Let me start by saying I had my reservations about admitting I was even in a psychiatric hospital, much less sharing a detailed story about it. I’m not sure what I’ll end up doing after I graduate, but I can’t shake the feeling that talking about my experience, even though it was short-term, I was a high schooler, and it was for something as common as depression, may come back to haunt me in whatever I pursue. But I also know I can’t preach for the destigmatization of mental illness while hiding my own story out of shame:
The only reason you need to know for my being admitted was that my junior year of high school was the eighth circle of Hell, or at least my serotonin levels thought so. I was fortunate to have checked in at the time I did because I landed in a tame little group with others my age. I stayed for two weeks, which was a longer than most, so I saw my initial friend group leave one by one: a senior in high school with depression, a junior with anxiety and anorexia, a freshman or sophomore who had run away from her foster home, a freshman who had a brief psychotic break. Once they gradually cycled out, the people who replaced them were younger, from middle school, elementary school, and even preschool.
The units they kept us in were segregated by gender, and I’m fairly certain they had one more girls’ unit than boys at the time. However, the boys’ units couldn’t be trusted with very young patients, so little boys under a certain age were put in a girls’ unit. That’s how we ended up with a 4-year-old hellraiser, one with a scar-speckled face I can only imagine resulted from abuse. Of course, a kid of that age isn’t admitted for something like depression, anxiety, or psychosis, but for outward aggression and behavioral problems. It was frustrating beyond words to serve as a secondary caretaker to a tantrum-prone, destructive little boy, innocent as he may be, myself being a kid in a mental hospital. As a girl, I was expected to swallow my frustration in favor of being nurturing when I wanted to act like any boy would: he’s not my kid, he’s not my responsibility, so why is it my duty to bite my tongue? I don’t want to sound harsh, but I felt I deserved a place to heal without the constant stress of guarding my journals and decks of cards so I wouldn't find them ripped apart. Of course, that’s not the easiest thing to accomplish when others with more, let's say, outwardly turbulent mental illnesses deserve treatment as well, and logistically can't receive it separately from everyone else. I still wonder how he and other young patients are doing.
I actually stayed at VCU’s Children’s Hospital, so it’s sort of surreal to pass it on my way from work to school. It’s even stranger to remember that there were a few VCU sophomores treating me, meaning they’re seniors now and I might see them around. (If you’re a nursing major with Hepburn frames from Eyebuydirect, thanks for the website recommendation!)
When it comes to the day-to-day, it was really like a doofy summer camp? The main differences were medication during breakfast, therapy sessions on weekdays, and nurses basically watching you use the bathroom if you were unfortunate enough to labeled high or moderate-risk (as I was my first week there). It was like reverting back to elementary school in many ways: I couldn't be trusted alone, there was no homework or social media to worry about, the best thing was the swingset in the courtyard, there was a surplus coloring book pages, plenty of movies (but only rated G and PG), arts and crafts, and plenty of passing notes during lunch.
I wanted to share this story because I often hear psychiatric hospitals talked about as if they’re dens of criminals, psychopaths, and people permanently relegated to close supervision because they can’t be trusted with themselves or others. But in reality, the vast improvement of psychiatric care in the last few decades has lead to shorter and less frequent institutionalization of those with mental illnesses, especially those with what I can’t help but describe as “garden-variety” illnesses--anxiety and panic disorders, depression, eating disorders, addiction--and even for those with illnesses usually characterized by their severity and stigma--psychopathy, schizophrenia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and others.
My hospital stay, combined with medication, were the only things that allowed for my recovery. I'm not ashamed of it because it was what I needed, and what others might need as well.
