I Was Baker-Acted, Twice.

On August 4, 2019, I was baker-acted at the age of 17. In the state of Florida, in which I live, if someone exhibits signs of being mentally ill, that person can be involuntary held for a period of 72 hours in a mental health facility.

The Florida Mental Health Act of 1971, commonly known as the "Baker Act," allows the involuntary institutionalization and examination of an individual.

This may strike some people who know me as shocking, because I do not seem to exhibit any outward signs of mental illness. That is the point of my writing this article, to share my experience and to let others know that it is okay to seek help.

My Story

On August 4, 2019, I was baker-acted. I had been feeling what I describe as "weird" since around 5pm that night. I describe it as "weird" because I was not sad, but a strange melancholy feeling, a feeling of empty calmness. I still maintained my routine of eating dinner around 5 or 6, this night it was a pack of instant ramen and four microwavable taquitos (fancy). I have always had body image and self-esteem issues, but I have never had an eating disorder. This night, though, I wasn't feeling so great about myself. My parents were both away at work and my sister was away at her friend's house, so I was home alone. I locked myself in my bathroom, knelt on the cold floor, and stuck my face in the dingy toilet bowl. I will not go into detail about how I did what I did, but if you have any idea of what an eating disorder is, you could probably guess. Disappointed with my inability to chuck my dinner, I retreated back to my room and began listening to music. It wasn't the depressing, emo music I listened to in my gloomy preteen years, but instead the childish soundtrack to Adventure Time.

The time went on and it was getting later and later. At this point, I was not home alone anymore. My dad was home but I still remained isolated in my dark bedroom. It was around 7 or 8pm when I decided to contact an online crisis chatline. Why did I do this? All day I had an ever-present sense of gloom over my head and it began to worry me. I had began to have suicidal ideations, but no serious intent. It started with a Google search and I clicked on chatline after chatline. They all sucked and didn't seem to help me at all, until I finally came across one. I wish I could remember what it was so I could link it as a resource. This chatline allowed you to chat via text on your phone, rather than on their website. I went through the routine that I had gone through with the previous lines, telling them how my night had been going and what kind of thoughts I was having. It was around 11pm when our hour-long chat was coming to an end. At this point, I had gone from a tranquil emptiness to very distressed. I had found a pair of crafting scissors that belonged to my younger sister and I began to attempt to cut my thighs. The pair of scissors were very dull, so all I managed to do was make my skin red and raw. Then, I went to the kitchen to grab a small and discrete, yet sharp, knife. I snuck this into my bedroom and began doing the same thing. I was unable to draw blood but the results were better. Upon telling the operator what I was doing, they asked if I would like them to contact Emergency Medical Services (EMS) for me. I was unsure, but I agreed. I voluntarily gave them my address and first name. I knew that the police were showing up and the police station was just down the road from my house, so I was terrified. My parents didn't know I had contacted anyone, they didn't even know that I was upset. What would they think? Would they be angry?

As 11:30 approached, I realized that it had been some time since I was told EMS were on their way, so I knew they were almost here. My heart was racing and my anxiety was through the roof. I began to cry and I stuffed my face into my pillow so no one heard me. I heard my mom enter the house, coming home from work, but was shortly followed by her voice saying, "Who's that?" My heart dropped because I knew. My dad's voice was next, and he sounded angry, "The cops, here for Briana!" I was panicking and I could hear footsteps and voices. It was all a foggy haze for me, so surreal. The door to my pitch black room opened. I saw my father and two officers enter the room with a tiny flashlight. The hands of the female officer and my dad were on my arms and back, trying to lift me into a sitting position but I was a sobbing mess and refused. When I did sit up, the pillow was pulled from my face and I was being frantically asked by the two officers, "Where did you cut yourself?" I cried harder, because I was ashamed to let my dad know that I had done this to myself. I gestured towards my arm and legs. My dad left the room and I dropped my sweatpants to show them the damage. I was escorted to my driveway outside as we waited for the ambulance to arrive. It didn't take long. I hopped in and my injuries were briefly looked over, they were only superficial. I was asked over and over why I had done this to myself, given lectures about having my whole life ahead of me. Since my wounds were superficial and I had no real need for any physical treatment, I was escorted back out of the ambulance and to a police car, but one thing will stick with me. When I left the ambulance, I walked past my driveway again, but now my parents stood there and my mother was crying. I have never seen her cry like that. She hugged me and said, "I just hope from now on you could feel like you can talk to us about anything. I love you." I cried even harder as I told her I loved her and continued walking to the cop car.

From here, I was driven to a hospital. Not the local hospital, but a hospital in the next town over. When we finally arrived to the hospital, it was the weirdest thing. It was the middle of the night and the parking lot was nearly empty. I was escorted into the emergency room and stood in front of the desk with the female officer. She was talking to a man behind a computer, but I was in a daze. Everything seemed so unreal to me and I wasn't paying much attention to anything they were discussing. One thing did hit me like a ton of bricks, though: "Baker Act." My knowledge of the Baker Act was minimal. I knew it meant I was going to the loony-bin against my will and that was about it. A friendly nurse came along and escorted me to my room. I was told that I would be speaking with a psychologist in a little bit, but for now they had to run some tests. They ran a blood test and a urinalysis, along with the basic measuring of vitals. During this time, I noticed that the nurse and techs felt pity for me. I didn't like it, and I especially didn't like the multiple people asking me what I did to myself and why I did it. It wasn't their job to know, only the psychologists, but I told them anyways.

My parents did eventually arrive. They had been following behind in their own car and met me in the emergency room. I was so ashamed and afraid of what they would think about the whole situation. I didn't even look at my parents when they walked in the room. They sat in the chair beside me and asked if I wanted to talk about it, to which I shook my head. We sat and waited for a little while before a computer screen was wheeled in to the room. We were told that we would receive a call, similar to Skype, from the psychologist who would ask me questions for a psychological analysis. I requested that my parents leave the room for this, and they respected that. The questions were basic: What did you do? Why? How did you feel when you did this? How long have you felt this way? When did it start? Did anything happen to cause this? So on, and so on. After the evaluation, my parents were brought back in and it was explained to them that I would be transported across the street to the behavioral health center under the Baker Act. I am unsure of the time at this point, but I know that a while later, I had asked my mom and she told me it was 2am. For the time being, my dad leaned over the bedside and we played a word game on his phone, laughing as if nothing had happened. There was a point where I felt nauseous and had my dad pull over the trashcan, and I vomited a lot, probably just from being so worked up. A male police officer eventually arrived. I hugged my parents goodbye as they told me they would come visit me tomorrow. I was escorted outside to another police car, except this one was bigger and more comfortable. I was in only a hospital gown.

When I arrived at the behavioral health center (which was literally just across the street), it was eerie. Since it was the middle of the night, most of the lights were off and no one was in sight. The cop escorted me down the empty, long hallways of the hospital until we reached the correct unit. He unlocked the doors and led me through them. This is where I saw the first person in the building. I was greeted by a nurse and a tech. The nurse was very friendly and the tech was too busy flirting with another man there (I am not sure what his role was there). I was first brought to a closet-sized room, accompanied by two women. I was told to undress. But, don't worry, I wasn't asked to just drop all of my clothes. I would reveal certain body parts one at a time, as to maintain my privacy (as much as you can have while revealing your nude body to strangers). One woman would look at my body, calling out any marks that were there (intentional or unintentional, wounds or not) and the other woman stood in the corner marking them all down on a chart. This was a body check. My height and weight were also measured in this room. I was also, fortunately, given another (much more comfortable) hospital gown. Then, I went to an office-like room with the nurse. She sat down at a computer and asked me multiple questions. They were the same basic questions everyone had been asking me, except they were worded in multiple different ways so the interrogation seemed to last forever. She called this an "interview," which seemed very odd to me. (An interview to get into a mental hospital? The idea makes me giggle.) After this, there was one more step. I was sat at a table in the hallway and given a paper to fill out. It asked questions such as: What is your name? What is today's date? In the past week, how often have you...? How do you like to be calmed? Do you like to be touched? I actually liked this questionnaire. I appreciated that they asked how you preferred to be approached and the best ways to calm you. After filling out this sheet, I was directed to my room, given the basic items (travel-size 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash, flimsy comb, and a travel-size deodorant that did not cover up any B.O.)

Fast forward to the next morning, after about 4-ish hours of sleep, I wake up and am able to see my room now that it is light. The room was mostly white, open, plain, and empty. There was a bed next to mine and a girl sitting on it. She was sitting up and staring into space. I decided not to speak to her and instead sat up in bed, staring down at the sheets in front of me. A few minutes later, a bulky man appeared in the doorway to let us know that breakfast was ready. I followed my roommate, who's name I had discovered was Gwen. There was a tray at the nurse's station with a few Styrofoam boxes, like the ones you get at a restaurant. I grabbed a random one, after seeing that Gwen had done just that, and I also grabbed a juice. I followed Gwen into a room that had colorful, plastic sofa-like seats, a round table, and a TV. Gwen sat in one of the colorful chairs, but I found it much more convenient to use the larger surface of the table to hold my food. We sat in silence and I remember wondering why she didn't turn on the TV, because it seemed awkward sitting in silence. I'm not going to describe every detail of my day, but it was pretty basic. This room was the lounge room, where we spent most of our time (boys and girls had separated rooms), and the TV could be turned on upon request and we could choose a movie to watch. One thing some of you may be wondering about, though, is "suicide watch." If I was there for being a danger to myself, why wasn't I on "suicide watch"? The first day I was there, I was not supervised. The second day, on the other hand, the psychologist had decided it would be best to put me on "one-on-one visual" for 24 hours due to my reason for being there. One-on-one visual is "suicide watch". If I was in the lounge room, a tech had to sit in the doorway to watch me. If I was in my room, a tech had to sit in the doorway to watch me. If I took a shower or used the bathroom, a tech would walk up to the door and try talking to me every 5 seconds to make sure I was okay. It sounds like hell but it wasn't that bad; it was bearable and was over quickly.

My overall experience was pleasant. At least, this first visit was. I will not describe my second visit, because it is very much the same. The only difference was that I got less attention and was left alone more often. When it is your first time being admitted, you have to talk to a lot more people so they can get you into the system. You are constantly visited by people in white coats and scrubs, asked the same basic questions about why you are there. On the second visit, I did not get that. I became lonely very quickly, especially since I did not have a roommate on my second visit. I remember crying one day because I wanted to go home. A tech had passed by my room and saw me crying. It was phone time and I had received a call from my dad, so she stopped in the doorway and said "Do you want me to tell him to call back in five minutes?" I nodded. She did not ask why I was upset and did not attempt to console me. My thoughts at this moment were, what if I was going off the deep end in that moment? What if I was in a crisis? Fortunately, I was only a little upset, but it did piss me off and made me feel as if nobody cared.

I do want to leave one thing though: Do not let the negatives keep you from seeking help. It sounds very negative when I explain all of this, but I did receive help. It did help me. The second visit was less effective, but the first visit did wonders for my psyche. Nobody is the same, so not everyone will have the same effects and experiences as I did. I highly recommend seeking help if you feel that you need to.

Resources

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (24/7)

• Phone Number: 800-273-8255
• Online Chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/
• https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Crisis Text Line (24/7)

• Text HOME to 741741
• https://www.crisistextline.org/

The Trevor Project

This is an organization that offers crisis intervention and suicide prevention for LGBTQ+ youth.

• 866-488-7386 (24/7)
• Text START to 678678 (Mon-Fri. 3pm-10pm EST/12pm-7pm PST)
• TrevorCHAT (instant messaging, available seven days a week 3pm-10pm EST/12pm-7pm PST)

The Veteran's Crisis Line (24/7)

• 800-273-8255 and press 1
• Text 838255
• Online chat: www.veteranscrisisline.net/get-help/chat
• Support for HOH: 800-799-4889
• www.veteranscrisisline.net

SAMHSA's National Helpline (Substance Abuse) (24/7)

• 800-662-HELP (4357)
• TTY: 800-487-4889
• www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline

Online Forums and Support

• IMAlive offers direct instant messaging with trained volunteers.
• BetterHelp connects you to a licensed therapist. Yes, it costs money, but comes at a low fee.
• 7 Cups of Tea offers free, anonymous, and confidential text chat with trained listeners and online therapists. This is a personal favorite of mine and I have used this resource on multiple occasions, both as a listener and someone seeking help.

The reason I shared this personal story was to let people know that it is okay to seek help, it is okay to feel vulnerable, and it is okay to be vulnerable.