Going to a psychiatric hospital can be a scary experience, especially if it is your first time. However, if you’re transgender it can go from extremely scary to an absolute nightmare in a matter of seconds. Here is my own personal experience in a psychiatric hospital back in September and my recount may be triggering to some readers.
It was a Tuesday night. I was having extreme anxiety as well as the early signs of a panic attack. I’ve always had anxiety, but it was never this bad. My regular coping skills weren’t working and I was ready to do anything to make it stop. Once I felt myself progressing to this state, I knew I needed help and I decided to go to Children’s Hospital Los Angeles (CHLA).
Upon a full psychological evaluation, it was determined that I wasn’t safe to be on my own. I was cooperative, agreeing to be transferred to a psychiatric hospital for a 5150 (72 hour) hold. I did not have much of a choice, but I knew that being cooperative would be the most helpful for myself in this situation.
Since CHLA doesn’t offer inpatient psychiatric care, they had to transport me to another hospital that did. This caused my stomach to drop once I found out that they couldn’t treat me there. I asked the ER doctor several times if they were going to send me to a place that was transgender friendly. In response, he looked me in my eyes and said: “Yes Jaden, that is our top priority.” I trusted him.
Since they didn’t want me to run away, they strapped me down very tightly to the hospital bed I was in. I was eventually moved and tightly strapped onto a gurney to then be transported to Del Amo Hospital in Torrance, California. The ambulance driver handed my state ID and Medi-Cal health insurance cards over to the intake nurse of the Youth Psychiatric Unit.
The nurse began filling out my paperwork while asking me an endless amount of questions as to why I was here. Then, the awkward skip of her pen came when she reached the “sex” question on the intake packet. She saw that my ID and Medi-Cal card both said that I was male, but I could see her mentally question whether or not I was actually male as she began to bite her lip. She proceeded to skip that question and finished the rest of the packet.
When she finished, I was finally let out of the gurney. The straps which had so tightly held me in place left me with marks on my shoulders that did not immediately go away and my legs were sore from being in a single locked position for such a long period of time. I stumbled to the ground immediately as I attempted to walk again.
The nurse then pulled a male intake nurse from the nurse’s station and directed me to a restroom with a new hospital gown. I was told that a "safety check" was going to be conducted to determine if I was male or female. This safety check was said to ensure the safety of not just myself but the other patients as well.
It was 2 a.m. and I was not going to argue with anyone, so I just shrugged my shoulders and followed instructions. A big, bold F was stamped on my intake papers and, after I put the hospital gown off, I was sent off to observation where I stayed for three hours while the nurses wrote down my every movement and breath.
I was then placed into an isolation room at the end of the hallway in the female wing of the youth unit. The room was windowless with just four walls and a toilet attached to the wall. The door closed after I entered and it was quickly locked.
The nurses checked on patients every two hours or at least that’s what it felt like. Every time you cried out, you were given more sedatives to sleep. That morning my breakfast was brought to me while everyone else was able to eat together in the common room. I felt isolated and it confused me considering I had been nothing but cooperative with them. I tried to convince myself that maybe it was a common practice among new patients at the hospital.
I quickly began to lose track of time in that small, windowless room. The four off white walls were driving me insane. My anxiety, the primary reason I chose to seek help from a hospital, was worsening and I became more anxious than I was when I first arrived.
It was soon my turn to see the doctor and, that afternoon, the nurse came to my room, unlocked it, and directed me towards the doctor's office. She stood in the corner of the room while I had a five-minute conversation with the doctor. During that brief period of time, he was preoccupied with text messages and Facebook and he frequently interrupted me as I attempted to answer his questions. From that, he was able to diagnose me with Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, and Anxiety. He prescribed me medications that he knew, with certainty, would cure my problems.
The nurse took me back to my room and gave me a small cup of five pills. I asked her what they were as well as their side effects, so I could make an informed decision about whether or not I wanted to take them since I do have the legal right to refuse medications in a psychiatric hospital. She refused to tell me what they were and told me that I would have to stay in the hospital longer if I didn't take them. I complied and took them, without a fight.
I slept a lot that day and, since the room did not have a clock, I still am unsure of how long I slept. I also still am unsure of what medications I took that day.
The next morning, I was woken up by a nurse checking my vitals. I asked the time and date and she simply gave me an angry look, finished her observations, and left. I forced myself to stay awake even though the medication was making me sleepy. I was waiting for the two-hour mark for a check up so I could get more information about my treatment plan.
When I was checked on, I asked when I would be able to attend support groups and interact with other patients. She told me that it was hospital policy for me to be isolated. I asked her why and she then told me that transgender people have a high risk of sexual assault and violence and therefore it was for MY safety to be isolated.
At this point, I knew my 72-hour hospital stay was turning into an awful nightmare.
I knew my rights and I asked to use the phone. The nurse said okay and allowed me to make a phone call which led to me finding out that it was still my first full day in the facility. I was extremely careful with what I said since I knew the conversation was monitored. The person I was talking to could sense that something was wrong but had no idea how to fix it. I stressed that I was okay, for the sake of getting out of there as soon as I could.
There are a lot of misconceptions about testosterone like it making you unable to cry. I’ve been on testosterone for eight months and, since my first shot, I hadn’t had any luck crying. However, when I was stuck in isolation, I cried about 75% of the time in there, only semi-composing myself when the nurses did their check ups since crying can lead to longer stays.
Yes, anytime you are caught crying they keep you a day longer.
The hospital has a checklist with a list of rules and, if you don't follow a rule, they add an extra day onto your stay. These rules are not ever explained in detail and you just figure them out from other patients or on your own. These rules can involve things like making your bed, eating all your food, not crying, smiling, waking up on time, taking your medication, etc. During the time I was there, I probably didn't even uncover half of them.
After 72 hours of isolation, I was released.
I did not spend the full 72 hours alone, though. Towards the end, I was put in a room in a room with another transgender male who, while not very talkative, was compassionate. Being together made the time fly; we secretly held hands from behind the bed, comforted one another, and verbally validated our identities whenever the nurse misgendered or dead-named us. He was three years younger than me but was in just as much pain as I was.
Before I left, I gave my roommate one last hug while secretly passing him a piece of paper with my contact information for when he got out. He was being held on a 5270 (30 day) hold and, following my discharge, he called me every day up until his own discharge. Three months later, we gathered 25 people of all demographics to share our stories and file a lawsuit against the facility for a violation of civil rights.
