I woke up today determined to get out of here.  I would continue to advocate for myself, follow rules, comply, act normal and rational, and generally do what I needed to do in order to get home.

I’ve now gotten used to the routine here. Like the other days, we start with having our vitals taken and breakfast in the cafeteria, then group session.  Our morning group session was a little different today.   I’m not sure if this was a technique or if they put a name to the “methodology” but in simple terms, it was a Memory/Recall test.  The session leader (talk therapist) would call an individual by name, the patient was then to recall what they said in group session the day before.  Each person needed to recall what they had told the group the prior day.  Each person would recite their word of the day and their best/worst of the day from yesterday.  I was nervous because I had nodded off in group session the day before, while waiting for my turn.  I wanted to go first and get it out of the way, but the Talk therapist told me to wait to be called upon.  When it was my turn, I recited the three responses.  Since I had given the same exact answers every session, it was pretty easy for me.  I knew I was correct.  However, the leader dragged it out as long as he could.  First he looked at his answer sheet for what seemed like 5 minutes, then nodded, looked at me, and said, “Good”.  I got an A.  Many of the other patients didn’t fare so well. When called upon, they would hesitate, say “Um”, or they would ask the therapist to remind them of what they said the day before.

As we covered the room, waiting on people for their answers, I spent that time trying to make sense of the point of the exercise.  Could it be to see if patients were in psychosis?  Did it show that we were rational?  Maybe it was to have us see a pattern of our behavior? I really didn’t think it did anything for me. Other than forcing me to pay attention since there might be a test.

After group session it was field trip time.  I was pretty excited about the idea of going to the gym. I’d seen people returning from the gym and had been jealous that they could find some distraction and exercise while here. Exercise is one of my favorite things to do.  I wondered what equipment and facilities they had.  But I was disappointed. The trip to the gym instead turned into an escorted walk to the courtyard where we could hang out in the sunshine.  I was bummed, but given how cold I’ve been, it was really nice to bathe in sunshine and be warm for a change. It was a lot like the one hour of outside time allowed to prisoners in solitary confinement.  The Vitamin D was good for me though.

In the afternoon we had another group therapy session in the common area.  This was a special event.  Two young nurses (students) were working on a clinical school project and set up a Bingo game for everyone to play, with candy for prizes. It was a special treat to get candy.  Apparently the hospital has a strict no candy policy. I mean strict, as in not ever, no way. Today was an exception. They make a big deal about candy. There were signs saying you could bring in outside food, but you cannot bring candy.  Just like the zoo, only don’t feed the inmates.

Mental Patient Bingo isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  The game was set up and everyone had their card.  Numbers were being called out and markers put on Bingo cards. I was sitting between Bob, the older autistic man and a 20’s-something new girl with long brown hair.  As we played along I noticed that Bob wasn’t paying attention and told the two nurses that Bob had Bingo.  They said ok, threw him a piece of candy and clapped.  I had a flashback to kindergarten.  Oddly, instead of people clearing their boards to start a new game, they continued to call numbers. I raised my hand and asked about clearing our board and they said don’t worry about it.  So we played until everyone had won a round and got a piece of candy.   Under my breath I muttered that Bingo was dumb because everyone wins. The girl next to me said she was thinking the same thing. This was like youth sports where everyone gets a participation trophy, but it takes the competitiveness out of the whole game.  I rolled my eyes and said, “OK. I’ll play nice and not question the nursing students on what’s the point of this exercise.”  But, what was the point of the activity?  Bingo just pissed me off.  I was mad that I had to play this fucking game when my whole stay was a mental game. I didn’t see how Bingo would benefit mental health.

I pondered the candy thing. Does candy make people do crazy things?  Maybe it’s the whole sugar addiction thing, but then that makes no sense when they allow smokers to smoke, and that seems worse.  Maybe patients trade sex for candy?  Maybe it’s about wrappers and the mess? Worried about chocolate stains on the furniture? Ants? Maybe they just don’t want people to have any ounce of enjoyment.  Bingo!

Maybe some people enjoy Bingo, but not me, not played this way.  I love candy, so I did look forward to that.  But nothing could relieve the anxiety that I felt being here.  I was feeling a little lighter thinking that my sentence has a term limit.  They said I could go home tomorrow.  That means another day of survival in hell. And can I really believe it would happen?  I gotta see it to believe it.  It could be a ploy to mess with my mind. There are clearly so many oddities to this weekend that it isn’t that far-fetched.

He waited until Alex went to school and then he got started.  He needed to find some boxes in the garage and packing tape.  He looked around for everything he needed to pack up Nikita’s work life.  After talking to Nikita’s boss on Saturday, informing her that Nikita would probably not be back to work for awhile, if at all.  Nikita’s boss had not seen any issues so the visit to the mental hospital was quite a shock.  Given the threat of an employee with mental health issues, the company took the cautious route and asked for their property back.  Nikita’s boss asked him to pack up all her work items and have them shipped back to the company.

He needed to clear off her desk, pack her laptop, docking station, and her phone equipment to send back.  There were some notebooks, notepads, general office supplies and not much else. Nikita kept her space very neat and organized.  There were files in a separate cabinet in the bedroom.  Those would have to go as well.  He sorted through the assortment of items, determining which needed to go and whether any needed to stay.  He decided to ship most of it back.

Nikita had been committed on Friday evening, but doctor assessments are only done on Tuesday and Thursdays, meaning they wouldn’t get a diagnosis until Tuesday at the earliest.  Memorial Hospital couldn’t find anything wrong, but he was banking on the Behavioral Unit finding she had a mental health issue.  He did enough research to know that someone with symptoms like psychosis, paranoia, and hallucinations probably had a serious illness.   He was telling people about her “breakdown” and how she’d probably be bi-polar or schizophrenic, especially if she didn’t take the anti-psychotic drugs.

I woke up determined to get out of here, so when I had a break between the required patient activities, I went to confirm a meeting time with the Patient Advocate. The patient advocate may be my last chance to get out of here, so I’m taking no chances. I approach the nurse’s station at the time the patient advocate is supposed to be on premise. I ask if he’s here. The nurse tells me he’s busy right now. I tell her I’ll wait right here until he is available. He comes out shortly and calls me into the room. He’s an African American man, super slick talker, who talks fast.  He turns out to be quite a character.

He says, “What do you want to see me about?”

I tell him about being released.

He says, “Yes, you don’t really belong here, do you?”  His response made me suspicious. Was he being sarcastic? How did he know I would say that? But I want to stay on topic to get something out of this meeting, so I ignore his question. I felt like they asked questions to keep you there. I didn’t want to say “No, I don’t” and have him think I had some psychosis or something.  I just want to go home.

He continues our conversation, saying, “My feeling is you don’t belong here, you’re just exhausted.”

I reply, “Yes, I wasn’t sleeping well up to Friday. I was exhausted, just needed rest”.

He says, “Yes, you just needed rest.”

So I ask again, how do I get out?

He says, “If you volunteer to stay, you can leave at any time. Let me get paperwork and you can enroll yourself into the program. Being a volunteer, you choose when to leave.” I ask if there are other options.

He says, “If you’re here because you’re tired and just need some rest, the doctor can send you home since you don’t have a need to be here.  We’ll need to hold a hearing. Hire a lawyer and have him there. You’ll need someone to take you home.”

I said, “I like that option better but I need to talk to my husband about it.”  I want to call my husband so he has this information. I’m sure he’ll be willing to get me.

He says, “I’ll call him”. I agree to this, but I want us to talk to him together, so I ask him to please put it on speaker. (I’m starting to get smarter). If we call together the Patient Advocate call tell Wayne about the hearing and releasing me to his care. And, hearing it from him, Wayne might be more on board with me leaving.

When my husband answers, I tell my husband that I’m here with patient advocate.

He introduces himself to Wayne. He says, your wife doesn’t belong here, she’s exhausted, we can do a hearing, if you agree to take her home and she’s fine.

My husband says that’s different than what the psychiatrist said.

“What do you think?” the Patient Advocate asks.

There’s silence on the line.  I think he didn’t answer because I was on the line. So I take control.

I say, “I’m not supposed to be here.  I’m not sure what happened, how I got here. You need to commit to take me home (or mom and dad).   Then we can go through a hearing.”

My husband hesitates.

I’m thinking, “You f’ing asshole”.

He says he needs to make some calls.

We end the call with Wayne saying he’ll let me know tonight when he comes to visit.

In the office, the patient advocate says that if my husband doesn’t come, I can still do voluntary admission and leave whenever I want.  I’m suspicious of this guy since he works for the hospital. While I may seem normal and they have nothing on me, I have a good mental health insurance plan that they can suck dry, so I have to wonder at their motives. The PA keeps pushing me down the voluntary path. We’re sitting next to each other and he’s trying to get me to follow him to get the paperwork.  He’s in my face, “Let’s go, let’s go”.  Now I’m nervous because he’s so pushy, he can’t be on my side.  I think I need him to get me out, so it’s a slippery slope of which path to follow. He tells me to let him know what my husband wants to do.  In the meantime, he says he’ll schedule a hearing. He says he’ll find a judge for the hearing as well.

I went back to my room, to work on my flowcharts.  I wanted to secure the best plan for getting out.  I had to piecemeal the information I’d gleaned from various sources since I’d been here. Nowhere did it seem clearly documented or spelled out how you get out of here.  And it wasn’t that simple. There were legal issues and “courts” and “judges” involved.

I started with what I did know so far.  5150s¹ allow hospitals to keep patients for 72 hours. I assumed that if you were at a private (not county or state) hospital, that you would need to leave if you didn’t have insurance. I had good insurance, so they’d want to keep me as long as possible.  I wasn’t sure what happened after the 72 hour hold. I added what I could to the flowchart. I put a star next to my husband needing to follow through.

I recalled an earlier conversation with a younger woman nurse, who I didn’t really like.  She mentioned that the doctor wanted me to stay 14 days. I think it’s called a 5250².  When I heard they could keep me 14 days I looked at the calendar to count out 14 days. I asked if the clock starts with day 1 (Emergency Department) or day 4 (72 hours in)? She told me it starts from day 4.  As I’m thinking through the timeline I realize that it won’t work for me.  She asked why it wouldn’t work. I said because I’d miss an important business trip I had planned for work.  It was something my company would expect me to attend so I couldn’t stay here that long. She just looked at me.

Wayne described me as “thought blocked” on one of the intake forms.  If I was thought blocked would I worry about the timing of my business trip?  Would I be asking for calendars to validate the dates? And asking specific questions?  According to Wikipedia, a person who is thought blocked will be talking and then stop suddenly, with silences that may last a few seconds to a minute, or even longer.  Thought blocked people also change subjects almost randomly. This is mostly seen in people with psychiatric illnesses (like schizophrenia).  Even while Wayne was using terms like psychosis, paranoid, thought-blocked, I wasn’t worried. I was clearly able to think rationally.  I never believed any of the descriptions he used. Maybe I was unable to care for myself when I was drugged and passed out after the visit to Memorial Hospital ER, but that couldn’t be said for my visit here at Teddy Roosevelt. I was sure of it.

Wayne visited me alone on Monday. My mom decided not to come because she knew the trial was coming and she had company.  When my husband comes to visit, he brings me a hamburger and fries. I think this was intended to be an inducement to eat, presumably because hospital food is notoriously bad.  The nurses also informed me that the Chinese hot and sour soup my mom brought me yesterday was in the refrigerator. But no one told me that I had soup. I’m irked that they didn’t tell me because I would have welcomed good food, especially hot soup.   You’d think they’d want the “starving” girl to eat.

He and I sat alone in the common room, initially talking pleasantries.   He appeared to want to keep the conversation to the banal.  I wanted to jump into getting his decision on whether he was going to support the hearing or not, but I didn’t want to get him agitated and upset.  Not before I got out of here. I needed to keep him calm and moving toward the same objective.  But I didn’t want to entirely ignore the elephant in the room either.  So, during his visit, I made a point of having him speak to Jada Pinkett Smith, the nurse, so he could hear about the hearing process.  He listened to her, processed the information, but never explicitly confirmed that he was on board and would support me in being discharged.  And I couldn’t press the issue without risking his ire.  I determined that the best plan was to proceed as if he was on board.  Kind of push him along the path, as it were.  As he left, he told me that I needed to listen to the doctors and take the anti-psychotic medications. This was clearly a quid pro quo. He was telling me: You take the medicine and I’ll help you come home.  I told him I took the medicine last night and I would again tonight.  He seemed appeased.

I tried to make sense of being given two different prescription medications. Probably not some evil plot, but rather they don’t know how you’ll react to the medicine so they give you a sleeping pill the first night. And if you’re ok with that, they move you to the big league drugs. Or, they know I’m going home soon and they want to get me hooked on some serious meds before I leave. Better to control me when I go home. Like their insurance policy. I wasn’t content with any of the scenarios I played out in my mind.

I hated taking any medicine and putting chemicals into my body, especially mind-altering drugs.  Who knew what the drugs would do to me and how I’d feel.  I didn’t want to be a drugged out zombie.  The one medicine they gave me at Memorial made me feel fuzzy for more than a day.  And it made me too sleepy to function.  I couldn’t afford for the behavioral unit to put me in that condition.  Who would look out for my best interests?  What if they drugged me and made me stay longer for being isolated and sleeping too much?  I needed my wits about me to survive this place and get home.  There was no way I could risk being turned into a Zombie, even though I really wanted to please my husband and have him take me home.  I wrestled with my conscience for a long while.  I told Wayne I would take the medicine, and I didn’t want to lie to him.  I loved him totally, but I felt this was a matter of survival.  I was scared of being locked up in here any longer.  I wanted to maintain my integrity and honesty, but I told myself this was self-preservation.  If I was convinced that he would fight for me, I could have allowed my guard down and submitted to the medication, but he was responsible for me being here.

So, I did what I had done the night before.  I had to continue the charade. I couldn’t admit otherwise and risk long term commitment.  The routine was the same as the night before.  They show you the packet, open the foil, put the pill in my mouth, I stick out my tongue and swallow.  I put mine under my tongue and spit it out in the toilet later, just like the night before.   (Ironically, since I’d been “taking the meds”, I needed to get “weaned” off them later when I was discharged. )

Just before lights out, I saw a night nurse. He was a black man with very cool dreadlocks. I wanted to confirm the time of the hearing the next day and asked him about the process.  I also wanted to know who else would be there. He gave me some information, which then went into the flow chart.

As I went to sleep, I felt so close to escape that I could taste it. I wasn’t so confident that I didn’t see things falling apart, but my focus was pretty narrow and near term.  I wasn’t thinking past the next day and next objective.  I assumed that the hearing would be challenging, but that I’d be able to go home and restart my life where I left off. But that was so naïve.

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.) 

²  “5250” refers to the California legal code (Welfare and Institutions Code – WIC, Division 5.  Community Mental Health Services. Involuntary Treatment. Article 4. Certification for Intensive Treatment.)

Photo by Ave Calvar on Unsplash

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