Content Warning: This article discusses self-harm, suicidal thoughts and mental health in detail. It contains sensitive material that might be triggering.
Well, I am not here to talk about everything that has happened in my life. The most significant part of my life I would say would be, my trips — yes, trips, with an “s” — to mental hospitals. My four trips to the hospital have definitely changed my life forever and have also changed my point of view on behavioral and mental health hospitals.
10:45. I slit my wrists 45 times with a razor, and I gulped down pills that totaled 2,000 mg worth of Xanax. Next thing I knew, I became light headed and passed out. All I remember after that was seeing the time on the clock in my foster mother’s car. At 11:13 p.m. on the cold and grimy night of December 21, 2015, I hear the tires splashing the freezing, wet pavement as my foster mom rushes me to the mental hospital. My arms, covered in blood, seeing it dripping on the light gray colored seats, stung as the A/C blew softly on it. Next thing I knew I passed out again. I finally admitted myself to the mental hospital after tearfully explaining to too many professionals in the intake room of Millwood that I was severely suicidal. Doctors, of course, made the ultimate decision to admit me. Not surprisingly, I was in pretty bad shape so every little thing seemed like a huge ordeal. Once the intake was over, I was finally shown my room at approximately 4:30 a.m. I came into a room with a snoring roommate close to the window.
The next day a general doctor came by to assess my overall health. Basic blood tests were run, my blood pressure was checked, that sort of thing. And then my psychiatrist (who worked at the hospital) came by. He promptly diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder Severe with Psychosis, Bipolar, PTSD, Schizophrenia and General Anxiety Disorder and gave me six different types of medications in the morning and eight at night I had to take the pill form of lithium, a famous song by Nirvana too.
The idea of staying in a mental hospital can be scary, but what is it really like to stay in a mental hospital? Horror…being on my own, surrounded with people I really didn’t know. School days seemed long, but mental hospitals days were, trust me, very long. In order to make it seem like the days were shorter, I had to make friends, work through group and activity therapies and become more determined into getting better.
All in all, it was really unpleasant. But then, I was so depressed and so suicidal, I can’t imagine anything being anything but unpleasant. I cried and slept my way through 25 days there until my doctor and I thought I was okay to go home. When I admitted myself I never thought I would stay that long. I thought they would keep me from killing myself for a couple of days and that would be it. But, instead, my doctor did want to see an improvement of some sort before I left.
I learned the process of change. In order for me to get better, I had to realize that I am sick. Sick in the head. Then I needed to be determined to change, maintain my slow process of change. And then, relapse or not. I went in and out of the hospital over the course of four months. The last process I needed to complete was Intensive Outpatient, where I go to a hospital called Sundance from 9 a.m. to 3 a.m. The two weeks I went there included me going to therapy for three hours, school and lunch for two hours and recreational therapy for an hour. It was the best two weeks of my life.
Why the best, you say? I realized that all I have got is myself. I can’t control my sickness, but I can control if I want to be happy or not. Not fully 100 percent but close to that number… hopefully. I am definitely better than I was four months ago. But the biggest change that I have found within myself is that I am proud of who I am, and who I have become in four months. I became more optimistic because I realized what I can do in four months, now I can finally see what I can do in years.
