Adventures in a Mad House

Submitted by Anonymous on Mon, 02/06/2012 - 12:52am

‘It’s like a burning building. No one really wants to jump. No one thinks that it won’t be painless.
But jumping is better than being burnt alive.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you go.’
‘But I know how to take care of myself.’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
That short conversation was what landed me in a mental hospital. 
They locked me in a room that had two chairs, a pile of phones, half of them did not want, and a guard was positioned outside in case I tried to leave. They gave me heavy tranquilizers two hours into my official stay.

My first morning in the mental hospital started at 6.30 AM, when a smiling young 20-something physically pulled me out of my room for ‘vitals’ (temperature, weight, blood pressure.) 

He looked terrified.
He stared at me – another 20-something, pierced, dyed hair with the left side of my head shaved, a crooked foot, and scars running up and down my body. He dropped my wrist, his gloved hands hesitated.
You’re afraid of me.
 
It wasn’t just him.
The other nurses were afraid too. Only the night nurses treated us like human beings, and even they would remind us when they let us stay up ten minutes past 'bed time' and expect praise. They were given blank, angry stares, and we were given tranquilizers.
 
One of my roommates had nightmares of her husband beating him. 
She would scream and mew and claw at her pillows.
Another had nightmares of her best friend being shot by her partner.
She would wake up with nail marks up and down her arms.
I had nightmares of rape.
The nurses chided me for vomiting.
 
‘If you refuse to take medication you will be sent to the state hospital and maybe have ECT. You don’t want that, do you?’
The doctor looked at me. Hot tears rolled down my face. I rubbed my nose on my sleeve. He smiled as I started to shake in fear, and told me to leave.
A nurse handed me a paper cup with two pink pills at the bottom. She gave me the sheet on the side effects of the medication only after I had taken the dose.
I was not allowed near the bathroom after medication for two hours.
 
My seizures were ‘faked’ according to the nurses. I walked groggy, nauseous, and in pain during my entire stay. I was 'lying' about how much medication I took. No one takes that much medication.
 
I showered for ‘too long.’ A nurse banged on the unlock-able door, and when I did not jump out, they growled and pulled me out from the shower. I was written up. There were a lot of unshowered people there.
 
‘So, I noticed you wear sweaters.’
‘Yeah?’ I looked up from coloring in a Curious George picture. A nurse was staring at me expectantly, a sneer hesitating on his lips.
‘Were you abused?’
‘What?’ 
‘I need it for your chart. Tell me.'
Fuck you. He handed me a larger tranq that night, refusing to give me food to prevent nausea. 
 
Being mad in America means not being treated like a human being.
I was locked in a hospital for over ten days. I got out only because I went to every group session, took medication with few questions, and was friendly with the other patients. I was denied visitors and phone calls frequently. The nurses would guardedly ask to see what I was writing, if I wrote, or what books I had picked off the shelf. These were called 'indicators' of my health.
Other patients who were snarky or sarcastic, were released after an extended period or were transferred to another hospital with harsher rules. 
I was lucky. 

'You're leaving us? Did you take your medications?'
 

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