Sometime early Sunday morning, they came into my room. It was dark, probably somewhere around 3 am, was my guess. I knew someone was there. It felt like someone was watching me sleep. One of the symptoms of my illness that my husband listed on my intake form was paranoia. I think that was bullshit. I opened my eyes to see if it was real. Sure enough, a young nurse was at my bedside. She talked with a Hispanic accent. She told me that she was there to draw blood. In the middle of the night!? Seriously? She took it out of my left arm. It wasn’t easy getting the blood out. I had had recurring pain and what I’d called arthritis, on my left side, so I wasn’t surprised it was difficult. The nurse was really nervous because she didn’t want to have to poke me again. Rookie move, I guessed. I asked what she was taking blood for. The only reply I got was that she hoped this would be enough for them. Who was “them”? The way she said it, it seemed like she was referring to someone outside the doctors and nurses at the hospital. Like “Them” was another organization. And why wouldn’t they take my blood first thing in the morning when I got my vitals done? Why did it need to be done in the middle of the night? And I had wondered why would they take blood for a mental issue? Were they checking to see if I was on drugs? Certainly not the ones they prescribed.

When I got up in the morning, we followed the daily routine, which I was now getting the hang of: weigh in, get blood pressure checked, and get temperature taken. All the patients queued up for the process. As soon as we were done, I called my husband. I was anxious to see him and my family, and maintain contact with the outside. I was still uncertain and nervous about being there, and didn’t feel on solid footing. I didn’t know how to feel about him relating to this situation, but I knew that he was the love of my life, and that I didn’t want to live without him. I needed to feel safe, and he wasn’t making that happen. Someone was responsible for me being here, and it still wasn’t clear who, why and how. I knew people had told me the words of what happened, but when you’re missing a big chunk of time, it’s hard to feel like you really know it. I can’t adequately describe the mental trauma of what happened to me. I was drugged (over-medicated I think), kidnapped, left alone to wake up in a strange place, where I was locked in and couldn’t get out. And, it wasn’t clear how long I would be locked up. It was just too painful to start analyzing what happened. I couldn’t accept that I might be crazy. I certainly felt normal, albeit stressed and tired at the time. How could my family abandon me and leave me there? How could my husband not have my back and not care enough to be next to me when I woke up to explain what was happening? My life felt like a TV show with a dastardly plot to get the girl locked up and left to rot. My mind was maxed out computing all the permutations of what happened, could happen, needed to happen, and all the emotions I’d experienced over the last few days. The last 2 days had left me mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn’t process all the shocking aspects of the last 2 days, so I had to focus my energy and attention on the immediate need of getting out of here. I was determined to make that happen. I couldn’t trust anyone. I wasn’t sure what part my family played in me being there, I tried to not let my thoughts go through that line of thinking. I had to believe that my family wanted the best for me, that my husband was manipulated by the hospital, and that he wasn’t making good decisions. In that frame of mind, I got information from Wayne by asking subtle questions.

When I get my husband on the phone, my first priority is to find out when he’s going to visit today because I need some real human contact with people I love and love me. While I’m determined to get out of here and driven to make that happen, I also have a sense of shame or embarrassment or hesitation that I wouldn’t normally have. I have done nothing wrong, but I still act like I have in that I’m more pleading with him than demanding. Subconsciously I knew that he had some control over my circumstances which made me careful not to get on his bad side.

He told me he’d come in a couple hours. I gave him a list of what I wanted him to bring: shirt, toothbrush, blanket, etc. Make-up in a travel tri-fold with a hanger. I wanted some creature comforts if I was to be here another day. I’m guarded in my conversation with him. I ferret out that Wayne called the hospital at some point to get a status on me. He was told that they can’t share my information with him because I didn’t put him on my approved list of people that can be informed of my status. They did tell him that I didn’t take the prescribed medicine last night. He brings that up directly with me. “They told me you won’t take the meds. You need to. You need to comply.” I don’t want to make waves because I’m not sure what the effect will be, so I make a mental note to talk with him more about this when he comes to visit. But I’m surprised that he already knows that I didn’t take the medicine.

Breakfast is in the cafeteria again. We grab our food and are directed to one of three tables. I sit with a group of others. I’m still not eating. People stop me, since I am without a plate of food. I’m told to choose something to eat, maybe a piece of fruit. I grab an apple. I wait for everyone to sit down before I choose a seat. I didn’t want to talk to them. I find a spot where I can be alone as much as possible. I didn’t pay attention to them. I was focused on getting out.

I talk to the screaming drug girl. She asks if I can get drugs for her. I tell her I can’t. She asks if I want to go meditate. We can go to the music room. Do I? Hell no, I want out of here, but I’ll be social, and say sure. I’m going to be everyone’s friend and act normal, as if I wasn’t locked up against my will, and trying to break out of this hell.

One of the patients was complaining that he had blood removed from him in the early morning. He was fishing to see if it happened to me too. I didn’t say anything. I was wondering if he was fishing or just telling me stuff so I don’t question why they would do this in the middle of the night.

Between breakfast and lunch, Wayne and my mom come to visit. They have Alex with them. I’m told by the nurses that my family has arrived. They only allow two visitors at a time, so Wayne comes in first with the items I asked for from home. They are fully inspected before I can have them. They pull all the clothes out in front of me, pull the drawstring from my sweatshirt (no hanging here). I feel violated and shocked that this is happening. “What? I can’t have drawstrings?” Now they’re looking at the zipper on my jacket. They check my blanket, tights, look through my cosmetic bag. Item by item. The inspector opens each item up, comments on the fact that I have some really good stuff (Mac and Chanel). (No this ain’t Maybelline, so be careful). I say thank you. They threw something away, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Then they release the contents to me. I would love to shower now that I have my things, but I don’t want to miss out on any time with my family, so I decide to put my own clothes on so that Alex won’t see me in crazy house attire.

Wayne asks who I’d like to see first. I say whoever wants to come in. He lets my mom come see me by herself. I ask after dad. Is he ok? Are you ok? My mom asks how I feel. I ask her about the lawyer. I tell her that I don’t know how I got here, something to do with a 5150. She tells me that after the initial hospital visit at Memorial Hospital, Wayne drove us all over to Teddy Roosevelt Hospital Emergency Room. They were there pretty late that night, waiting in the waiting room. My parents were tired and they didn’t know what happened in the emergency room. Wayne told them they were taking me to the Behavioral Unit. Since the Behavioral Unit was in a different city, I was transferred between the two hospitals by ambulance. I still don’t remember all of this. It’s still a haze to me, but I do recall the nice officer I saw.

I mention to my mom that they want me to take anti-psychotic drugs and that I don’t want to. My mom says why won’t I? I show her the information. “This is what they want me to take. I’m not psychotic. I don’t need this”, I say. My mom says, “If you don’t take the medicine, you won’t get out.” It’s clear my husband is telling my mom to convince me to take the meds as well. I need to think about what to do.

My next visit is with Alex. My daughter was sweet and kind. She came in, hugged me, and talked gently with me. Alex is clearly nervous to be here, in this place, and with me. Prior to this weekend we were close. I was the one she would talk to because my husband was pretty hard on her, mostly because he couldn’t control our daughter. She wanted to explore things like music, which her dad wasn’t pleased about. He wanted our children to focus on STEM education. He and our son were closer. Our son was more malleable.

I did lobby my daughter to have Wayne get me out of here. I told her that I don’t belong here. I asked her to promise she would ask him about this and get me out. She would reply with words that sounded exactly like something my husband told her to say to me. I got the same type of reply as I did from my mom earlier, that I should take the medicine or I won’t get out and they won’t see me again.

She asked me what I’ve been doing and I mention that we made bracelets. She wants to see mine. I show her the one that I made. She say it’s nice. It only has three letters on it, the first initial of Wayne and the kids’ names. I wondered why they do beading here. It seems stupid. She was trying to say something supportive and positive about beading here, but we both end up laughing about how ridiculous it is.

In hindsight, having Alex visit was probably a bad decision. While I longed for her visit and the comfort that provided me, I couldn’t foresee the devastating effect this would have on our relationship. Certainly seeing her parent vulnerable, fragile and needy, left a strong impression, not easily forgotten.

When Alex leaves, Wayne and mom come back to say goodbye. When they come back all I heard was how come I’m not taking my medicine. I got into a defensive mode. I have the paperwork about the medicine and show them what it is. The medicine is not for me, it’s for people who are schizophrenic or psychotic, not me. They tell me to take it. Wayne tells me, “They can’t talk to me about your care. They need your approval.” I reply, “I’m by myself and just want to deal by myself.” But Wayne replies, “I’m your husband and need to know about your care. I need that information.” He convinced me to add him back as an authorized person who the hospital can share my medical information with.

The visit went by quickly since it was spent with them individually. When they left, I went to the nurse to add Wayne’s name to the approved people’s list. The list of one.

I decide to spend time in the group room, to look more social. I can spend more time finding out how to get out. My normal mode is to be social and help people. My normal mode is to find out about people and their lives and have a pleasant conversation. I need to be normal. I need to show them: I.am.normal. In the group room there are some people looking to play cards. A black girl and I got pulled into playing a card game with the alcoholic and his girlfriend. It’s a math based game and the black girl is struggling because she can’t do simple math. She couldn’t figure out how to play, so I’m helping her along. I’ve never played the game before, but it is simple for me. I end up winning. The girlfriend tells me I’m good at math.

During the card game conversation, the patients mentioned that you can’t be here against your will. In my case, they can hold me for 72 hours initially. Longer if they make a case for it. I think they play a game with patients and tell them they can’t make you stay, so they tell you to admit yourself and leave when you want. But read the fine print: If they think you are able to leave. Only I didn’t sign myself in, and I was here against my will.

In Sunday’s group session, a new guy shows up. It’s not clear why he is here. He has a high energy level but seems to be normal. He was a tall, skinny young guy that talked with his hands. He worked in the high tech industry. He called me by name, which threw me off because I wasn’t wearing a name tag or anything. We were waiting for therapy to start and making small talk. He asked me what I do. I was careful not to tell him where I worked, just gave a vague response about Silicon Valley. I was sitting in the back of the therapy room, watching the people. There was another man who I suspected was on the autism spectrum. He was an old man. He had some kind of Turrets Syndrome thing going on. He would blurt out sentences. Just random sentences, like “got a new car”, “going to college”. His name was Bob. He also blurted out that he had a double degree in Economics and Engineering. The other patients from Saturday were also here.

I started to think that the people in the hospital were plants. Like they put people in to get you to say things. Like undercover psychologists or something. Then I thought maybe it was more like watching a reality show where the patients were the actors, to be there for me. It should be called “Telling the Story of My Life”. The younger blonde girl had mother in law issues, like me. The older woman and I both had our children visiting. The younger brunette girl with the long hair who cried a lot had anxiety, like me. The younger guy who worked in high tech, like me. Bob and I both had double degrees. And the activities like beading, soccer, and cards, all things I enjoy. Eerie parallels.

I was prepared for the 3 questions today and offered to go first. The therapist started with the person farthest from me, to intentionally make me wait as he went around the room. Unfortunately, with no food, stressed, and tired, I nodded off. I heard three taps and woke up, just as the lights were flickering on and off. It was my turn to talk. I did wonder what happened with the lights. Did that happen to wake me up?

I went to my room to get some paperwork. I’m thinking that I might look through the documentation and fill out the journal I was given on Saturday. I know it’s just a ploy to get you to write down your thoughts so they can use it to find something wrong with you and keep you here. I sat next to the older woman whose son committed her here. She is watching TV and told me to watch the news. There was a news story about a high-tech company which looked like the company I worked for, and the building I worked in. The company had to call the police on an employee that went crazy. They took the employee to a psych ward. Why was she telling me to watch this story that paralleled my life? The woman didn’t know me. I thought this must be fake news and made up just for me. I questioned whether it was a ploy to make me fearful and compliant. Maybe it was a test of some kind.

“Hello?” said the woman, as she answered the phone. She was a short, petite woman in her late 50’s, with long dark brown hair, dressed in sweats as if she had just been lounging around the house.

“Scarlett? It’s Wayne”, said the man on the phone. He was looking frazzled, maybe a little frustrated or angry. He was an average size man, in his early 50’s, not necessarily handsome, he relied more on his smooth talking (bullshit) to win people over. He was shirtless, dressed in beige cargo shorts. He’d developed a bit of a beer gut over the last few years as middle age caught up with him. The shorts that once fit comfortably, now strained at the button on the waistband.

“Hi Wayne. How are you?” said Scarlett.

“Scarlett, I’m calling to share some news with you about your sister,” he said.

“Is she ok?” said Scarlett.

“Truthfully, no. She’s in the Teddy Roosevelt Behavioral Unit. She’s had a psychotic break,” he said.

“What?! Oh my god! What happened?” she said.

“She was acting thought-blocked on Friday morning. I found her that way when I got up. I assessed the situation, got your parents, and we took her to Memorial Hospital, where they did a complete work up on her. Although they couldn’t provide a diagnosis, it appears she was paranoid, delusional, thought-blocked, and wasn’t getting better. The doctor suggested we admit her to Teddy Roosevelt for care,” he said.

Scarlett was shocked and called her husband to pick up the phone. She was trying to understand how this could happen to her sister, and what it would mean for her. Her husband picked up the other phone line and listened in.

“I don’t understand how this could happen,” said Scarlett.

Wayne replied. “She’s been placed on a 72 hour mandatory hold at the hospital. She’ll probably never be the same. So far, she is refusing to take medication. If she persists in refusing the medications she will likely become schizophrenic or bi-polar and will need to be institutionalized. The medication will be key to her mental improvement. There’s a good chance that she may need to be sent to the State Mental Hospital for a long time. ”

“But I don’t understand how could this happen? Did you notice something before this? Was she behaving odd before this event? Why wasn’t she seeing a doctor?” said Scarlett.

“Scarlett, this is really none of your business, but I’m letting you know so that you don’t interfere. I am taking charge of her healthcare and will be the one in charge. I don’t want you or the rest of your family to get in the middle of this. This is probably your family’s fault considering your father is manipulative and your mother is a stone cold bitch. I’m not surprised something like this happened. But stay out of this or you’ll never see her again. I will cut you out of her life if you interfere.”

“Wayne, there’s no reason to be so mean. I want the best for my sister. She’ll want her family nearby for support. You can’t stop us from seeing her. Do my parents know what happened? What about my sister and brother? ”

“Scarlett, I’m warning you to butt out. Yes, your parents know about this. I forbade them to tell you and your siblings because this is a private matter. If you want to see your sister you need to follow some rules in regards to her care and recovery. If not, I will cut you out of her life. I will let you know when you can contact her. And I’m calling your siblings next. I’ll deliver the same message to them.”

“What about her work?” Scarlett asked.

“I’ve already called her boss at the company and told her that she had a psychotic break and might never be the same, that she isn’t complying with the doctors nor is she taking the medications the doctors had prescribed. Her boss mentioned that things were fine at work with her. But based on her prognosis, she won’t be able to return to work.” Wayne said.

Wayne adds, “And I called Ben’s football coaches at college to let them know what has happened to his mom. They might need to understand this if he’s not in top form. We don’t want him to play poorly or have a bad practice. He’s got some games coming up and needs to be his best. I need to go Scarlett, goodbye.” He hung up the phone and started dialing the next number on his list of calls to make.

Scarlett, still reeling from the ferocity of Wayne’s tone of voice and threats, asked her husband what they should do. Her husband told her to wait a few days then go up to visit her parents and see what was happening, first hand. Her husband didn’t think it was right and that Wayne was acting weird. They agreed to a plan for Scarlett to travel in a few days to her parent’s house. Scarlett said to her husband, “My gut tells me that something is seriously wrong, that this is not adding up. Wayne did something to her…”

I was visited by a petite professionally dressed woman, with long brown curled hair, another social worker. She wanted to share some paperwork with me. She handed me a 5-page document, which looked like an assessment. It included a write-up on my diagnosis, medical goals and a treatment plan. There’s a place for the patient to sign. As I scanned through the content I saw a list of symptoms that looked identical to the intake form at Memorial ER which Wayne completed. There were terms like “psychotic”, “thought-blocked” and “gravely disordered”. She pointed out the signature space for the patient and asked me to sign it.

I wasn’t happy about the information on this assessment for many reasons, which raced through my mind. The first concern was that the information looked copied from my intake form and not the result of examination. The second concern was that they couldn’t truly have been observations since I hadn’t exhibited any of these symptoms during my stay. The third concern was that the only staff available to “observe” me were the on-call doctors and they spent all of ten minutes with me on each occasion. The fourth concern was that she told me the medical assessments of patients is done on Wednesdays by the “regular” doctors, none of which had met me and that would mean this documentation was being done out of cycle. (I’m okay with being out of cycle if it means I get out earlier.) The fifth concern was that I saw this as an opportunity grab by the hospital to milk my insurance for all they could by making me look crazy and needing to stay longer. The sixth concern was that I didn’t want to commit any information to paper, given where I was and the fact that I didn’t voluntarily end up there. I didn’t want them to have any ammunition (so to speak) that could be used against me. And the last concern (or maybe not the last because my mind was just racing toward more concerns and questions) was that she was pretty adamant that I needed to fill out this paperwork now and sign it, but it wasn’t clear to me what the real need was. As all this raced through my mind I couldn’t help think that this all seemed a bit shady.

I objected to some of the content and the social worker agreed to make some changes. She told me that I needed to sign it. I wouldn’t do that unless I understood how the information would be used. She said that my signature was only to acknowledge that we spoke about this.

I wasn’t sure if the document showed I should be here longer or if it proved I was fine. Could they build a case against me to hold me longer as a “5250”, a term I’ve learned during my stay, in group sessions?

How could they think that I, a gravely disordered patient, would have the mental faculties to make a good plan for myself? Didn’t the symptoms indicate that I would need a caretaker or provider to sign for me? I thought to myself that this must vindicate me. If they wanted me to sign this form, even though it said that I was unable to care for myself, then they must have realized their incongruity. I can’t be two things at one time.

Part of me is offended that they wanted me to sign a document with made up shit on it, but the desire to go home was stronger. Signing this form would be lying about my condition. Isn’t that shady? Could this be fraud? They aren’t objectively assessing me really. Can I trust people who would misrepresent my mental health on an assessment that was never legitimately done?

But I could see the only way to get out is to play the game, by being compliant and signing the document. I needed to get home. I was feeling smaller all the time I was here. So I signed. Faced with this situation, you do things you wouldn’t normally do, like take medicine or sign documents. Looking back, I should have realized that putting my name to any of this meant it could be used against me.

Wayne came back to visit later, after he had dropped my mom and Alex at home. It happened to coincide with dinner time. People were lining up in the hallway to move over to the cafeteria. I asked if he could just walk with us instead of going around to the public access area. The nurse said, “I guess I can approve that for you.” Wayne and I are walking together to the cafeteria, in the line of inmates when Bob, a man in his 50’s that I thought had autism, came up and said, “I have a classic car stored in my garage.” It was directed toward Wayne. Wayne says, “What?” And the guy wanders off. I think, that is really strange that he would say that to Wayne. But, weirdly, my dad has a classic car in his garage. I was helping my dad get his 67 Pontiac GTO restored. It was like Bob knew. The crazy guy offers completely random information which happens to apply to my life. How is it that all these seemingly random events appear not so random? And what was the meaning of them all?

As we’re walking with the other patients, some are asking why I get to have family with me in the cafeteria for meals. The hospital staff escorting us replied, that I was special. There’s that “special” thing again.

At dinner, I’m still not very hungry.  I don’t really eat my food, but I am happy to get some hot water. Having my own clothing has helped keep the cold at bay, but hot water is still welcome.  I get asked again, if I am rationing my food. Why do they keep asking that?  They look at Wayne, like he has an answer or some influence. I explain that I’m just not hungry. Guess no one can relate to the fact that we’re living through some crisis being locked up in what is essentially a prison, with no real escape. Aided and abetted by those we know and love. And they wonder why I’m not ready to wolf down a few meals. Really?!

There was nothing special about our conversation. We’d covered most of the topics on the other visits. The Cliff Notes version: Why am I here; I don’t belong here; Do what they say; Take the meds; and You need help.  I don’t want him to leave, but there is not much comfort in his staying, other than to help pass the time, provide some small level of security and some familiarity.

The evening nurse, the Jada Pinkett lookalike, stops by while we’re in the dining room and says hello.  (She was the nurse who told me how to get out of here). I wanted Wayne to meet her with the intent that she could further explain how he can get me out of here.  I felt that if he heard it from her directly, that would give him greater proof that I didn’t belong there.  She reiterated the same information to him that I had heard from her, that I could be released to my family.  Now the ball was in his court. He needed to help me.  He made no comment.  He said he’d be back tomorrow and left shortly later. I could have pressed him on the issue, but I felt that he was acting so distant, that I was afraid he would become angry and I would lose any leverage that I had with him.

His visits were become brainwashing sessions. And even as I think this, with a suspicious mind, as I normally would, I don’t let my mind go further. I don’t explore the reasons why he would be brainwashing me. And I can’t go down the path to think about how he might be feeling. My focus is on me, here, and getting out. I really don’t even spend too much time pondering if I’m crazy. I know I’m not. Yet, I’m not angry. I’m just determined now. When I do allow my mind to drift back over the events that got me here, they just don’t add up. The fact that the events don’t add up and I’m here, just makes me more confused and scared. There’s even an unacknowledged level of silent terror in maybe being left in here for a long time.  It certainly was easy enough to land here without even knowing. It’s the powerlessness of it all I think that leads to the silent terror. That I could be taken and held. I’m in the United States. The land of the free. How could I lose my rights to freedom so quickly and in such an elegantly, simple way?

I can see the difference between my mental faculties and the others here, but somehow the staff can ignore that. I’m behaving civilized, normal, albeit scared, but the staff go along like a movie set, playing their parts, ignoring the normal woman, out of place, in this setting.

As we wait for bed time, sitting in the common room, nurses call out to tell us that the drug window is opened for evening meds. It’s 9 pm. As cattle do, they all line up except me. A nurse comes to pressure me to take the medicine.  I have until 10 pm to get my medication.  I tell the nurse that I won’t be taking medicine tonight. She reminds me about complying.  She says to think about it.

Do you want your meds? Do you want your meds? Do you want your meds? They beat that drum every 15 minutes, faithfully, hoping you’ll cave in to being drugged for the night. It’s the Zombie Drum Beat as I think of it. By last call, at 9:59, I give in. I’ve been badgered all day by family, and now for the last hour by staff. If compliance means I can get home, then comply I will. The nurse with the blonde spiky hair and tattoos administers them. I give her my name, she looks it up in a computer. She enters a code to unlock the medicine cabinet, grabs the pill wrapped in a foil packaging, and shows me the pill in its package. She shows me the long Latin name on the packaging. (Like I know what that means). The product is individually packaged, one dose, for easy dispensing from the digital drug dispensary. The packing has a foil backing on one side, but clear on the other side. The drug name is printed on one side of the package. They show you everything to make sure it’s correct, I guess. Tonight, the package name started with “D”, and it seemed familiar, but it was not “S” that I expected to see for the Seroquel. The nurse opens the package, has me put it in my mouth. She tells me to move my tongue around to see that I swallow. She gives me a cup of water, makes me drink the water, and has me open my mouth and stick out my tongue to see that the pill was swallowed. I left for my room, went into the bathroom, and spit it into the toilet. Reflecting on this, I am unsure if the decision to take it (or pretend to take it) created more problems for me as it could be viewed as confirmation of my psychotic break-down (as Wayne and the doctors would call it.)

I would find out later the name of the medicine was familiar because my dad has the same medicine. It’s a sleeping pill. I noticed the inconsistency at the time, but didn’t question it until later.

As I prepared for bed, it struck me again that I felt like a prisoner, going to my dark cell. The blinds were always closed at bedtime, but tonight, wanting to see the stars and the sky, I asked the nurse to keep my blinds open. Seeing the outdoors helped to keep me grounded. Unlike a prisoner dreaming of freedom, I just needed the assurance that there was a world out there and I would soon return.

These facilities might be useful for someone who is suffering from a serious mental illness, but for me, who I considered had good mental health, this place resulted in me feeling more terror, fear and instability than I’ve ever felt in my life.

People would ask me later if I was angry with Wayne for doing this to me. Initially I was just very sad. I saw this as a blip in my timeline, just another unfortunate event in my life. I didn’t see this at the time as malfeasance. I couldn’t see this as a possible act of treachery. The deep sadness stayed with me until more events unfolded, and I got really angry.

Photo by David Rotimi on Unsplash

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Nikita@dontreleaseme.com

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