I manage to nod off for short periods of time between toilet flushing sounds. When I wake up, I sense absolute quiet. I look around at the room and still don’t know where I am or what happened to me. I am in a twin bed. It looks like I’m in a dorm room. I can see daylight out the window. How could that be, when I’m normally up before dawn? I am out of sorts due to the lack of sleep with the continual toilet flushing. I see a bathroom with a pocket door, but that’s not where I heard all the noise during the night. The flushing noise was coming from the wall closest to my head.

A door was partially open and I could see a hallway beyond my room, but I didn’t see people. I was not sure if I should go out into the hallway and find someone. I didn’t know where I was or how I got here. My mind was fuzzy or maybe numb. I felt confused, but scared as well, in the strange environment. As I walked to the bathroom, I felt physically weak, like I was losing muscle tone.

I use the bathroom and realize I need a toothbrush but I didn’t have anything with me. I need to find someone who could explain where I am. I walk to the doorway and as I step into the hallway it felt as if someone just said “Action!” on a film set. People are suddenly busy, moving around, talking and going about their business. Some are dressed in street clothes, while others are in medical scrubs. I was wearing some kind of hospital clothing.

As I look around I was struck by two things. First, this looked like a medical facility. Second, I felt like I was dropped into a situation designed to test me somehow. It felt like there might be someone behind the scenes orchestrating the movement of people. Perhaps this was all set up to deceive me in some way and it wasn’t real. My suspicious mind led me to think this could be part of a government conspiracy to test me and ensure my silence.

As I enter the hallway, people stopped to look at me. I walk slowly toward the center of the activity, observing everything around me, watching, trying to understand what is going on. There are rooms all around the exterior walls, and a nurse’s station in the center. Patients are moving in and out of a large, common room. I see a teenage girl, blow-drying her super-long brown hair, in the common room. I wonder why she was doing that there, instead of in her room. And, I immediately made a mental note that I would need a blow-dryer after I took a shower and washed my hair.

The patients appear to know each other and the process. If this was a hospital, no one looked injured or sick. Maybe some of these people were visitors. I felt like I had landed on another planet. I must have looked lost and confused because several people told me what to do.

There is a line of chairs along the wall. Standing at the end of the chairs, next to a scale, stood someone dressed like a nurse. The nurse was going through a girl’s vital signs asking her how old she was, and how tall. I was told to sit down at the end of the chair line. As one person finished, everyone shifted to the next chair, moving up the line. The nurse told me I was next.

I asked, “Where am I?”

The nurse, a stocky, Filipino man in his 40’s, wearing pink tie-dye scrubs said, “You don’t know? You’re at Teddy Roosevelt Behavioral Unit.”

I ask, “How did I get here?”

He replies, “I can’t tell you.”

He took my weight, blood pressure and temperature. He said, “You’re very underweight. You realize that?” as he moved the weight bar down to almost 100. Finished with me, he shuffled me along, like cattle, or maybe a prisoner.

The nurse told me where I was, but I didn’t recognize the name. I wasn’t familiar with the term “behavioral unit”. Clearly this was a medical facility. I didn’t feel injured or sick. I’d been very tired recently, but not sick or tired enough to be in a hospital. And I was confused about all these people getting their vitals done in a large common area, not their rooms. Why were people wandering around instead of in their rooms? Knowing the name of the facility didn’t clarify anything for me.

If this was a hospital, I didn’t recognize it, and I’d been to most of the local hospitals over the years. Between ailing parents, childbirth, husband’s issues, children’s health, and visiting friends and family, I should have seen them all by then.

Suddenly, another young girl, petite, dressed in pajamas, ran up screaming and crying. She asked a woman nurse when the drugs would be available. There was a stable door nearby, which allowed the staff to keep the bottom portion closed and locked, while opening the top portion to dispense prescription medications during the day. The young girl waited at the door.

I asked that nurse, “Where am I?” She said, “Don’t you know? You’re at the Behavioral Unit in Teddy Roosevelt”.

Again, I hear where I am, but it doesn’t make sense to me. I’d never heard that name. The last memory I had was leaving a hospital emergency room with my husband and parents. And I think my daughter, Alex, was there, saying goodbye. I felt like I was in a movie where the character ends up in another dimension, or is kidnapped and ends up in some holding cell as part of some nefarious plot. I didn’t think I could be a target for something like that, but maybe Wayne could. It was surreal. So, I kept playing the game to understand more.

I wandered around, not bothered by anyone, including the staff. I was left on my own to figure out what was going on. When I did ask questions, people tended to treat me like I did something wrong. I would get short answers, people wouldn’t look me directly in the eye, and they rarely offered me assistance.

I saw some people lining up near the hallway near of a set of double doors. You couldn’t help but notice the doors since they had no locks or handles on them, yet a security guard stood next to them. I asked a nurse if I needed to line up, but was told that the line was for breakfast in the cafeteria, and I wasn’t allowed to go to the cafeteria. I needed permission from the doctor before I would be allowed to leave the behavioral unit wing.

The nurse explained that since I just arrived, I would eat alone in the group room for breakfast and lunch, and I didn’t have a choice of menu since they didn’t put an order in for me. I wasn’t hungry, but I really wanted some hot water, since I was freezing cold. Keeping the facility cold could be another form of sleep deprivation I thought. The nurse told me they don’t usually give hot water to patients. In short time she brought me a tray of food in the group room, to eat alone, and some hot water, thankfully.

People filed back into the group room on their way back from breakfast in the cafeteria. The security doors magically opened from the other side, people filed through, they closed, and the ever present security guard took his spot.

I decided to return to my room for a nap since I was still tired and I didn’t want to interact with others here. I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn’t. My eyes were closed, but I had this sense that someone was watching me. I thought people could be spying on me. When I opened my eyes, I saw a larger woman, dressed in scrubs, sitting in my room and looking at me. I assumed she was medical staff. She was a social worker. She said, “I’m here to ask you a question. Do you have guns in the house?”

I wondered what this was about because that’s such an odd question. I replied, “Yes, but in a safe in the garage. My husband and my son have guns for hunting.”

She replied, “You don’t have your own?”

“No, I don’t need one, I’m not a hunter,” I replied.

She said, “Why are you here?”

I told her I didn’t know. Did they think I shot someone or committed a crime?

She handed me a packet of papers. “This is something we have all patients fill out. There are questions. Think of it like a journal. Fill it out, and sign it.”

I told her, “OK. I’ll think about it.” I asked her how to get out of here and she tells me I just need “to comply and not to isolate myself in my room”. What the hell does that mean?

When she left, I flipped through the paperwork she gave me which included a Patient’s Bill of Rights, some rules, and a binder with paper for journaling. I was looking for more information about where I was and why, but most of the information was legal jargon about patient’s rights and rules that needed to be followed during my stay. I saw the rule she mentioned: “Don’t isolate yourself”. The paperwork didn’t provide information on how to get out, but it did leave the impression that patients were expected to be “compliant”. I had seen people in their rooms, sleeping through breakfast, but I would be sure to follow the rules and not get into trouble. As exhausted as I was, I was determined to stay awake.

According to the paperwork the social worker gave me, the visiting hours were between 9 a.m. and 9 p.m. But you couldn’t have guests between 3 and 4 and 7 and 8. Not sure what that’s about. I do wonder where my husband is and when he’ll visit.

Just before lunch I saw the doctor. I was told to go to the doctor’s office, a small room down the hall from the Nurses station. I saw a man who looked like Albert Einstein with grey curly hair and glasses, dressed in tan khaki’s, a hooded sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.

Once I sat down, the doctor said to me, “Do you know why you are here?”

I said, “No.” and again I asked, “Where am I?”

The doctor said, “You’re in the behavioral unit.”

I asked him his name and where he went to medical school. He was an on-call psychiatrist for the hospital. Finding out that he was a shrink gave me a moment of pause.

He said he went to UCLA. I found that odd because I came in wearing a UCLA sweatshirt. Did he really go there or is he just saying that because of my shirt, to get a reaction? He was watching how I responded to questions. I felt his scrutiny.

He said, “I guess I’m your doctor.” He said that in a way as if he didn’t want to be my doctor. Like it was begrudgingly, something he had to do.

He wanted to know if I knew what happened.

I was confused. I told him, “I was fine at the hospital ER, they didn’t find anything wrong with me.” I referred to the last clear memory I had.

The doctor said, “What ER are you talking about?”

“Memorial Hospital”, I said.

He asked if I remembered being at Teddy Roosevelt ER.

“No, I don’t”, I said.

I wondered how I ended up at Teddy Roosevelt. Nothing made sense. His comment about being at Teddy Roosevelt, made me very concerned. Not just because I didn’t remember being there, but I didn’t remember an event which would have caused a need for me to be there.

He said, “Your family brought you here, yesterday.”

I left the ER with my husband. I woke up in a behavioral unit. How did that happen? And where was my family? Why didn’t my family park outside the door waiting to see me, making sure I was ok, trying to get me help? Why was I alone, in the dark about everything that happened? It felt like I was disposed of in the night. Shipped off to some remote island. But that couldn’t be the case. My husband and I have been committed to each other since high school. He’d never leave me. He’d have my back, like I’d have his. Always.

I said, “My husband, Wayne Kerr?”

“Yes”, he said, “He brought you in on a 5150”.

I asked what a “5150” was and he told me I came in because I was gravely disordered and couldn’t take care of myself. (5150 refers to the California law code for the temporary, involuntary psychiatric commitment of an individual who might be harmful to themselves or others.)

The doctor said, “The only way you can get here is to voluntarily walk in or come through our Emergency Department”. I learned that if you come in through the ED, it’s because you were arrested by the police on a 5150 or you came through on a doctor signed 5150 approved by next of kin – aka a husband. I don’t recall being arrested, which means my husband brought me here because I couldn’t take care of myself.

He started asking me some general intake questions. He was typing something while I talked. One of the questions was who did I authorize to talk with about my care. That made me nervous. Normally I would say Wayne, but how could I trust him when he put me here? I hesitated while I thought about this.

I told the doctor, “No one”. I was feeling very vulnerable and didn’t know who to trust. I had a sense that I needed to protect myself. Until I understood more, I didn’t want anyone knowing about my health.

If the doctor was a shrink, then he must be assessing me. I was compiling the facts in my head: behavioral unit, psychiatrist, 5150, couldn’t take care of myself. I couldn’t believe this. My husband committed me! What the fuck? I had no idea that my husband would have me “committed” that night. Ironic, right? Spouses should be committed to protecting each other, not one leaving the other in a mental hospital.

I thought of my husband as the person who always had my back. He was my savior. So I rationalized the situation. I knew that he’d want me home. We were committed to each other, since we were teens. I was sure this was all a mistake or Wayne had made a bad decision that landed me here. I knew that if he advocated for me, he could straighten this whole mess up. In my vulnerable state, confused, uncertain, and scared, it was easy to ignore the fact that he was responsible for me being here. He put me here. It was his fault. But I focused more on problem solving. I thought this was just a problem that we needed to fix. It was all just a mistake.

The doctor started talking again. He showed me the paperwork with the term “5150”. It was an intake form for me. I hadn’t seen it before and didn’t know what it said. I supposed this was some standard intake process, whereby they review the falsified intake form completed by the family and drop the bombshell on the victim, aka patient.

I was highly suspicious of the circumstances I found myself in, but wasn’t going to let on to the doctor. I needed them to see me as rational and normal. I needed to be thinking about how to get out of here.

He asked me if I knew why I was here. I didn’t.

I told him, “I’m really exhausted. Last thing I remember was oversleeping, missing my conference call for work, and my computer not working. Then Wayne took me to the emergency room at Memorial Hospital, with my parents. They didn’t find anything wrong with me, so I was discharged and was going home. “

I was still very calm, but I felt very confused because I was missing 14 hours that I didn’t remember. I didn’t know why I couldn’t remember, but until I did, I would remain guarded toward everyone.

He said, “Let’s talk about that. Do you hear voices or think the phone is tapped?”

“No, I don’t”, I replied.

Our meeting wasn’t much longer. Once the basic questions were reviewed, the doctor was done with me. He said I could go back to the common room. Before I left, I asked if I could call home.

The doctor gave me his approval and had the nurse help me. I could use my cell phone she said. I hadn’t seen it since I got here. The nurse told me she’d look in my “box” for items that I had when I came in. She told me the box is where they keep patient’s things. When I want or need something, like a brush or cell phone, I can ask the nurses for them. She didn’t find anything in my “box”, which meant my husband kept it all. She offered me the use of the phone at the Nurse’s station.

My husband answered the phone. I immediately asked him, “Do you know I’m at Teddy Roosevelt General Hospital and not at Memorial Hospital? We went to Memorial Hospital yesterday, so how did I get here and why am I here?”

He spoke carefully, and slowly when he said “Yes. I think there’s something wrong. You don’t remember us leaving the Memorial Hospital ER?”

I told him that I did remember that, and that everything was fine, but somehow I ended up at the behavioral unit on something called a “5150”. He hesitatingly admitted to taking me to the Teddy Roosevelt ER. He said the doctor at Memorial Hospital suggested it.

I said, “Doctor? There was a mistake.” It sounded like a doctor at Memorial Hospital made the call to have me committed to the psych ward at Teddy Roosevelt, and that it was out of my husband’s hands. If doctors could do this to me, then I needed to be very careful to follow their rules and convince them I was fine. But why wasn’t he trying to explain all this and offer to come get me out?

I said, “Are you coming to get me? I do not belong here.”

He replied, “I can come this afternoon during visiting hours. But we need to fix this problem.”

I said, “I need to get home for Alexandra’s homecoming and Trisha’s 50^th birthday party. Come and get me please”.

I hung up, dissatisfied with our conversation. He seemed vague and cagey in his replies. Maybe that was because he didn’t know what was going on. There must have been some mistake in ER. I was anxious for him to get me that afternoon. Afternoon was still a long way away when you’re in a strange place, unclear about how you got here and not sure what to expect going forward.

Hearing the doctor tell me where I was, and then my husband confirming it, was shocking. It was so fantastic in my mind that I would be there, in a behavioral unit, I thought it had to be faked. Like instead of being in a hospital, I was actually on a stage set. I couldn’t believe this was real. I didn’t want to think about how I got here and instead focused more on getting out by gaining a sense of my surroundings and how to “play” the game I felt I landed in.

Soon it’s lunch time and the group repeats the process from breakfast, with people lining up in the hallway for the walk to the cafeteria and me going to the group session room alone. I see the security guard is still at the door. I still wasn’t hungry, just wanted hot water to keep warm. The medical staff asked me if I was rationing my food. I guess that’s a nice way to say starving yourself? Maybe pin me with an eating disorder. I was too upset and off kilter to be hungry. I guess they didn’t understand that. In the world of mental health, every behavior was a symptom of something. They were probably looking for things to pin on me.

There were others around but I set out to be separate, off to the side, by myself to think. I was so tired. I chose a mini couch in front of the television and started to fall asleep.

A hospital staff member dressed in street clothes came by to give me a tour of the behavioral wing. My sleep was cut short again. She was a petite blonde, with perfect makeup and hair. She seemed to play a talk therapist role. She said the room was the “Group sessions” room. Really a common room for all the guests/patients.

She told me, “We use this room for group sessions. If you do have sessions, it’s very important that you attend. If you miss a meeting we don’t like that”.

I asked again, “Where am I?”

She said, “You’re in the Behavioral unit at Teddy Roosevelt General Hospital.” (They never say psych ward.) “Next on our tour is the meditation room. In here you’ll find a piano and you can listen to music if you’d like.”

We continued walking around, passing rooms. I found out that we had to keep our room doors open; they couldn’t be closed. Everyone had a roommate but me. Why was I special? We passed by the blow-dry girl. She had a boyfriend visiting. She said she was glad her boyfriend is there. We passed another room, which looked like a conference room or meeting room. We passed the girl screaming and crying for drugs. A nurse took her back to her room.

Through the tour, I heard a repeated comment about needing to comply. I needed to follow the rules. She commented on the fact that I looked skinny, saying I was too thin for my frame. And what’s that got to do with my mental state?

I couldn’t show signs that I was emotionally or mentally broken, like depression, or I knew they’d keep me longer. I thought through every action to see how it met with the rules and guidelines, insuring that I wouldn’t give them any excuses or reasons to keep me.

We passed another set of doors that looked like access to the main entrance to the building. It had a security check point with a security guard.

We completed the tour in time for the “group therapy” session. Everyone came in and sat down. Some people were late because they were playing soccer and football in the gym. (I made a mental note to find out more about that. I loved working out and could use some exercise to feel better.)

I thought again that this could be a movie set or staged. I wondered if some people were plants. There were too many things happening here that seemed to be too coincidental. Like the people coming in from the gym. They just finished playing soccer. I loved soccer. I really wanted to go to the gym. How could a hospital have the space to play soccer?

At this point, I still didn’t realize or comprehend that I was in a psych ward, which is why I asked the question so often. I heard the words, and I knew what they meant, but I still wasn’t convinced it was true, even with the proof of crazy all around me. I guess I was testing people to see who might slip up and reveal the truth. But I wasn’t sure what that could be either. That this was a joke, that this was a stage set with actors, nothing really made sense to me because it was so far-fetched.

The patients all took seats in the group room and a group session leader stood at the front of the room. It was time for a group session. The group session leader asked the patients to talk about the best and worst part of their day. And we were to use one word to describe how we felt that day. He went around the group and came to me. I said I was not ready to participate now, I was fine. (I was thinking that I wouldn’t give out any info about myself until I knew what was going on and how to play the game to get out. I felt like they were looking for something wrong and a reason to keep me there).

He reminded me, “If you don’t comply, you can’t get out of here”. It suddenly dawned on me that this was psychotherapy of some kind. What was wrong with these people?

I looked around at the others to see what their issues were and why they were there. Everyone seemed guarded in their own way. Some people were more-freaky than others. I was starting to understand people’s stories and attach labels to them. One young guy seemed normal. He was on a 5150 because he was an alcoholic who got too aggressive and someone called the cops on him. One black girl in her 20’s was schizophrenic. She didn’t know why she was there. Her family left her and wouldn’t let her come home. She’d been there 3 months. One girl was on her last day there. She had some issues to do with her mom and mother-in-law. She said she felt better and could manage going home to deal with her issues. One woman was committed by her son because she was sad and depressed. I didn’t want to be one of these stories. I wasn’t like these people. They had issues. I really needed to prove I was ok, in order to get out. I avoided sharing my own story while trying to appear as normal as possible. At the time, part of me was realizing that I might have been set up. Someone put me here. I just couldn’t mentally allow myself to think it might have been Wayne or my parents because that betrayal would be too great. It must have been some fluke or mistake with the discharging paperwork. I was prepared to accept illogical explanations for what happened, as long as it wasn’t my family.

To pass the time, the hospital had activities for the patients. One of them was beading. (Oddly, I would do beading at home while watching TV, to keep myself busy.) Why this activity? Was it calming? I thought it was a really weird activity for the hospital. What struck me as odd, too, was that so many things that weekend happened to be things I really liked: beading, soccer, gym, playing cards. It’s like that weekend was designed for me. And yet, these things are not all that common, so I wondered, “What are the odds that this is a normal set of activities?” It seemed like it was staged again. I thought maybe they wanted to make you crazy, to keep you here. It is a hospital after all. They were trying to make a profit. The longer they kept you, the more they made.

All the patients did the beading. I made a bracelet with the letters W, B, A for the names of my husband and kids. I kept it very simple and let them know I was done. Normally you cut and burn the ends of the strings after you knot them to keep the knot from coming undone, but they wouldn’t let me do that in the hospital. I tied it closed, then hospital staff retied it, cut the strings and burned them. They weren’t happy that I only had a few beads on my string and urged me to keep going, but I was pleased with my bracelet.

The beading activity made me think of my friend Trisha and when I’d seen her a few days ago.

One of my friends, Trisha, was a very accomplished jewelry designer. She had a second career making necklaces and bracelets that she sold online as well as at boutiques.  I went to her house on Wednesday to help her with some jewelry projects.  We talked while we worked, mostly about her jewelry business and her upcoming birthday plans.  We were both excited about her 50^th birthday celebration on Saturday. It was going to be quite a party and we expected a good turnout of our friends to celebrate with her.

Trisha is a straight talking, direct person. She said she was concerned about my health, as she could tell I was losing weight and appeared stressed from work.  I decided to tell her about my own concerns with my health.  I told her I wasn’t sleeping well, that I was having heart palpitations that woke me up at night and about the stress at work due to the company reorganization and associated layoffs which also translated into more work and responsibility for me.  There was also the usual work-home balance struggle that we all have.  She was a good listener and was encouraging me to take it easy and relax.  Which was another reason I was looking forward to her party, it was a chance to blow off some steam.

When the doorbell rang, I discovered that she had company coming for dinner.  Another mutual friend arrived with her boyfriend, so I said I’d leave and let them continue on.  Our friend said she was worried about me, that my job was making me super stressed, I had no help at home, and I just needed to quit my job.  I appreciated her concern as well, but there was no way I would quit my job.  As I left, I reconfirmed with Trisha that I would see her on Saturday for the party.    I went home, made dinner for the family and logged onto my computer to get some work done.

A young nurse (not an RN, more like a LVN) came by to tell me that I needed to see the doctor. I told her I’d already seen the doctor today but she told me this was a different doctor that I needed to see.  I found myself in the examination room with a male doctor and a female nurse. The doctor was an old guy in his 60’s, overweight, with a beer gut, dressed in street clothes. No white doctor coat or stethoscope here. The room was dark. Which is totally wrong, and creepy. Don’t doctors need very bright light to identify disease and illness? I wondered if he was really a doctor. Maybe this was an actor playing a part. He didn’t look like a real doctor. The man looked unkempt.  His hair looked like he hadn’t combed it in a day or two and I can only imagine his fingernails were dirty too. This guy couldn’t be a real medical doctor, although he said he was a general practitioner.  I wanted to ask to see his credentials.

He started the “intake” process. He asked me questions about drinking and drug use and general health questions. I wondered why not the usual routine of listening to my heart, taking my pulse, blood pressure, etc.  He didn’t do any of that.  Just asked me questions, trying to ferret out some kind of mental health issues that he could write down in my file.  Did I smoke? Did I drink? Did I drink at lunch?  I tell him No, Not much, and occasionally with work functions.

He was taking notes and I saw him write in large uppercase letters “DUI” and he circled it.  He said that’s enough.

I asked if he was going to give me a physical exam.

So he said, “Oh, uhmmmm stand up, bend over, stand up and show me your palms. That’s it”, he said.

I asked what he was looking for.

He said if I was going into detox, that my palms would show veins running down them, like stripes.

Of course, my hands were clear. There was no concern about detox for me. No concern about my physical health, just my mental, apparently.  I found it all weird and more like a police interrogation, the way he asked questions suspiciously and looked at me like I had something to hide. Like he didn’t believe I was telling the truth.  I made a mental note about the DUI he wrote down.  Mostly I was thinking WTF?! Where is the patient care?  (If you Google DUI, you will find that police can arrest you for a DUI if you mention that you had a drink at all. You don’t have to be drunk. You’ve confessed to a crime in their terms.)  He told me we were done, and I needed to go to the group room.

A nurse was in the group room when I approached. She was an adorable, small, black woman that reminded me of Jada Pinkett Smith. I really liked her. I asked how I could get out of here.  She told me to sign up for a meeting with the social worker who could explain the details. I put my name on the sign-up board to see the social worker. I waited. No one called my name or came to see me.  Jada let me know I could also talk to a patient advocate.   Without the social worker, I ferreted out the situation. I quickly learned there are 3 ways to get out: 1) if you have no insurance, they hold you 72 hours and release you.  2) A doctor releases you because there is nothing wrong with you.  3) Get released to family members.

Obviously I could get trapped here on #1. I had good insurance. I was thinking I could try #2 – find a doctor to say I’m fine.  The doctor would have to complete an assessment.  The problem was that they did patient assessments on Wednesdays, according to the administrative staff, and I wanted out before that. That left me with #3 – convincing my husband to take responsibility for me.  In order to do that, they needed to hold a hearing. In order to have a hearing, they needed to assess me.

I told Jada that I wanted to pursue number 3. She put my name on the wait list for the Patient Advocate who could get the ball rolling.

At some point during the day, a hospital administrator from Admitting/Financial Services asked me about my insurance. My company provided very good benefits, which the administrator figured out after making the call to my healthcare provider.  The administrator told me I could stay here for 30 days with no copay and then another 2 months with minimal copay. Yay.  She told me how good my benefits were. I was the proverbial fatted calf.  Could they keep me here 3 months?  My experience with the medical field had shown me that the care you get is based on the insurance you have, not what you need or some altruistic motive. Most of the time, they tried to fit your “medical needs” with the maximum insurance benefits you had. I didn’t even believe they cared about what’s best for you.  Medicine is a business, first and foremost. I was even more scared about getting out.

I went to the Nurses station and asked about how to get to the gym.   A woman nurse told me she needed to check with the doctor. I noticed it was dinner time and people were starting to walk down the hall to the cafeteria, so I asked if I could go with them.  Again, it required doctor approval. So I asked where he was, I’d go ask.  The nurse got the approval and I went to the cafeteria with the others for dinner.

While I was in the cafeteria, I was notified my husband and mom were there to visit. I didn’t want them to leave, because I was scared to be there alone.  I found a nurse and asked that since my family just arrived to visit, could they come to the cafeteria with me.  Family isn’t usually allowed.  She needed to get permission.  She returned and said, “Since you’re special, we’ll let you do that”.  What the hell does that mean???

My family could come in, but they had to go to the cafeteria from the public access, not the hospital access with us.  The psych ward gets to use the hospital cafeteria certain hours, and exclusively, so crazy don’t mix with normal.

They arrived shortly, and joined me. All the other patients noticed this and asked why I got special treatment. The reply was that the doctor said it was OK.  I was still very cold, tired, and not hungry at all. I’m not a big eater anyway.  I wanted warm drinks though.  They offered food to my mom and husband. I told them I didn’t think they had money. We were chaperoned by the blonde with the perfect makeup and hair.  She said that we didn’t have to worry about paying for Wayne or my mom’s food because I was special.  I found it odd that they were using that term with me.  Mom had some tea.

I was so relieved to see my family.  They were the lifeline I needed to get through the day.  I was feeling bereft without my family near me, and knowing they were here for me was a great emotional boost.  Until they arrived I was caught up with thoughts that they might have dumped me here, that no one wanted me, no one cared what happened to me or loved me.  Now I had confirmation that I was wrong. They were here for me, as I expected all along.

Mom and Wayne looked for a private area to sit. The patients were limited to a few tables in the cafeteria, clustered together.  As such, there wasn’t much privacy for a family, even exclusively at one table. The blonde told us to sit wherever we wanted which pissed off the other inmates. I could hear them chattering about how I was allowed to have family for meals but they weren’t and why didn’t I have to follow the rules?

As I went to refill some hot water, the blonde did a surprise attack. She asked me if I was deliberately not eating and intentionally rationing my food. Guess she was going for the anorexic diagnosis?  She notices everyone is eating but me, I was having tea.

I told her I wasn’t hungry, just freezing cold.

She asked again if I’m rationing.

I told her no, it had been a weird day.

She commented that I looked thin for my frame.

At the time, I was probably 105 pounds, and thinner than normal.  I felt the hospital was now trying to find things wrong with me to keep me here.   At every meal after this, I would make a point to eat food, push food around my plate and try to look like I was eating well.  I would offer Wayne some of my food too, so that would make my appetite appear better. I was not anorexic, and wouldn’t let them claim I was. I was a healthy, solid eater, but I did watch my weight. I was very disciplined about my body, and also conscious of my responsibility as a wife to make sure that I stayed fit and attractive for my husband.  An anorexia claim would be bullshit.

While we ate, we talked.  We kept the conversation to pleasantries mostly. I was primarily concerned about my family, asking if dad and Alex were ok. I wanted to know who was watching dad while they were here. He was in poor health and needed constant oversight. And I didn’t want my life to be more stress for him.  Dad was fine with a relative checking in on him. I also asked how this happened. How I got here. I just got responses that the hospital or the doctor decided I needed to stay longer.  I kept telling them that I was fine. I didn’t need to be here. But I got nowhere.  I also said I needed a lawyer and they needed one too since I didn’t trust anyone here. They just gave more vague (meant to be reassuring) responses, which made me more suspicious. I knew they weren’t telling me everything.

The nurses started to corral the patients to go back down the hallway to the behavioral unit as they finished their dinner.  My family was told they could stay longer to visit, but they needed to go back through the public entrance, not the one that we went through.

When we met back up in the behavioral unit, I heard patients asking how come my family was still here. I must be special. Again with the special thing.

I found a way to separate my husband and mom so that I could have separate conversations with them about getting out of here. I met with Wayne first and tried to ferret some information from him. I asked him how I got there and if he could help get me out. I was worried by his responses, because it sounded like he was trying to convince me that this place was good for me.

Wayne asked if I wanted to see Alex.

I said, “No.” Then, “Yes”. I asked him to bring her on Sunday.

When I didn’t get satisfaction from my conversation with Wayne, I moved to having a conversation with my mom. I talked quietly with my mom about dad and Alex. My mom looked worried. I told her I wasn’t sure what happened, but I might need a lawyer. And she might need one too.

She said, “Lawyer?”

And I told her I felt like I was in jail and couldn’t leave. I wanted out. I told her not to tell my husband that I said this.

My mom looked scared. She wasn’t sure what to do, but told me she’d do whatever she could to help me. She wanted to help me, but Wayne is my husband and has legal charge of me.

I understood her words and behavior to mean that she could see I was acting normal, and that I was scared to be here, and that she would try to help me out.

Wayne and mom left around 8:00 or 8:30. I wanted them to be home for dad and Alex. As I hugged mom goodbye, I whispered in her ear to get me a lawyer.

Around 9 p.m. the staff started handing out the meds. 10 p.m. is the last call. I was in the group room, hanging out, so I wasn’t “isolated”. At 8 p.m. the nurse with the spiky hair came by and said the doctor issued a prescription for Seroquel for me, an antipsychotic drug. This was the first I knew about the medicine. She said this was to help me.

I asked, “Help me with what? When I saw him he didn’t mention anything about medicine. Can I have the printed prescription information sheet? I’m not familiar with that medicine.”

She made a noise, like “ugh”.

She provided a printout of the drug information. I was told that the drug window closes at 10, so I needed to decide to take it or not.

I read through all the information and said, “Nope. I don’t need this.” The information was like the printout you get at the pharmacy with your prescription listing the purpose, the effects, the side effects, dosage, etc. I focused in on “anti-psychotic”, which I wasn’t, hadn’t been, I’d know. And the other phrase, “weight gain” as a possible side effect. Nope, not gonna happen. I refused to do that.

The nurse reminded me: “You have to freely take the medicine, we can’t make you. But we do expect people to comply”.

HOWEVER, every 1/2 hour they came by and reminded you that the pharmacy closes in 2 hours, then 1.5 hours, etc. Are you going to take your meds??? I just tell her I’m still reading the information. I’m thinking about the fact that the rules say you need to comply to get out of here and what might happen if I don’t. I told myself to stay strong. Don’t give in on the medicine.

At 10, Spiky came in and said they were going to close the door and bring down the metal gate. Meaning it is last call for sure. I just said no, thank you. I don’t need that medicine. I wanted to talk to my husband about this. I was badgered for more than an hour to take medicine, but I didn’t take it. I’m sure they wrote down in my file that I didn’t comply. Why the fuck did I need an anti-psychotic drug?

Before I got into bed for the night I asked the nurse if I could take a shower, get a toothbrush and if I could wear my own clothes.

She paused on the shower idea. Everyone complained about the showers. The water only dribbles out and you can’t make it hot. Just like you’d imagine in prison, you can’t get a decent shower. I wanted to wash my hair, but no shower for me that night. They did give me a toothbrush and said I could have my family bring clean clothes the next day.

I asked if I could bring a blanket as well. Because it’s cold as shit in there. And I had to wait for hot water all the time. They just looked at me like I was crazy. I was told those things are allowed, but they needed to inspect everything that came in, first. I told them I wouldn’t bring the gun.

I went to bed, but not to sleep. I sat in bed reviewing the pamphlet I was given earlier. Interested in understanding the rules and information provided, I was more intent on finding an escape. The pamphlet had the rules and expectations listed out, with a recurring theme of “Comply”. I would need to show that I was fine and that I could follow their rules. I could feel the stress of feeling trapped start to overwhelm me. It felt like they were trying to find ways to keep me here. This situation was more stressful than the work stress that supposedly put me here. I felt alone and scared, but determined to play by their rules and “comply”, “comply”, and “comply”, to get out. Under the fear was this thread of anger in me. I was angry that I could be trapped here, that the hospital could force me to behave against my will in order to get out, that my husband wasn’t here saving me, and that my family had abandoned me. And I was angry at the manipulation of patients, families, insurance companies, and doctors. The system forced patients to be brainwashed into compliance.

I didn’t want to comply and was determined to find another way to get discharged. As I read the paperwork for clues, I highlighted sections that were important. I started thinking of this like a work project. Often in my career I needed to develop process flows or flow charts to show business process steps. That would work here as well, to better understand the flow and decision points for patient discharge. I made a flow chart to show the different options, then decided which way was the best. Between the pamphlets and information gathered from interaction with the nurses and doctors, I had enough information to map it out. I thought to myself, that I was clearly rational, logical, and fully functional and didn’t deserve to be there. (Later, when I talked about this with my husband he found it odd. He asked if the doctors had seen the papers.)

I could have asked the fellow inmates how to get out, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to associate with the inmates too much or have them know my name for various reasons. A big reason was the embarrassment if people I knew found out I was here. And I wanted to keep my distance from people as I went through my own personal hell. And there was the concern about mixing with “crazy” people. I knew I couldn’t “catch” crazy, so it was more a feeling that I didn’t want this crisis to touch me any more than it already had. If I could isolate myself from people and interaction, I could suffer quietly. I was like a wounded animal cowering in the corner, and licking my wounds.

I laid in bed waiting for the constant flushing noise to start. It didn’t happen. Why not? Instead, it was replaced by hospital staff opening up my door, loudly, every hour, and looking in on me. Did they think I’d escape, OD, wander the halls looking for an exit, or kill my neighbor? I didn’t notice that the night before since I was drugged out of my mind by the pill the Emergency Department gave me.

I was able to fall asleep, with my last thoughts being, first thing tomorrow I’m calling Wayne to get me out of here. I couldn’t have known that something so simply done, couldn’t be easily undone.

¹  “5150” refers to the California legal code (Welfare and Institutions Code – WIC, Division 5. Community Mental Health Services. Involuntary Treatment. Article 1. Detention of Mentally Disordered Persons for Evaluation and Treatment.) http://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/codes_displaySection.xhtml?lawCode=WIC&sectionNum=5150

Photo by Ilona Panych on Unsplash

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Nikita@dontreleaseme.com

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