Reflections

Beige walls, gray floors, and tired faces: were what greeted me as I entered the hospital. Since I tried to kill myself recently, I had to be checked on every twenty minutes. Naturally, I didn’t sleep well at all that night.

I woke up miserable the next day. My roommate hadn’t said a word to me yet. I thought about asking her why she was there, in a place that no one wants to be and that’s for those in acute mental anguish, but I withheld. In an instant, I was overwhelmed with my grief, depression, and self-loathing. I ended up getting transferred to a different unit eventually, but I still often wonder what became of her.  

I saw my doctor that first morning, and he told me I was depressed and anxious. Given how obvious those details were, I started to wonder how smart you have to be to become a psychiatrist. That was when the parade of pills started. I swallowed every one of them obediently, hoping like hell that they’d make me feel better, but of course, they didn’t.

In the common area, we watched Eddie Murphy movies and Tyler Perry’s Madea series. I had never hated movies before as much as I hated these movies then and still do now. All I wanted to do was just sleep away the time, but of course that wasn’t allowed; everyone had to be in the common area for safety. I was trapped in there for five days: five days of the worst food I’ve ever eaten, and five days without my beloved cat Willow.

Finally, discharge day came around. I wasn’t quite sure what life after being hospitalized would or should look like. I felt I should have had visible scarring, oozing wounds, or something to visually demonstrate the intensity of the experience and the trauma I carried with me. Instead, I was just perpetually anxious and exhausted. Sleep was the only relief I could find. My family would check in on me, drag me out of the house, and try whatever to make sure I’m okay. I didn’t understand why I bothered going to the hospital just to still feel this way. 

Within a month I wound up inpatient again. My psychiatric nurse practitioner had taken me off the Lexapro, which I had been on for years, straight-up cold turkey. I vomited regularly afterward, and the withdrawal of the medication led to Harm OCD, which then brought back the suicidal ideation. Packing a bag to go inpatient again felt like I failed, but it was relieving to know what I could bring and couldn’t bring.

The new hospital seemed a lot better. The food certainly was better. They wouldn’t give me any medication on my first day there because my doctor wouldn’t call in a verbal order. I didn’t sleep a wink. I didn’t know then, but this hospitalization would be different. I bonded with the staff, and they became my surrogate family while I was there. Nursing students spent half a day with us as part of their psychiatric rotation. The irony in this was that some of my best friends in college would spend time with psychiatric patients during their studies. Now I had become the person being observed.

When I say this hospital is better, I truly mean that it was my leaps and bounds. I could eat good food like salads and watch Disney movies. The beds still sucked, but I started to feel a bit better regardless. Discharge day still terrifies me, though. I told my doctor I wasn’t ready to go home, and he scolded me for asking to stay as it would have made him look bad. He asked why I changed my mind from the day before. You would think that a psychiatrist at a mental health hospital would’ve understood that patients at these kinds of establishments aren’t known for good decision-making. 

Reemerging from the hospital felt very strange once more. When most people get discharged from the hospital, there are visible signs that they’ve gone through trauma: Scars, wounds, bruising where an IV has been placed et cetera. I had none of that. I just had an aching and sick brain that no one could see.

For a long time, I thought my experience was less traumatic and less valid since the wounds weren’t on display for all to witness. Now I know it was just as difficult as any other medical crisis. I know I survived what a lot of people don’t, and I’m very grateful. The experiences I had in the hospital were things I thought I would relive for many years of my life. Over four years out from my last hospitalization now, I know too well I have the tools to not return. It’s a part of my past, not a part of my present or my future.