him medication. I also remember that he was exercising so much one day that he threw up in the hallway near my room. At one point I yelled at him when he was interrupting a meeting by making scenes and doing push-ups. I think I almost got in a fight with him but he was kicked out of the room. The next day I learned he had been transferred to another hospital.
The worst case I saw was a young black woman who arrived in a wheelchair. She never ate. She insisted she was only there for ‘a physical.’ She would sit on the sofa by the television, without even watching it. After a couple of days without eating, I’m told that they had to take her away, eject her with potassium (painful) and move her to another hospital.
One of my counselors taught me about DABDA, which is denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. It perfectly explained how I had handled my situation. Unfortunately, I was stuck in the ‘depression’ phase for far too long.
One day, a woman came into my room to talk to me about Alcoholics Anonymous. Apparently, I had answered a question to a staff member that I had abused alcohol. In reality, there may have been a couple of times in the previous months when I had several beers. But it certainly wasn’t a habit or craving and never put myself in danger. The woman said great things about AA, and that I could meet lots of good people there. I shrugged that off. Then she kept telling me I had a problem. I disagreed and began to get upset. “You abuse alcohol!” she yelled. I wasn’t convinced and did not attend any AA meetings. The patients there for alcohol or drug-related issues typically left for a 30-day AA program somewhere else. That wasn’t me.
Nearly a week after entering the behavioral health wing of Laurel Regional Hospital, I got to leave. But I was far from finished there. Outpatient therapy was more group-oriented. We sat around together, talked, met with the doctors, went to the art room, and took long lunch breaks. I knew a couple of them from the other wing. It was mostly fat women who had relationship or alcohol problems.
As it turns out, nothing was resolved during this experience. Only a few short months later the same psychiatrist who referred me there insisted I go back and wanted me to get ECT treatments – shock therapy. Fortunately, I was turned over to my mother’s care and she took me home instead. I left that psychiatrist and went back to the one who I met as an inpatient. That guy isn’t perfect either but he doesn’t threaten me with hospitalization or ECT.
In 2008, I spent nearly three months off work on Short Term Disability, thousands of dollars out-of-pocket, all to go through a system that was only effective in helping me gain weight and sleep. Perhaps the ECT would’ve worked – I don’t know. That would be another huge sacrifice, there would be troubling side effects, and the results weren’t guaranteed. Not being able to handle the trials and tribulations of life isn’t a cancer that can just be cut out of us. But what recourse do we have other than to take the advice of professionals?
The resolution to my issues ultimately took time, patience, certain actions on my part, and luck.
And to think, all of this happened because of this.