I am delusional, psychotic, and I fall into psychotic breakdowns. I have had trouble with this since I was a child, and it's only become more complex as I grew up. About a week ago, I was finally checked into a mental institution. It was the worst fucking experience of my life, and I wrote about it briefly in my journal. It isn't very detailed, just my observances, and how I felt. But I need to tell somebody, because no one else fucking cares. I don't have anyone who gives a shit.
I am a Daycare teacher, studying to be a Kindergarten teacher, so this explains the part where I am talking about how I felt how I was being treated.
I was in a mental institution.
I would rather not go into it too deeply. It's still very fresh, and it was, by all comparisons, the worst experience of my life. But I am back now, and I feel as if I am collected enough now to think about everything that has happened.
It started when I went to Counseling Services to see Keith, my LPC. I went with the intention of informing him that I had been rejected by the place he had referred me to, for whatever reason, but while I was there, I felt myself beginning to slip away, the way I feel when I have to rush to my shower to be alone, and concentrate on the rushing water and the gray, square tiles. But this was hard. Very hard. I was literally thrown into a psychotic breakdown, and for one thing, it felt like my head was physically splitting open. I usually get extremely bad headaches when I have a delusional or psychotic episode, but this time, it had felt like I had dunked my entire head in a bucket of ice water. I don't remember much of what happened, but all I remember is a few hazy spots of my sobbing, yelling, hitting things, seizing, and then overwhelmingly powerful thoughts of tackling him to the floor, tearing off his clothes, and fucking him right there. All I can remember is that he made a few calls, and gave me some information for a hospital, and offered to have someone take me there. By the end, he had calmed me down and pulled me back enough to where I was still fairly delusional, but I wasn't psychotic, so I told him I could take myself. I call Amber, who is completely shocked and upset and I feel guilty to the edge of my fucking soul for putting her through this yet again, I try to call my mom, but no answer, and then Keith calls my boss and lets them know I'll be in the hospital for about 3 days, and won't be able to come in for work. Also, I missed my class.
I was able to make it home and pack a few things, and I use Keith's directions to get to the hospital. I was still only about 40% stabilized, so it's all just one big blur, and I really have no idea how I made it there safely, to be perfectly honest. But I made it, and they took it from there.
I remember I did a fucking hell of a lot of sitting. And moving. They moved me to a few different rooms, and I can remember talking to a nurse who asked me a bunch of probing, "how do you feel/family history" type questions, then some guy came and took a picture of me, then I met my new psychiatrist for the first time, then I had to check everything that wasn't clothes or something soft, like hair-ties, in to the security guard for the safe, which I would receive when I left. I had to take out my earrings, necklaces, bracelets, clips, every girly thing I had on, which made my hair and dress and manner look as if I was actually a psychopath. I remember being extremely tired, and the nurses constantly reassured me and calmed me down every time I started to cry or yell or hit something, or my Tourette's got to be too violent, or curse at them. And then, after about 3 hours of meeting all these strangers, checking things in, and being moved around, I finally was taken upstairs, to the mental ward.
From what all I can actually remember of those first 35 minutes up there, they were probably the worst I will ever live in my entire life. I was still having delusions, hearing and seeing things, and my facial ticks became increasingly worse every time I stopped trying to contain my thoughts, and I just had a sudden drop of my hope or sense of self-worth: everything about my life, the way I lived it, who I was, every single thing fell off of a fucking cliff when I walked into that room with the other patients. The other fucking mentally unstable people. I saw a reflection of myself in their hazy, insane eyes. In their fucking nonsensical, delusional babble. In their uninhibited yelling. I wanted to kill myself, for certain, I knew for sure that I wanted to die, all through that walk from the locked double-doors, to the seat they sat me in while they processed me, took my last few things, and set up my single bedroom. If there was a gun or a knife there, I would not be here right now. It still makes me fucking shudder to think about this. Even though I am out of there, I was still at that place, that single room, I was still crazy enough to be there. I was one of them. I still am. I have never felt so low in my life. I still feel this way, right now, right this moment. A part of me still wants to die. But I am okay now. I am.
The first and only real thing I noticed consciously, and in my own right mind, was a woman who was staring at my red and white striped stockings (I was dressed as a girl). Her face will forever be burned in my mind. She stared at me with an inquisitive, and yet still very hollow expression. She was one of the most beautiful, heart-achingly radiant women I have ever laid eyes on in my entire life. I just was truly shocked by how much she did not seem to fit in there. And then I realized it, I saw it: she had the mentally capacity of a 2 year old. Aside from some body movement (which was very slow and choppy in itself), and speech (which was simple, and also very slow), she was a baby. I think the most depressing, crushing thing I have ever seen was watching this nurse feed her about 3 little cartons of milk, "pushing fluids". She sat frozen in one position (she had a way of sitting where her limbs stuck out in the air slightly in front of her), with her neck craned up toward the milk, and the only real movement she made was her throat as she swallowed. Here she was, a woman so fucking glowing with beauty and a young, elegant radiance, of maybe 27, spilling milk all over herself, which was being fed to her by a nurse who was younger than she was. God, I am beginning to cry again. I need to stop thinking of this. She'll never leave my mind. Never.
I sat in my chair, ticking, seizing, talking to myself, from what I can remember I was still crying and occasionally making loud noises or cocking my face at the air as if someone had just told me something really offensive, and every now and then, a nurse would come by me and talk to me like a fucking 5 year old, and get me to calm down, and make the other patients who would sometimes come over to me and try to ask me something, or ask me if I was okay, go away or sit back down. I remember that my head and neck hurt a fucking lot because my facial ticks kept getting worse, to where it really physically hurt to turn my head up or down, or open my mouth, after a few hours of this. A girl that I had "made friends" with while I was there had told me that it looked like I was shaking or shivering. A lot of of the patients stared at me because I was dressed as a girl, and my hair was so puffed up, wild, and tangled, I had probably looked weird beyond words. This one big black guy kept picking on me, and making fun of me, but that was about as far as it went. There were so many nurses there, that there was always someone to break people away from each other, if something were about to happen. An older patient had told me as he passed by (I must have looked completely insane, a twitching, yelling, crying, paranoid, hallucinating fucking Drag Queen), that it would be okay, and that the nurses here were really good, and it wasn't such a bad place. I honestly don't remember much more than a blur of colors coming up to me, and somehow I was able to answer their nonsensical, random jargon.
Near the end of my orientation business, before I was finally "let go" in the ward on my own, I was taken to a bathroom, where I was told very calmly by this very understanding nurse that I would have to strip under a gown, because they had to check me for bruises, scars, signs of cutting or self-injury, that kind of thing. He was one of the nicest and most understanding people I have ever met or had the privilege to talk with in my life, and he really went out of his way to make my stay easier, and make people leave me alone and not set me off with any psychosis triggers. So, he understood when I started to cry and curl up on the floor, covering myself up, saying "no, no, no, no" over and over. I was wearing girl clothes, and shaved everywhere, and from what I can remember, I felt humiliated, and like I was being raped. On top of the fact that I had not expected to be strip-searched in the slightest. They ended up getting me to take off my clothes and put on a gown, and they checked my body. I thought it was okay, until they had me take off my fucking Carebear panties, and then lift up my gown. I started to cry my eyes out when I looked at these two 6 foot tall, muscular nurses staring at my naked, frail little frame, right at my penis, the inside of my thighs, my hips, my ass. God, the only thing I can remember was that I felt like cutting myself wide open and bleeding out right there on the floor, dying slowly and bloody so I can feel physically what I felt emotionally and mentally right then. They watch me put my clothes back on, and then it was finally over. I was let go. I felt relieved, but I even as I felt myself getting a grip back onto my reality, I still felt hollow, empty, just a hazy shell who had been violated in so many ways. I did not feel like I deserved to be living or breathing oxygen anymore. If the building had crumbled down on top of me in some freak accident or from an earthquake, it would have been the happiest day of my life.
From what I can remember, I was increasingly pissed off by how impartially I was treated and talked to by the nurses, as they cracked jokes with each other, just like they were in a regular 9-5 job. Even though it was for them, and I realized that they most likely did have to emotionally separate themselves to some extent, otherwise they would feel exactly how we all felt there. But it still struck a nerve with me, once I was in my fairly right mind, after they had give me my anti-psychotics and I was able to calm down, that I was being talked to and treated as I treat my 6 year old students. I suddenly felt very offended, even moreso than when I was standing in front of those nurses, naked. Anything I asked for, even simple questions, I was brushed off, I was treated with impartiality. I was treated like a mentally insane patient in a mental ward at a mental fucking hospital. It dawned on me hard. I felt so fucking dead. My eyes just went dead cold, lifeless.
I saw patients coloring. Coloring. Fucking Disney, Mickey Mouse type pictures. They were coloring, grown adults. God, they were so absorbed into their fucking coloring. Amber later told me that it is therapeutic, and maybe it is, but she, or anyone else, cannot understand or fully comprehend the personal shame, the humiliation, and the fucking depression I felt after watching these people for a as long as I did. Just watching them. I felt more depressed and just downright sad than I ever have in my life.
That is all there was to do, watch. Aside from a small TV, there was nothing to do, and the ward was one main room, which was the size of, and looked, like a waiting room, and every other area, aside from your own bedroom, which featured a bed with one thermal blanket, one pillow, and a bathroom with a toilet, shower, and no soap without request (since it's toxic), was completely off limits. I sat in a fucking chair at one point for a fucking hour, watching the nurses, patients, occasionally glancing at the TV, just there, sitting, doing nothing else. I refused to color. And I refused to eat or drink anything. Had I stayed longer, the nurses would have had to sedate me and feed me intraveneously, because, aside from the fact that I was still delirious and physically ill, I refused to fucking come to "snack time" or wait in line to receive my dinner like my fucking 6 year olds. I would have starved to death before I degraded myself this way. The nurses were concerned with me, and constantly kept asking me questions, because of this, but I never really answered or spoke to any of them, or anyone for that matter. I stared at my feet and just did my best to control my ticks, and keep my hallucinations down. I looked out of the thick, heavily bolted down hospital window, down at the cars driving by, toward the highway where the rain was falling the heaviest, then my eyes fell to the double-doors which were bolted shut from our side, and I turned and looked at Kevin, the schizophrenic, the beautiful young 2 year old, a Japanese woman who walked back and forth endlessly, to a black woman named Bridget who never shut the fuck up, and yelled on about nothing, and I just put my head in my palms and sobbed. Everyone left me alone because this was, honestly, not surprising to any of them. Everyone was crazy. And I was one of them. I just cried, this little pansy, tranny girl, with his shaved legs, wild fucking hair, and frail, broken body. I just cried, loud and completely uncaring. I couldn't stop. There was nothing else to do. I was not about to fucking watch people any more.
I'm done writing this. This is getting to be too much for me. Everything else was a blur. Mom came to see me, which was humiliating, I laid on my bed, but other than this, what else was there to do? I avoided everyone. I wasn't even given my skirts I had packed to wear, because the nurse had said that it was tantamount to a patient wearing a beer T-shirt who was in being rehabilitated for alcohol abuse. I did not really understand this, but this was the nice, understanding nurse, and if anything, I knew that he really was just looking out for me. Basically, his reasoning was that he just did not want anyone to make any trouble with me, or try to hurt me, or really, for me to hurt anyone else, because they knew that in physical altercations, I tend to lose my mind and tear the person apart in a crazy rage. I was so fucking sad. My girl jeans weren't enough for me. I wanted the only two things I thought would make me feel better while I was there. I wanted my fucking dresses. They had taken all of my makeup, clips, earrings, everything. I only had two hair-ties to tie get my hair out of my face. I had only talked to a couple of girls who were there. And that's only because they asked me to come sit with them. Everything else, I just don't really remember. I just remember how it felt, and it was the worst, most hazy fucking experience of my life. I just know that looking back on this, I realize who I am and what I'm actually worth. And it isn't much. Yeah, I can write poetically. I can sing. I can play the piano. But what else is there? I am no better than Kevin, who never wore any clothes aside from his dirty ass hospital gown, who was always confused, never lucid, took a nurses drink and had to be sent away to his room like a fucking child, and at one point, grabbed the double-door handles and shook them hard, trying to open them, and had to be taken down to his room by a nurse, with security. I really am no better. I have my lucid, nice moments. But I'm just a fucking psychopath. Alex was right. God, she's right. I wish she had not said what she said to me, because it hits me right to my core to realize that she is right, as mean as she was being to me that time. I'm completely without hope. What is there for me? What kind of life is this? What am I even fucking doing here?