It is not always easy for people without mental illness to understand it, but most people know what it feels like to be extremely sad, and everyone experiences moments of irrationality and delusional thinking. Irrational thinking is not a mental illness by itself, because it is so normal. A mental illness is when something is happening in your brain that causes your mood to be unstable enough and your thoughts irrational enough on a consistent basis that it interferes with your life. People with mental illnesses may often be seen by dramatic films as violent, highly delusional stereotypes, but most mental patients are completely normal people who just happen to have an illness. In my case, it was a severe depressive episode.
A family member had been sexually assaulted. It was the first and only time I had felt a literally murderous rage shake my body, and I understood that "seeing red" is actually a pretty much literal phrase. I had always been afraid that I would be raped, and I had of course feared for other family members, but it still felt like something impossible had happened, like a monster I had dreamed of had walked out of my nightmares and was lurking in my every shadow. Watching her go through the pain of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - crying, screaming, grabbing for a knife to cut herself with right in front of us while I wrestled it out of her hands, not wanting to be touched by anyone for any reason, always needing a light on and not wanting to sleep on a pillow because her rapist had used one to try to suffocate her while she was intoxicated and helpless but trying to struggle and scream, knowing how her body had been damaged as she went to doctors to get medical treatment, watching people in her life blame, shame, and deny her as they continued to hang out with a rapist whose ex-girlfriend was also terrified of him, the entire family going to court to get a restraining order because we were unable to get criminal charges filed because she did not at first think a man holding her down, hitting, choking, and suffocating her was really a rape.... the experience was not only traumatizing for the direct victim, it hurt our entire family, and the person who did that is still free today, because of how our society mistreats rape victims.
At the exact same time, I had just lost my independence and my home due to my work hours being cut back and difficulties finding a second job.
But it wasn't just those things. Something chemical was happening inside me, in my brain, that caused a Depressive Episode.
I have been poor and struggling my entire adult life, and I had for the most part been perfectly happy that way. There is a difference between depression and regular stress or feeling "bummed out" or ennui. When I am not having a depressive episode, something terrible like a family death can occur, every day stresses of poverty like barely having enough money for groceries can wear on me, but I do not hit the depths of sadness - barely able and totally unwilling to summon energy to do basic things like clean my room, obsessive self-hatred, paranoid thoughts that long time loyal friends secretly hated me, little ability to find even a few moments of joy in my life.
Depression runs in my family. More than one family member has "successfully" committed suicide, and many of us have tried, or at least become obsessed with the idea. So when I became so obsessed that the part of me that still wanted to live and still was sane enough to want to protect my family from the pain of losing someone in what I knew damn well was the most terrible way to lose someone, I turned myself in to a mental hospital because I believed it was where I needed to be to recover and keep myself safe.... from myself. Because part of me was still sane enough to know I could be happy again, and I desperately wanted to be happy again (and now I am!). After all, when it really comes down to it, the idea of living your life in misery so other people can be happy (to have a miserable loved one in their life rather than losing that loved one) is a terrible proposition. A suicidal person can be persuaded to endure a painful life for their family, but it is far better to be able to know that you will not always have to endure constant pain - and the intense sadness of depression is very painful.
When I went to get help, I thought the hospital would be like the other hospitals I had been in, back when I was still on the family insurance. Strict, constant monitoring by guards who kept us safe. Really good food, better than I ever ate on the Outside, food that I could just feel repairing my weakened body and brain with serious Nutrition; boiled eggs, fresh burgers, crisp broccolis, a different feast every day that we were able to choose for ourselves. Consistant groups and classes. Sure, there were downsides, too, it wasn't a paradise - only compared to Madden.
I was in the ravine in the woods sobbing. Trying to gather the courage to slit my wrist. After a long time I realized I really couldn't do it. I called my sister. She sang Monty Python's "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" to me over the phone. I laughed, not because she didn't know the second verse began, "Always Look on the Bright Side of Death", but because she really did remind me why I really wanted to live. For her. and not just for her. For all of us. For me too.
My mom called the cops and then called them off when I came up muddy from the woods, ditching my blade in a hollow tree where it must be rusting now. I was wearing three day old clothes with no underwear and I probably hadn't showered in a while so I surely reeked. I had cuts on my arm from trying to work up the nerve to slash the big one. I hid the sleeping pills and aspirin I had brough to take as a back up because pills are expensive; my mom found them later and got rid of them. We went to County hospital ER. I was nearly catatonic. I remember the nurse snapping her fingers in my face and saying "hello!" because I couldn't or wouldn't answer questions, like where I got that big cut. I always think it's stupid when they try to bandage me up after I cut myself, like they're taking care of a wound when I don't deserve or need it, when I'm in that state. My mother stayed with me until I asked her to leave because in wanting to fix me, somehow, she was just stressing me out, not that she wasn't doing her best from a place of love.
I was visited by a few doctors and counselors. One man I remember in particular because he talked to me about transgender issues and how he works with trans youth. He had a very realistic attitutude about things like drugs and medication - most counselors in these places will take a very Just Say No hard line, but he acknowledged that something like marjuana might vary in efficacy from user to user. I trust people like that much more than the Just Say No, Not Even Once crowd.
I was put in a room with two Latina ladies. The tiny elderly woman wanted to watch Telenovelas and I was happy to oblige. I practiced my Spanish talking with her. The younger one got sick of the TNs and we made a compromise. We were all in there overnight, almost 24 hours. The nurse got really angry at one of the women for vomiting at one point, but she was old and sick and couldn't help it and had been trying to tell them, I was angry at the nurse for being like that in front of the patients. In the middle of the night a man who only spoke Spanish was brought in in restraints, with a cop guarding him, and was screaming. The guards were saying he was a drunk who abused his wife and daughters. I heard them talk to each other about how to tell him things like calm the fuck down, so I taught them a few words in my pigeon Spanish. I felt good, useful. I felt like being in the hospital would be good for me.
I was transferred to Madden. The regulations are that I had to be restrained in a bed, I had to wear a paper gown. It makes you feel like less of a person, like an animal. The young man who sat with me in the back of the van was very nice. It was comforting.
When I got to the facility, I went through the usual routine - surrendering my dirty clothes and wallet and phone and whatever else I had on me, answering a bunch of questions that I had already answered to someone else. I knew right away that this facility would be awful. The younger Latina who had been at the ER had been so nervous about the hospital had been so worried, I had comforted her, and one of my major selling points was the food. All we got here, after over half a day without food or shower or real rest, was a burnt bowl of oat meal. I could picture her face and I felt like I had betrayed her, The bathroom was worse than at a Public Chicago High School in the 'hood. The guard treated me like I had personally done a series of terrible things to her and was now being imprisoned instead of someone who was suicidal and had turned myself in to get help and had just arrived. Then I was transferred to my ward.
As they processed me a guard made a joke about how I cut myself, like it was funny or cool or criminal when to me it was sick and painful and shameful. I was so angry at her for that moment of being so unprofessional.
When I got there, I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was in a psych ward. When I am in a deep depressive state, I am afraid of all people and try to hide as much as possible; I get massive anxiety about things like people looking at me, large crowds, and using the phone. So I stayed in bed. I slept for a long time, then slept some more. I finally had to come out for meals and slowly began engaging and socalizing. I wanted to get better.
There was one advantage at Madden over other facilities that I want to mention before I really trash the place, because it really wasn't all bad, and there's one very strong reason why, and that is (most of) the people, especially the women (but there were certain men in particular who will always have a place in my heart too). In other facilities, the psychologists were elite and unreachable, and a lot of the staff had an elitist attitude like they couldn't really understand our struggles. The staff at Madden had a few Rotten Assholes, but there were a lot of people there who were working really hard, for very little money, as a labor of love. I was able to see my counselor by my own request after a few days, whereas in richer-people hospitals you got one, maybe two, visits on your way out the door. I was able to talk to a lot of people about my issues. They couldn't necessarily do anything about it, but they listened, they really cared, and they really felt me. There was the lady who played Scrabble and the Deaf man who gave a quiet strength and a big heart to our recreation, and the social workers who knew most of us had been abused and taught us not to blame ourselves.... there were a lot of good people holding up that shitty roof. And they were honest. They knew the food was bad, they knew it wasn't the best place to work. They put up with a lot of abuse from the patients and (except for the Rotten Assholes) were remarkably patient and understanding. The staff are not the main problem at that place. The main problem is the main problem the poor always have - no money. And yes, getting screwed by a system that doesn't care about the poor and sick.
Next installment, I will talk more about what happened when the shit really started to hit the fan - about why a hardcore Atheist found zirself leading Bible studies, whether or not I actually killed a "wealthy" bitch over some coloring book pages, just what kind of drugs you can get when you throw a tantrum there, what a panic attack feels like, the war veteran who thought I was his cheating ex-girlfriend when I was actually a mental patient asking him to intervene agaisnt sexual harassment, the girl who couldn't remember her name or how to deal with her period, and more. Stay tuned.
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