I spent 12 days in a psych ward. There I said it. Now you can see that I’m wearing a scarlet letter. I have many stories from my time spent here, what got me to this place, how it felt afterwards. The truth is I have a great mistrust for doctors, and it didn’t just stem from my stay. I’ve been failed by them throughout the years. Even by the one in my family.
I suppose let me start by saying my stay was so long not because I was suicidal or I wasn’t coming down. I was very well aware of my surroundings, I even tried to escape. The reason my stay was so long was because it started on Christmas Eve. So there weren’t really any doctors to see, in fact I only saw one twice. Once when I first got there. They told me I was too emotional to leave. So I remember looking out the window, taking a deep breath, and realizing what I had to do to get out of this. Act. The thing is I knew what happened to me was something they would never be able to diagnose in a week. Who has the time? The amount of trauma I had experienced lasted a lifetime. It was something I had to piece together, and the reason my brain was melting down was because I was finally releasing it after 33 years. So they medicated me, heavily. And at first I said no. But I was told that was the only way I’d be able to leave, so I didn’t even question what they were giving to me. I didn’t have a choice. I was in a prison, but not because I committed a crime. I was in prison because of my mind.
And you might be asking yourself, well why did you go to the hospital in the first place? Well, I knew something was wrong. I knew I needed help. I was scared. I never ask for help, ever. I have my son full time and have forever, but I asked his dad to watch him so I could go to the hospital. I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t understand what getting help would be like. I didn’t understand it meant giving up my rights. That it meant having to ask permission to shower. Ask permission to use the phone. Not having any belongings. Not being allowed to have your clothes. A bra. Yours shoes. A hair tie. Makeup. Really nothing at all.
While I stayed in this co-ed wing one of the male patients licked my neck during music therapy. One threatened my life because I wouldn’t sit next to them during snack time. I would play spades with the other inmates. We even made a library gang. I would write poetry on the small squares of paper with the pencils they would provide to pass the time. One of the male nurses even started to take interest, even stopped to talk longer than they should while they were making rounds. This excitement was what got me through my stint. They were the last person I briefly dated when I got out.
So thats the mental health treatment I received in a nutshell. Sounds like I went to jail, doesn’t it? The second time I saw the doctor was on the last day I was there. They said, “Bipolar 1. That’s your diagnosis. And you’re really smart, you know that”? I laughed. “You’re the doctor, so I think you’re the smart one”, I said. I was just happy to get out. I didnt care what they said I had, I just wanted to be home.
What I didn’t realize was how much this misdiagnosis would effect my life. How the sentence extended for six months after my release, since I was still in a prison in my mind. Stuck on the wrong medication, for a disease I didnt have, I had to work up the courage to wean off with the permission of my psychiatrist. And so, six months after my release, in June 2021, I was finally medication free. This is when my healing journey could finally begin. But I was doing it with myself, not with the help of anyone in the medical field. No offense.
The Girl Without A Face 