My First Psych Hold

My First Psych Hold

This post is not meant to diagnose, treat, or save you from mental illness, if you or someone you love is in danger, please get help. You can text HOME to 741741 to be connected with a crisis counselor. I personally have. You can also call or text 988 for suicide and crisis help.
http://www.cdc.gov/suicide/facts

*Trigger warning: this post is about my stay in a psychiatric hospital and may be hard for some readers to experience. Please use discretion.

NOTE: This post can stand alone, but makes more sense when read after “My First Break”.

The first time writing about my first break was hard. Some of it may not make sense to everyone, and I am sure that my friends and family have more to add to my story. I can’t imagine what I put them through the first time. To me, everything seemed to make sense and they were the ones who just didn’t understand. There was something inside of me that knew that someday they would: call it hope or intuition.

After I was placed on a mandatory psychiatric hold, my family told me that it wouldn’t be so bad. I am sure they were scared and skeptical, but they all seemed to be on board with me going. Although I was scared, I was still stuck in a mindset that everything around me was happening for a reason, that there was a greater good a play, and that somehow all would be revealed before too long. I thought that everyone around me that had ever died was with me. I thought that carrying this new baby must have a purpose or a reason that no one understood. Like maybe this baby was from heaven, outer space, or the deepest part of the oceans that we have no discovered. I thought I had all the answers, I was wrong.

The ambulance ride to the psych hospital was very scary, I don’t like to be in the back seat of a car to begin with, but strapped to a gurney was beyond nerve wracking. I remember though how gentle they were; it was two men who were taking me there and they were so calm and kind. The driver said that his name was Ryan, and that he would get me there safe and sound; I believed him. Ryan’s name sparked something inside of me: my fiancés Uncle, who was an amateur race car driver and who I trusted who heartedly, was named was Ryan. I began thinking that there must be some reason the universe sent him to me.

I slept for most of the ambulance ride, which was just under 3 hours long. I must’ve slept so long either from pure exhaustion, or because the hospital had given me another Ativan right before my departure. I remember arriving at the psych hospital and seeing a nice stone fountain, it was peaceful and I began to trust what my sister in law had told me: “I’m sure they have a garden or a courtyard for you to sit in and heal”. Boy was she wrong. After the ambulance drivers got me out of their bus, I was immediately ushered through the hospital and onto an elevator. I had a nurse that was escorting me but contrary to my normally outgoing personality, I did not talk to her at all. Upon arriving on the floor, I saw a large set of double locking doors. The nurse had to use her key card to get in. I knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to just merely cross back through them and leave. They were locking me on this floor, I started to get scared.

As soon as I made my way through the double doors, there was a very tall man with a sweet look on his face; I could tell he was a patient by his hospital scrub clothing. He wrung his hands together and said “HELLO! My name is Michael, can I have a hug?” I was very shocked but my nurturing personality took over. I could tell he was severely mentally handicapped; he sounded like a small child. I responded with “Hello Michael, yes you can have a hug”. The nurse gave a warm smile to me and the hug did help me take a deep breath and it settled some of my fears. It seemed this wouldn’t be as scary of a place as I had thought. Michael was the name of someone close to my fiancés family who had died, and my son bared it as his middle name because of it. The similarity in names made me feel comforted but shocked. How could there be so many similarities? I now know that it was my brain searching for any connection to comfort itself. Although, at the time I thought it was all for some greater purpose: that I didn’t belong there and that a greater power must have a plan for me in the making.

The nurse led me down a hallway with a nurses station in the middle surrounded by glass on all sides. There were two hallways forking out from there: one to the left and one to the right. Off of the hallways that made a circle around the nurses station, were patient rooms. I was lead to the right down past four or five rooms before I was shown into one that would be mine. It was a small room with a twin bed sitting on a solid raised platform. The mattress was a thick plastic covered foam. There was a small bathroom with a plastic covered foam door; much like the bed, just slimmer and long like a door. In the bathroom was a shower, a sink and a hole in the wall for the toilet paper roll. In this bathroom, the sink only ran for a few seconds from a button, and the shower also had a button that needed to be pushed every two minutes to keep it running. There was no bolts to the toilet seat and no toilet paper holder, just the whole I explained. I later learned that all of these were precautions to keep me and everyone else at the hospital safe. That some patients trying to take their own lives could drown themselves in the sink, cut themselves with toilet bolts, or use the shower for inappropriate sexual activities.

I remember sitting on the bed and my head was whirling. The nurse told me she would be right back and she returned up a green folder. The folder was a welcome packet for my stay. I sat on the bed in scrubs and hospital socks. I began to cry, the previous ER had recommended I give all of my jewelry to my fiancé; so the only thing that I wore as my own at that point was my underwear. I remember sobbing because I felt like I would never see my family again. Then my brain started lying to me: maybe I belonged here, maybe I had always been here and I was waking up from my life that was just a dream, maybe no one I loved really existed. I cried for around an hour, rocking myself back and forth. I was checked on every 20 minutes by a nurse and asked if they could get anything for me. All I could do was sob big uncontrollable shakes until I simply couldn’t cry anymore.

After I wiped my tears and took a few deep breaths, I opened the welcome packet. In it was a schedule of the days, the privacy policy, hippa forms, the hospitals welcome slip, and my patient rights. I skimmed through them looking for a way to get out of this place; there was none. I was told I was being held for 72 hours, not including the 24 hours I had already stayed at the previous hospital. Tears began to stream down my face. I had a little hope that I could do this: serve my time and get back to my family. They were real people right?

Another nurse came by and introduced herself, I can’t remember her name. She told me that the schedule was mandatory for my care and release and that I must do my best to make every group meeting. I read over the schedule and there were three different kinds of group per day. Including: creative, relaxing and therapeutic. Having never been to therapy before I knew that this was going to be interesting. But I still had not grasped why I was there.

The nurse then took me back down the hall and showed me around to the group room and craft rooms, near the double doors that I was brought in through. No one was in the group room she showed me, but there were tables I was told we would eat at, book shelves lining the one wall, and a tv that was turned off. She told me that I was free to take any of the books back to my room if I liked. She also told me I was allowed to walk the halls for exercise and that eight laps around the nurses station was one mile. She said they recommended exercise if I was able.

The nurse left me alone in the large group room. I noticed that everywhere, around the upper corners of the room, were cameras. I also noticed that there were cameras in the hallways and I felt like I was being watched. I knew that privacy laws prevented them from putting cameras in the bathrooms. None the less, I felt like my privacy was gone. I looked over to the two windows in the room and went to one to look out. This is when I noticed the bars on the windows. My mouth went dry. I placed both my hands on the windows and tried to look out as best I could. The only things I could see were more parts of the hospital. I felt trapped like a criminal. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I did not belong there. Or did I?

I started pacing around the room, briefly looking at titles to the books they had. The ones that jumped out to me were all the therapy and self help books. There were also books for every psychiatric condition I had ever heard of, and some I had not. My mind was reeling. I took to beginning to walk slowly around the halls, then faster and faster. I wanted very much to break out in a full out run, but my hospital etiquette fought against my urge. I began breathing harder and harder, faster and faster. A male nurse found me and asked me if I was alright, I was not really able to answer him through my heavy breathing and energy spent holding back all of my tears. He asked if I would like another Ativan and I nodded my head, hoping anything would help me feel better. I went back to my room and waited for him.

After I took the Ativan I did feel a little better, but exhaustion rolled through me. I laid down on the bed hoping to maybe get some sleep, all be it still day light. Although, I had no idea what time it was. I laid there for a while thinking about my one year old son, thinking about what he must be doing at that time and wondering if he was missing his momma as much as his momma was missing him. I felt like a terrible parent, having left him for bad behavior. I rubbed my stomach over and over, it had fluttered a little. Was I really not pregnant like the urinalysis at the ER said? Had I imagined all of the feelings I had? Were the doctors and nurses right? I hadn’t even thought of having them do a blood test. But urine didn’t lie right?

The nurse finally came to get me for dinner. Although the idea of food wasn’t very welcoming, I was starting to get hungry. When I walked into the hallway I began to see other patients emerging, including my neighbor who introduced herself as Sharon, another name that was near and dear to my heart. Her name gave me hope; she had a warm smile but a jittery disposition. It seemed to me that she was in there for a drug retaliated problem, but who was I to judge. Despite our different lifestyle choices, we were all in here together.

Everyone but two of the patients were extremely welcoming at dinner. Sharon and one other patient showed me where to get my tray from: a large metal trolley that wasn’t there before. I sat down and didn’t really eat, although I remember the food looking pretty good. I just kept thinking about my son and wishing I was feeding him his dinner. I knew he was being well taken care of, but my heart hurt not being with him. Being a stay at home mom, and a college student (although I had recently dropped out) my entire life was taking care of that little boy. I didn’t expect to get any sleep that night. I put my tray away with everyone else’s and headed back to my room.

The nurse later came and offered me a shower, I accepted. I thought maybe the hot water would soothe my aching heart and my sore body. Not sleeping for several days and pacing around a lot had taken its toll on me. The shower was weird, having to push the button for it to stay on every two minutes and I didn’t have any of the comforts of home. I had nothing but baby shampoo and a bar of soap; I did my best to clean my hair. The nurse had given me two small extremely rough towels to dry off with and another pair of scrubs to wear, this pair matching my peers. She had also given me a tooth brush, a small tube of tooth paste, and a basin to keep all my toiletries in. I brushed my teeth and climbed into the bed; at least the sheets were somewhat soft.

I stared at the ceiling with a terrible feeling in my stomach for hours. I missed home, my fiancé, my son and the life I had. How long was 72 hours? I pulled out the schedule from my green folder, I counted the days. I circled when I would leave and the groups I should attend. Then, somehow, I drifted off to sleep. I was woken up several times by the nurses rounding and doing their checks. I guess they really thought we were all at risk, maybe we were. I remember staring at the shadows on the ceiling thinking I would never take my own life, unless that is, they didn’t let me out of here ever again, then I might think about it.

In the morning at 7 am sharp my door was knocked on and a nurse told me it was time to get up. Although I checked the schedule and there wasn’t anything but breakfast for a few more hours. I sighed and started reading through all of the paperwork in my folder, I was hunting for a reason for my stay. I finally found it, on a sheet of paper was my “reason for admission” it stated simply that I was not a danger to myself or others, but that I had “failed to care for myself”. I guess my being so paranoid that I wouldn’t go to the bathroom, sleep or shower was enough for them to commit me. But I was better now wasn’t I? I had showered myself last night.

I went to the nurses station to ask if I could get out early. They all met me with a sad gaze, “No” one nurse explained, I would be released when my 72 hour hold was up, there wasn’t anything they could legally do about it. Which to me, meant there wasn’t anything I could do either. I sulked back to my room and the tears came again. This time it was all I could do not to wail. I cried giant tears that stung my face. My nurse for the day came around and introduced herself. She explained a little while I was here, what was expected of me behavior wise, and she asked how I was doing and how I was feeling. She said I would see the doctor soon, likely after breakfast.

Breakfast was actually good. Not only did the food taste good, but it was also a good way to kill some time before I saw the doctor. I was kind of dreading that. I talked to some of the other patients to see what I should expect. Most of them told me he would just ask several questions and make a decision about my treatment plan. What was I going to be treated for? Was there something wrong with me? Maybe they thought I was actually crazy. I was terrified.

After I finished eating I got a phone call: it was my mom. The nurses station told me it would be put through to a phone I hadn’t noticed on the wall in the hallway, near the double doors. The phone rang once and I answered it. On the other line was my mother with mixed feelings and emotions. “Are you doing okay?” her cracking voice asked. I could tell she was trying not to cry. “Yeah,” I said back just as broken “I am okay.” “Are they treating you good there?” She asked. “Yea mom they are nice here and the food is good. I am expected to go to a lot of group meetings while I am here. And I haven’t seen the doctor yet.” “Okay Bug, well just try to make the best of it okay? Learn what you can and participate as much as you can, it’ll be over before you know it.” “Have you heard anything about my little guy Mom? How is he doing?” I asked a little frantically. “He’s doing just fine honey, I talked to Roby today and he said he’s having fun with his parents.” I choked back a sob. “Okay Mom, I’ll do my best here, I gotta go though.” “Okay honey, your Dad and I are proud of you.” “Thanks Mom, I love you.” “Love you too honey, goodbye.” With that my first phone call to the outside world was over.

I went for a walk around the hallways surrounding the nurses station. It seemed pointless to just walk in circles, with no where to go, but I needed to calm down. I wanted out of this place so badly. As I was making my third trip around the circle, a nurse approached me. “Lauren, the doctor is ready to see you.” I followed her down one of the hallways through a door at the end of the patients hallway. It felt like maybe we were leaving that floor of the hospital, but alas, we were just going into a different hallway. There was a room to the right that appeared to be a waiting room of sorts. The room had two small sofas, and two chairs around the outside. I took a seat on one sofa as gestured by the nurse. “The doctor will be in soon.” The nurse said turning on her heals to leave me there. She locked the door behind her.

Sitting there waiting was terrible. I was so worried that I wouldn’t have the right answers to the questions I was about to be asked. I was worried I would say the wrong thing and that the doctor would demand I stay longer at the facility. After a few minutes, a middle aged man with powdered gray hair opened the door. He had a large clipboard with him and he addressed me as “Ms. Monday?” “Yes.” I answered. He asked me a few general questions about my birthday and what year it was. I answered everything correctly. He then asked me to tell him what happened that landed me here. (That story is in another blog post called “My First Break”).

At the end of my story he asked me how much marijuana I smoke, while staring at a piece of paper on his clipboard. I realized he had the toxicology report. I told him I had a prescription for it and that I smoke about one to two joints a day. He looked up at me as if to tell if I was lying or not. He then asked what other type of recreational drugs I use. “None!” I said shocked and awed. He tilted his head at me. “It says here you have a child and a fiancé?” “Yes sir.” I responded. “Well he said, is there a chance you smoked some laced marijuana?” He asked. “It says here that you lost continence and soiled yourself. Healthy women don’t just lose their continence out of no where.” I pondered all of the pot I had smoke recently. “Maybe.” I said. He looked at me as if he didn’t believe a thing I was saying. I felt like he was judging me for being some sort of drug addict. I had never done anything aside from pot, cigarettes, and alcohol. I thought I was a good girl.

He took a deep breath, “Does you fiancé smoke pot too?” “Yes.” I answered “we both have a prescription.” “Well prescription or not,” he lectured, “every child deserves at least one good parent.” Those words mad my breath catch in my chest. How dare he! I WAS a good mother, and my fiancé was a wonderful father. “I think you had a drug induced psychotic break. Well monitor you for the next few days. And as long as you stay as lucid as you are now, I’ll sign for you to go home after the 72 hour hold is up.” “Thank you” I said, “nothing has ever happened like this to me before.” “Do you still believe you are pregnant?” “No sir” I answered, if only to get him off of my back.

How dare he judge me for merely smoking pot. I wasn’t some sort of druggie. “Okay, well attend all the groups and follow the schedule you got in your welcome packet and you will be released soon. You may call your fiance from the patient phone, just ask the nurses station.” I nodded. “Is there anything else?” He asked. “Yes. It says in the schedule that there are visiting hours.” I stated. He looked down at his paperwork. “Actually, it appears that your fiancé has already asked about that and is on his way for visiting hours.” My heart leaped with joy. Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all. I just had to follow the schedule and I could get out of here and back to my family soon.

At group we all took turns talking about our feelings. We discussed how a some feelings can disguise themselves as other feelings. For example, sometimes we feel angry and lash out, when really we are feeling scared about something and anger is the only emotion in our toolbox. This was my first therapy session ever, apart from the odd encounter I just had with the doctor, that of which I wouldn’t count as therapy. I remember wanting to get the absolute most out of all the therapy I could before I left this place. I figured that I was lucky to have not been treated like a complete drug addict and turned away from this kind of help, as I am sure others had before me. I listened to everything the therapist told us, I even took notes on the hand out she had given us. It was all about how to identify your feelings.

I knew my feelings pretty well and felt pretty in touch with them too. I knew that I was sad to be away from my family and I knew that my grandmother was diagnosed with depression years ago (after losing a baby at birth). I knew what I was feeling was not at all similar to the depression I had heard about. What I really wanted to know was more about psychotic breaks, and why I’d had one. Surely pot couldn’t have caused all that had happened to me. However, I was too embarrassed to ask anyone about it.

After group it was time for visitors, I was so excited that my fiancé might be there. I almost couldn’t contain myself. Waiting was horrific. When I saw him on the outside of the double doors, waiting to come in, all of my fears about my life being just a dream vanished. He had a warm joyful, but worried look about him. The dark circles under his eyes said it all: he was really worried about me.

As my fiancé came in through the double doors my heart caught in my throat. It took every muscle I had in my body not to leap into his arms; I instead settled for a warm embrace. I could tell my the tightness in his chest he felt the same way as I did: scared. “How are you?” he asked urgently. “I am okay” I said, trying to be brave. “I know this is hard” he said. “Why don’t you show me around?” I took him on a tour around the nurses station and showed him my room. “I brought you some things” he said standing in the door way of my room.

I gestured for him to come sit on the bed next to me. I sat down and gently brushed by hair off my should on one side and behind my ear. “I brought you some new clothes, they have them for you. I think they have to inspect them first. They asked me if I wanted to leave my hoodie in the car or if I wanted to cut the strings off. I cut the strings off for you.” He took off his favorite Detroit Lions hoodie and put it on me. I took a deep long whiff of it. It smelled like home; tears welled up in my eyes. “I am scared” I told him. “I know you are baby. Everything will be alright, this place doesn’t seem so bad. You have your own room” he said, trying to make me feel better. I wrung my hands in my lap looking down at them. He tilted my chin up, “I love you Lauren, everything is okay. Make some friends like you always do and learn what you can while you are here. You’ll be home soon.” I sighed and told him all the doctor had told me.

“You are a great Mom baby, don’t let anyone change your mind about that” he assured me. “Okay” I told him, half believing him or my own abilities at that point. “I really thought I was pregnant” I confessed. “I know you did. And some day, we will have more kids, but for now, let just make sure you are okay first.” I nodded and agreed with him. He was right, I needed to get to the bottom of why I was feeling this way. I silently vowed to ask the nurses what they knew and to learn all I could while I was there. For a moment he and I just held our hands together in my lap. “How’s little guy?” I asked, perking up a little. “He is doing great honey. He is having a good time with my sister and my mom and dad. They are all taking turns taking care of him, and he’s gotten some time with his cousin’s too.” That made me feel better, something he didn’t have before my psychotic break. At least something good had come from all of this.

We spent the last few minutes talking about our son, Roby reassured me over and over that our one year old boy didn’t sense anything was amiss, however he did miss his momma. This past 48 hours was by far the longest I had ever been away from him and my heart ached terribly. Before I knew it, the voice came over the PA stating that visiting hours were over. I took another big sigh and stood up. Roby did too and we embraced each other again. “I’m going to miss you so much” I said. “I am staying at a hotel nearby until you’re released. I’ll be here each day for visiting hours too. I smiled with tears in my eyes, I was one lucky lady to have a man that cared so deeply. I knew in my heart we didn’t have the extra money, nor could he afford the time off work, but here he was doing it anyway, for me. I walked him out holding his hand very tightly. It was hard to let go, but I did and I stood there while he walked out of the double doors.

A nurse came to my side, “I have some of your belongings, would you like to come take a look?” she asked. “Yes thank you” I said, and we both turned around and went to the nurses station. There were a lot of things that were not allowed on the psych floor as far as clothing and personal items went. However, Roby had managed to get me three complete outfits, socks and underwear too. I felt so happy. I knew we couldn’t afford all this, but at that point, I was so happy to have some clothes instead of these baggy scrubs they had given me.

Once I got dressed in fresh clothes, I began feeling like myself again. I remember feeling whole and less like a sick person. It was good for my mood. We had dinner again and I knew the next two days would be pretty much the same as the last, I was right. Aside from not seeing the doctor again and getting some information on psychotic breaks from the nurses. I read a few books, not well, mostly I just skimmed them for information.

I began to chalk this whole episode up to being so tired and overly stressed that my brain had just shut down. No one mentioned to me that this could be an early sign of a mental illness. There was no talk or literature given to me about a diagnosis aside from “psychotic break” and I am pretty sure the doctor thought it was drug related, but what did he know? He was dead wrong if he thought psychedelics had led me here.

I did what Roby said and made some friends while I was in there; I made the best of it. I did the crafts that they had for us, listened to the instructors at group, and shared when it was my turn. I had come to terms with the fact that therapy could be helpful to me. However I conceited that medication wouldn’t be needed. Since the first day, I had not needed any additional medication to function or to sleep. Although I did still cry at night, missing my son.

Roby visited and supported me every day for visiting hours. He showed interest in what I had learned and always met me with a warm embrace. The day for me to leave came before I knew it. I remember that waiting for each meal to come was one of the things that had gotten me through each day. Eating was something that felt normal, and the food was really good too. The hospital had a menu that we were aloud to pick from for all three meals. The option part was a God send to me: being able to have choices made me feel in control a little.

The day finally came for me to go home. I was told Roby would be there soon and I was given bags to put my belongings in. I was more than happy to be leaving my chambers behind. I left the toiletries in their bin, happy that soon I would have my own conditioner again, along with deodorant too. For some reason, the nurses had inspected the deodorant Roby had brought me and denied to give it to me. I was ready for a real hot shower and to smell like myself again. More than anything I was excited to see my son again.

Roby appeared through the double doors on time as promised. He had to sign a paper stating that he was the one driving me home. The nurse gave me one piece of discharge paper to add to my folder, and I was finally let out the double doors that had kept me lock inside for three full days. I was so ready to feel outside again, to be free again, and to get back to my normal life again.

I was also told that I would have a follow up medical appointment and a follow up therapy appointment. I ended up never having that follow up for therapy, the appointment simply was never made on their end. I did however have a medical follow up at a clinic just a few short weeks later and what they found shocked everyone! I WAS in fact pregnant.

-A Manic Monday