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The view from the ambulance was blurred only slightly by the fog on the window. Clouds smudged an otherwise blue sky; the air was cold but it made my whole body tingle. “Anna-Jaques isn’t bad … Some of these places are really nasty but this one isn’t bad…” the EMT tried to sound comforting, but her soft face contorted as we pulled up to the entrance. They took me up to the third floor on a stretcher. Double locked, double doors consumed me as the EMTs brought me into the actual psych ward; my mom and dad close behind us. When they unbuckled the stretcher and let me stand I was uneasy, my legs felt weak after not being allowed to stand for almost a day. They escorted me and my parents to a private room for my admission. They kept us there for what felt like ages asking us questions and requesting signatures. I never could have guessed it would take so long to sign my life away.
“Are you having any suicidal thoughts?” the nurse was monotone and systematic – she must have done this so many times before, “Any voices, smells or sounds you’ve been experiencing that no one else has? Do you feel like you’re going to hurt yourself?” I grew frustrated quickly, nothing applied – I felt safe and I told them so. “You’re at a low suicide risk,” she concluded “so you’ll be on fifteen minute checks.” She gave me a list of all of the rules I had to adhere to. They ranged from sensible, “patients must not share personal information” to paranoid “patients must not communicate across the halls or speak in different languages”.
The woman led me to the girl’s bathroom and had me change into a hospital gown while she and another nurse checked my clothes and documented all of my scars. They took away my slippers before they left me to get dressed. Once I was back in my cloths they lead me back to the room with my parents. They smiled awkwardly as I told them I wanted to go home. They knew just as well as I did that there was no chance of that. Accepting my fate, my mom and I made a list of things I would need while I was there. It was like packing for a strange vacation – no strings or spikes or anything that could be used as a weapon. Even my CVS face wipes would have to be locked in the medical closet. Dad stayed with me while my mom went to get my things. “Don’t even do such a stupid thing like this to me again,” he spoke harshly and it upset me. Why couldn’t he understand that what I needed from him was support not punishment? I kissed him goodbye after a while of uncomfortable silence - I wanted to get my bearings on my own. Maybe it was the sudden resentment for my father, but I was feeling pretty independent and suborn.
My “how hard can this be” attitude stayed with me as they led me down to room two at the far end of the hall and away from the nurses’ station. Room two was barren and would serve as my new home for my stay. My stomach dropped as I entered. The room had two beds, two sets of shelves, a high ceiling and a great lack of stimulation. The walls and sheets were starch white except for a completely green flower painted above one of the beds. The plainness of it all made it seem like a jail cell. The real focal point to the room was a large gray screen over the window. It really emphasized the lack of freedom I had. It was impossible to see outside unless the light reflected off of the glass at just the right angle. It was all very new and unsettling. The door, painted with a special paint so it worked as a chalkboard, was covered with a colorful “Yo yo yo” pattern from the last patients who inhabited the room. The door was the only exciting thing about the room – it offered a single element I could control and manipulate without interference from the staff. That small amount of control was all I had, so I clung to it, spending the rest of my settling-in period imagining what I could cover the board with.
When they did eventually come for me, they rushed me around introducing me to strange adults that reminded me of the aunts and uncles you see once a year on Christmas. It was overwhelming the way they expected me to remember everyone’s name. On top of that, the staff seemed too casual and introduced themselves by their first names. I now see that this was an effort to keep us comfortable, but it ruined any patient-counselor relationship I was expecting. The whole ordeal was too informal. “Oh, Charlotte! So nice great to have you!” they all sounded too excited to meet me. My heart ached to go home the more I was told they were happy I was there. I was not happy to be there, couldn’t they see that? Wasn’t it their job to see that? My suffering was broken when a young nurse named Nicole asked me if I would like to attend group in the “Sensory Room”. I gladly obliged.
Walking into group was just as uncomfortable as you’d expect it to be – it felt like being the new kid at school and being introduced for the first time. The room was very similar to a large classroom except for two large tables in the mi
“Are you having any suicidal thoughts?” the nurse was monotone and systematic – she must have done this so many times before, “Any voices, smells or sounds you’ve been experiencing that no one else has? Do you feel like you’re going to hurt yourself?” I grew frustrated quickly, nothing applied – I felt safe and I told them so. “You’re at a low suicide risk,” she concluded “so you’ll be on fifteen minute checks.” She gave me a list of all of the rules I had to adhere to. They ranged from sensible, “patients must not share personal information” to paranoid “patients must not communicate across the halls or speak in different languages”.
The woman led me to the girl’s bathroom and had me change into a hospital gown while she and another nurse checked my clothes and documented all of my scars. They took away my slippers before they left me to get dressed. Once I was back in my cloths they lead me back to the room with my parents. They smiled awkwardly as I told them I wanted to go home. They knew just as well as I did that there was no chance of that. Accepting my fate, my mom and I made a list of things I would need while I was there. It was like packing for a strange vacation – no strings or spikes or anything that could be used as a weapon. Even my CVS face wipes would have to be locked in the medical closet. Dad stayed with me while my mom went to get my things. “Don’t even do such a stupid thing like this to me again,” he spoke harshly and it upset me. Why couldn’t he understand that what I needed from him was support not punishment? I kissed him goodbye after a while of uncomfortable silence - I wanted to get my bearings on my own. Maybe it was the sudden resentment for my father, but I was feeling pretty independent and suborn.
My “how hard can this be” attitude stayed with me as they led me down to room two at the far end of the hall and away from the nurses’ station. Room two was barren and would serve as my new home for my stay. My stomach dropped as I entered. The room had two beds, two sets of shelves, a high ceiling and a great lack of stimulation. The walls and sheets were starch white except for a completely green flower painted above one of the beds. The plainness of it all made it seem like a jail cell. The real focal point to the room was a large gray screen over the window. It really emphasized the lack of freedom I had. It was impossible to see outside unless the light reflected off of the glass at just the right angle. It was all very new and unsettling. The door, painted with a special paint so it worked as a chalkboard, was covered with a colorful “Yo yo yo” pattern from the last patients who inhabited the room. The door was the only exciting thing about the room – it offered a single element I could control and manipulate without interference from the staff. That small amount of control was all I had, so I clung to it, spending the rest of my settling-in period imagining what I could cover the board with.
When they did eventually come for me, they rushed me around introducing me to strange adults that reminded me of the aunts and uncles you see once a year on Christmas. It was overwhelming the way they expected me to remember everyone’s name. On top of that, the staff seemed too casual and introduced themselves by their first names. I now see that this was an effort to keep us comfortable, but it ruined any patient-counselor relationship I was expecting. The whole ordeal was too informal. “Oh, Charlotte! So nice great to have you!” they all sounded too excited to meet me. My heart ached to go home the more I was told they were happy I was there. I was not happy to be there, couldn’t they see that? Wasn’t it their job to see that? My suffering was broken when a young nurse named Nicole asked me if I would like to attend group in the “Sensory Room”. I gladly obliged.
Walking into group was just as uncomfortable as you’d expect it to be – it felt like being the new kid at school and being introduced for the first time. The room was very similar to a large classroom except for two large tables in the mi
