Hi!
A couple of weeks ago I shared a post in which I told you I've been suicidal, and in that post was my admission to spending some time in a mental hospital. I said that I would go into more detail about that experience sometime, and today is that day!
On April 10, 2013 I was admitted to Grand River hospital and placed on suicide watch. I remember so vividly being strapped to a gurney, placed in the back of a medical transport van, and wheeled into the ward - but it doesn't feel real. I was so overcome with my depression, that entire journey felt like it was happening to someone else. My body was there, but my spirit wasn't.
The ward is in the lower level of the hospital, in what could be considered the basement. In order to access it you needed a special scan-pass or to be buzzed in, and the same if you wanted to leave. There were cameras everywhere, so they always knew who was coming and going, and where the patients were.
When I was wheeled in the first thing I noticed was the common area where three girls (all around my age) were staring at me. They brought me to a bedroom door where they finally unstrapped me, and ushered me into the room. In the room was a desk and chair, a nightstand, a three-drawer dresser, a simple bed, an adjoined bathroom, and a small window about six and a half feet off of the ground.
My transporters left only when a nurse entered the room. She had a folder in her hand and pulled the chair out from the desk while gesturing for me to take a seat on the bed. She asked me the questions you would expect, medical history, why I was there, etc. I think we talked awhile, though my answers were short, and she explained to me how the program worked. I found out that I would meet with a nurse every morning and every evening, that I would also have multiple check-ins with the group on how we were feeling, and some of the rules like that we aren't allowed to touch any of the patients. She also took a blood sample, which I still hate doing years later, to test that I wasn't on any drugs.
By mid-afternoon my mom hadn't yet arrived with my belongings, so I was guided into the common room wearing the hospital gown and booties I was transported in. I sat down on a chair, closest to the wall, noticing that none of the girls looked up at my arrival - instead completely engrossed in whatever was on the TV. I was uncomfortable and anxious, but not afraid. Once you have thoughts of taking your own life, there isn't much left in the world to give you fear - the real monsters are in your head.
I didn't move from the chair until it was time to go into the rec room for dinner, and because I was new I was given a generic meal of a hot dog, fries, and chocolate milk. I still hadn't spoken to anyone, but some of the girls were friendly with each other and I was a little envious. I wondered how long they had been there, why they were there, how they could be so happy in a place so dark.
After I'd finished eating I was escorted back into my room to meet with a night nurse about my medications. She asked how my first day was and if I was optimistic in my recovery, but was saved from disappointing her with the arrival of my mother. When she saw me sitting on the bed I could see her heart break in her eyes, and I knew I would never forgive myself for all of the pain I had put her through. I decided that I wasn't going to get better for myself, but for her. She'd brought me some clothes, books, and other things the nurses had suggested - but nothing that I could use to hurt myself. The draw-strings were pulled out of all of my pants and sweaters, I wasn't allowed my phone or any technology, but I could have snacks. The nurse came back into the room with what turned out to be a menu for the next day. It was a long thin sheet that was broken up into breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and had little checkboxes besides items we could request. Both my mother and the nurse stared at me while I looked over my options, encouraging me on what I should choose. Having an eating disorder also meant that my food intake would be monitored, and this was something we had to do every night that we were there.
From what I remember the hospital food wasn't anything special, but they had scones for breakfast that were some of the best things I'd ever had. It was my first time having a scone, and even five years later I'm trying to find one as good as those were. Every morning after we had breakfast in our rooms, we had to sit down as a group in the lounge and fill out a sheet based on how we were feeling, how we slept, something we were looking forward to, and other things like that. We would go around the room and have to share what we wrote, which I refused to do for the first few days. I am not much of a public speaker, and the idea of sharing my thoughts with a group of strangers almost sent me into a panic attack.
The days were all the same, there was a schedule posted on a whiteboard in the hallway, telling us where we needed to be at what times. Not that we needed a schedule, everything we did was monitored and we couldn't be left alone for too long. Our days consisted of our morning check-ins, group therapy, meals, an activity that promoted recovery, visits with the doctor on-site, and quiet "reflection" time in our rooms. None of our doors locked, making it easy for the nurses to come check on you frequently throughout the night.
Did I mention how awful it was to shower? It was communal, used one at a time, guarded by a nurse that checked in often. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I could never clean myself of my destructive thoughts. I have never felt so watched in my life, and to this day check everywhere I am for security cameras. I have a constant feeling of being watched, and prefer to have my back to a wall so that people can't be behind me. For example, waiting in the middle of a line makes me very anxious.
I have to admit, it wasn't the worst experience I've had. After a few days I started to settle into the routine and relax around the other patients, and my mom came to visit me every day. There were days that I would forget why I was there, but that only lasted until we'd go into therapy. What I really missed was my dog, and my freedom. After 12 days, they decided that I was stable enough to be taken off of suicide watch, under the condition I would continue seeing my therapist and psychologist on a weekly basis.
As much as I didn't want to be there, I took a lot out of my experience there. One of the things that my mom helped me carry out was the habit of rating my mood on a scale of 1 to 10. If I felt like a 1, I was nearing or already suicidal, and if I felt like a 10, then I was feeling like Superman. I have never felt like a 10, but I'm hoping that day will come soon.
I wanted to share this part of my life because it is something that I tend to hide the most, and I don't want to be ashamed of it anymore. I am not afraid of being judged for who I was and how I felt, because I am now stronger than I ever have been because of it. I know that I never want to go back to that mental place, and I also want to do whatever I can to make sure other people don't feel the way that I felt.
Don't be ashamed of your mental illness, and always remember that it is okay to reach out for help!
Kristina
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