Appreciating Freedom

Hi, it’s Stacey again, and thanks for hanging out!

Happy birthday America! Hope everyone had a great weekend, even though there isn’t much to do between being quarantined and new shutdowns across the country (or at least here in California). But hopefully you found a way to have some fun and enjoy your time. I spent the weekend poolside at home, reflecting on how much I appreciate freedom. Not just the freedom of being an American, but I speak of a different freedom: my personal freedom.

This week I share a brutally honest short story with you: my experience of being hospitalized. I want you all to know what it’s like to be a mental health patient held against their will. This is my single experience and I know it must vary from person to person and hospital to hospital. Although I only spent a few days hospitalized, it is an experience I never want to go through again. I truly believe mental health patients should be treated more humanely and with more dignity. After all, it’s not our fault, we just need help.

My freedom was taken from me exactly two months ago, when I was locked up in a behavioral health unit, and when all of my rights were stripped from me. I was placed on a 5150 hold, and I couldn’t do a darn thing about it. A 5150 was the number established by the Welfare and Institutions Code that can put an adult in an involuntary hold in a psychiatric unit for 72-hours. A person has to be considered a danger to themselves or others to be placed on this hold, and that day 2 months ago, I was a danger to myself.

On May 4^th, 2020, my husband took me to Mission Hospital in Laguna Beach, California because I was manic and having suicidal thoughts. I was supposed to start an outpatient mental health program that day for the severe bipolar symptoms I was having, but found myself in the emergency room instead. Since this day was smack in the middle of the COVID pandemic, I had to be in the ER alone, which was terrifying. As I waited to be assessed in the waiting room, I was lonely and crying and felt like I was falling down a dark hole, free falling into darkness with no end in sight. All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe and my chest felt like it was being crushed by an elephant. This feeling wasn’t foreign, I was having a panic attack. I will never forget the security guard; a stocky woman with short hair and pudgy unmanicured fingers came over to me and helped me breathe and calm down; this wasn’t her first rodeo. While manning the ER line outside, she found time every so often to come back in and check on me. I will be forever grateful for her.

My ER experience turned very unpleasant after being there for hours, having a psychotic neighbor, and having douchey physician who clearly didn’t want to deal with what the day had brought him. He ordered my (lovely) nurse to “Give her some Ativan and knock her out.” While I didn’t hate this idea, it made me feel like less than a human, maybe even a lab rat. During my peaceful drug-induced sleep, I was awakened by someone with some authority who told me I was being held on a 5150, and needed to “sign here”. I was groggy, albeit incoherent, but I obliged.

After eternity in the emergency room, I was finally wheeled onto the psych ward, with a loud slam of the unit doors, followed by a locking noise behind me. This sent chills down my spine. I was locked in, 5150 in full effect. All of my belongings were taken prior to my arrival and all I had was the gown I was wearing. I was shown my room, given green paper scrubs to change into and somewhat of a tour of the unit, but couldn’t absorb any of it. All I kept thinking to myself was, what is this place? It was like the movies, but worse. It was a circular unit with dark blue carpets and white walls. There were no doors on any of the rooms and clear Plexiglas protected the nursing station. It was nighttime by this point, bedtime was imminent, but how could I sleep?    

I was back in my room after the “tour”, and found myself staring at the ceiling, feeling more alone than ever, and incredibly anxious from the random sounds and screams I was hearing. My bed, if you could call it that, was comparable to a gymnastics mat, resting on a wooden frame. There was a paper sheet covering it, with one flat pillow and one paper pillow cover. The polyester blanket seemed like luxury at this point. As I tried to fall asleep, my heart pounded harder and harder, sending me into my next panic attack. I can’t do this, I thought to myself, and I started to cry.

I was gasping for air when I went to find my night nurse. “I can’t do this!” “I can’t be here!” I cried over and over again. The nurse, cool as a cucumber, said, “sorry honey, you can’t leave”. That damn 5150 again. She did tell me I could have a private room for the night since the first night is the hardest. When she brought me into the padded room, it was not the private room I had in mind. The bed was in the middle of the room, with thick belted restraints attached to the leg and arm areas. I could only imagine what kind of things happened in this room. Another chill went down my spine. My hysterics were still going on, and after a healthy dose of whatever medication, I was finally put to sleep for the night.

The next morning, my day nurse who smiled with a kind face awaked me. I was in a haze, and she helped me back to my room, which was luckily the last room before the end of the unit, so I only had one set of neighbors to one side. My roommate was still sleeping. She lifted her head at one point, asked me my name, and went back to sleep. Great, I thought. I looked closely around my room. Other than our beds and a nightstand each, there wasn’t much else. We did have our own toilet and sink in the corner of our room, which was divided from our beds by another gymnastics mat. Imagine, a gym mat for a door. I guess they thought by putting a beach scene on it would help, but they were grossly wrong.

As the morning went on, I gave myself my own tour of the unit. I started by looking out my own window, which had an ocean view. If you have to be in a mental hospital, I guess Laguna Beach is the place to be. Ok, I thought to myself, I’m here for 72 hours, now maybe 62 hours, better make the best of it. As I walked around, I noticed it was a mixed male/female unit. Aside from our sexes, we were mixed in diagnoses as well. I was given a formal bipolar diagnosis upon admission and I saw what I assumed were paranoid schizophrenics, eating disorders, other bipolars, depressives, you name it. Some were much harder to guess, but alas, we all belonged in the same place. I met a few people, but remained cautiously guarded. I trusted no one yet yearned for friendship with someone.

I found three phones on the unit, one next to my room, one in the milieu (community room), and one on the other side of the unit, which didn’t work. Due to COVID, the staff was understaffed and the milieu was closed most of the time except for meals, which meant the only working phone was right outside of my room. There was one clock on the unit, across from the nursing station. There was no caffeine, knives, or anything you could possibly hurt yourself with. There were showers located in the middle of the circular unit, but you needed permission to use them and needed a bucket of shower goods from your nurse. No shower shoes. It’s one of those, “fuck it I need a shower” moments where shower shoes don’t matter. It just felt good to run water all over your body.

We had group therapy throughout the day, and I went to as many classes as I could since there was nothing else to do. Group therapy was interesting because that is where you really got to know people and their stories. I always participated. I made a friend who was a veteran of these programs. He told me to go to all the classes and participate as much as I could so I could get out on time. After all, the health care team can keep you longer if they don’t think you have improved. I followed his instruction. Along with talk therapy, we had art classes, which were my favorite, even though it was basically just coloring class. I still have my mandala that I colored in. In between classes, you saw the psychiatrist, social workers, or just had a break. I found it very hard to fill the time.

By my second day, I was more adjusted to prison, err I mean the mental ward, and my roommate finally woke up. She was still out of sorts, crying about her new reality and the psychotic episode that brought her in. I tried to offer some sort of comfort, but that is impossible when someone is processing what has just happened to him or her. Her hair was a mess, more like a birds nest on top of her head. She didn’t have any socks and didn’t think anything about walking around without foot coverings. Forget shower shoes. She seemed like a lost soul, and I just wanted to give her a hug and tell her we were going to be okay.

I found comfort in the phone outside of my room. I called my husband at least once a day. We were separated and living apart, but it felt so good to hear a familiar voice. I missed him. I also made sure to call my parents each day, who I know were suffering as much as I was from across the country in New Jersey. My dad couldn’t talk to me without getting upset, which broke my heart each time. I knew that if I couldn’t fight for myself, I had to fight for them.

The days melted together into one giant 72-hour period of time. Towards the middle of my time in the psych ward, my roommate stabilized and we became friends. We went to groups together and even used a paper sheet to put down in our room so we could do some yoga and stretching. Finally, something to do to fill some time. We were grateful that we had each other, and that we weren’t placed with “scary” roommates. It’s a bond that I will never share with anyone else.

Finally, my last day arrived. By this time, I earned 15 minutes of outside time, which was the best news I had in a while. During the 15 minutes, we were allowed outside, with 2 security guards, in an area that was caged in. Again, the lab rat feeling ensued. But this time, I didn’t care about the lab rat feeling, I was grateful. I could see the ocean and smell the breeze. And it was magical.

A couple of hours later, my 72 hours were up, and I was released. I can still close my eyes and picture those final moments. My nurse gave me all of my belongings back and we made our way to the elevator, then down to the main lobby. The walk to the front door was about 50 feet, but felt like 100 yards. I saw my husband standing outside and I began to cry. I think it was the biggest hug I ever gave him. It was a new beginning for us and for me. I was so grateful. Grateful for the help, grateful for my husband and family, and grateful that I didn’t take my life a few days earlier. And let’s not forget, grateful for my freedom.

Thank you for reading my personal story. Let’s raise awareness together.

Love, Stacey