August 2021

So, last post I mentioned that I was heading to the hospital, terrified and full of dread. I’d made up in my mind and announced to James that if this didn’t work, I was giving up and that I would officially be killing myself. If the hospital couldn’t help me, nothing could.

We arrived at the hospital bright and early in the morning. Set on a beautiful campus, it felt completely surreal that life had taken me here. We entered the waiting room where I filled out paperwork and awaited an intake assessment. I met with a psychiatric nurse practitioner who did an assessment of my diagnosis and determined my level of suicidal threat. She explained the next steps, including the limits to voluntary discharge even in a voluntary hold situation.

I barely registered any of it and signed my life away. I was taken upstairs where I was separated from James briefly. I was asked to strip down from the waist up and was inspected by nursing staff; then I was asked to strip down from the waist down and was again searched. Not invasively, mind you; the way some of my hospital mates later spoke, you’d think it was the worst thing you could experience, but really it was just a little embarrassing.

While I was searched, my bag was also searched. Several items were removed, including all toiletries. I later came to find that toiletries were allowed for short increments of time, I believe 20-minutes, when you took your daily shower. I was considered a lower threat, so I was even allowed my razor blade for those short periods.

I was reunited briefly with James; we said our goodbyes and I began my stay in the hospital.

My hospital room was bare except a twin-size bed with one sheet and one blanket, a small book shelf to function as a dresser, and then a private bathroom. The rules were explained to me: two telephones were available to patients which could be accessed between certain times in the day, and were turned off when counseling groups were running. We were only allowed pencils under supervision in group, otherwise we just used markers, and had access to a few books and some puzzles. In the words of Say Anything’s Church Channel, “They let us play with markers, but I keep trying to draw infinity…” I had no phone, no kindle, no tablet, no access to any technology. The television was pretty much determined by whomever got there first, and, frankly, most of us had no interest in watching television.

I soon learned how boring it could be with just a book at your disposal, and I called James asking for a notebook and a few more books. Seeing as half the reason I wanted to commit suicide was for financial reasons, bringing Crazy Rich Asians to read was kind of a bad call on my part. James brought me Good Omens which was far more entertaining and distracting.

I ended up doing a lot of journaling while in the hospital. It was cathartic. (And here I am now writing a blog post for the same reason.)

There were several benefits for me going to the hospital. First, I was able to quickly and under close supervision adjust my medication. After leaving the hospital I still needed to tweak it, but I got back on track much more quickly than I otherwise would have. Second, I met several people like me. People with bipolar, people who had dug themselves into a financial pit. Finally, the break from technology was amazing. The only people I spoke with were my mom and James by phone daily, and then I had visits from James every other day, and one visit each from my mom, my sisters, and my dad. Otherwise, I was mostly on my own. You’d think being socially isolated would cause me more distress, especially since connection to others is such a big part of battling depression, but it was actually a major stress relief. 

While in the hospital, I met a lot of different people. As I said, some were bipolar and we had a lot in common, though most were much older than I was. One person was dealing with high levels of anxiety and just wanted to get their meds under control. Another person had Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and seemed to have trouble getting too close to any of us. We all exchanged phone numbers and were released within days of each other. For a short time three of us kept in touch, but the relationships soon faded out. Still, I will never forget them and what they did for me.

Others shared with me that they’d been hospitalized before and that their experiences were much worse. One described a hospital where there was no counseling or groups and the day passed in complete monotony. In my hospital, I met with a clinical social worker each day to give an update, along with my team of psychiatrist and nurse – at separate times. Groups at the hospital were in the style of DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) which I found extremely helpful. I remember one session on Behavioral Activation (taking one small step increases the likelihood of taking more steps with increasing difficulty). I remember one session where we were celebrating a large group of releases so I was convinced to sing for the group (I chose Misery Business by Paramore), and we all took turns singing our favorite songs.

I was told I would be in the hospital a minimum of 3-4 days depending on my progress. A voluntary release required a 24-hour hold and was strongly discouraged. I ended up being in the hospital for 7-days. Seem long? Some of my hospital mates had been in there for months. When I left the hospital, they connected me with a psychiatrist for follow-up, who I have remained with. I am currently looking for more intensive therapy than I am currently receiving, but have continued in therapy since leaving the hospital.

The hospital changed my life and really made a difference. It’s less scary to think about going back now that I’ve been. I hope reading about it might help one of you who is afraid to go to the hospital like I was.