It Was A Long Time Coming: Mental Breakdown, Hospitalization and Road to Recovery, Part 3

Three days later, I was transferred to a Mental Health Unit on the eighth floor of the same hospital. Compared to the horror stories I’d heard about the state of wards in such places, this one was...surprisingly nice. The unit was locked, of course, accessible only by a magnetic key card carried by staff. Cameras were everywhere, of course. The staff were friendly. Nice, even.

It didn’t matter. I was terrified and angry. So angry, even with the drugs they had me taking.

I was in a room that they tended to keep newer patients in, for around the clock watch, especially overnight, and they told me they would check on me every half hour or so. I slept again, aided by the Seroquel, and on my fourth day, I was finally able to have a shower, and change out of the hospital clothing into my own clothes.

That shower was one of the nicest I ever had in my life, even if it was timed; I was still being closely watched. You don’t realize what little luxuries you take for granted until you get them taken from you.

They had let me me keep a book I’d begun reading on the third day of my being in the Emergency Department, and I was given access to some of my belongings. In it was a sketch book (which I still have), and they even let me keep the mechanical pencil. Bluntly put, they knew my MO, and I wasn’t liable to suicide by jabbing it into my eye. My previous, failed attempts always involved pills.

I sketched for the first time in two years that morning, before my shower.

The night before, I had been taken briefly to the common room, introduced to the other patients watching the TV. One person stood out to me. I’ll refer to him as A for now, but I’ll mention him again later. He looked interesting. Even though he was sitting, I could tell he was tall. He had mostly short hair, except for one side. I can’t remember if it was braided or not that night, but I would interact with him often during my time there, and he usually had it braided.

That morning, the first patient I interacted with was an older woman, with a bandage on her hand; something had gone wrong with the toaster in the kitchen of the common room, she’d broken the handle, and it had broken the skin on her palm, I think? It was four years ago, so the details are a little fuzzy.

What I do remember is that she was in quite a bit of pain-I later found out that she was there to detox from opiates, and I guess they probably didn’t give the poor woman anything stronger than a Tylenol. I’ll call her L.

I didn’t spend much time with her-she was very abrasive, which was understandable considering what she was going through, and would often lash out; once, the medication they were giving her for withdrawals was late coming up from the pharmacy, and she had a meltdown and threw a cup of ice water to the floor.

I felt so bad for her, but her behaviour reminded me all too much of my mother, and I kept my distance, but stayed civil towards her until she left about three weeks later. She was suffering, too.

It’s not a good excuse, but I basically repressed almost every feeling I had about what my mother did when we were kids, and therefore, the only way I knew how to handle it in those early days was to flee from it.

That first full day, I don’t remember much. Just that I got shown around the ward, shown where everything was and what to expect.

First, the common room-part kitchen, part open dining area, part living space. There was a fridge full of snacks, available to everyone. A pretty basic set up with countertops (no one ever seemed to clean up after themselves even though we were meant to and a few of us, myself included, were always wiping up messes).

The dining part took up the most space with several tables and chairs for people to sit at during meals. The food wasn’t bad, and we were given menus every day to choose breakfast, lunch and dinners from.

The living area was nice-there was a long table, where people would often sit and do jigsaw puzzles (I did so many jigsaws there). There was also a widescreen television, attached with a bracket to the wall. There were bookshelves filled with donated books, and at the open entrance of the common room were mounted magazine racks on either side of the entrance. I used to read the National Geographics fairly often, and often copied images from them into my sketch book.

There was also a shelf of DVDs; on Saturdays, one of the patients would volunteer to select a movie, or, if they got passes to go outside, they would buy or rent one. We’d watch the movie, and the staff would make popcorn.

Then there was the music/art room.

There was an electric keyboard in the room, up against wall. The cable was kept in the reception area, for obvious reasons. Most of the supplies in the cupboards were locked up, again, for obvious reasons. There was also a Wii, but the cables were also locked up, and there was only two games-a fishing game, and of course, Wii Sports.

People are clever if they want to harm themselves, and will often go to great lengths to do so, so anything like cables, scissors, etc were always locked up.

The room was used for both music and art therapy, and I spent a lot of time here, both in and out of those sessions, as it offered fantastic views of the city from eight floors up.

Don’t worry, those windows were locked, unable to be broken easily. Nobody would be tossing themselves from them anytime soon.

There were the offices the psychiatrists and social workers would use when visiting their patients. Nothing special about those, really. Just regular doctor offices.

Then there was the Serene Space. This was soon to become my favourite room, with a locked but still easily accessible iPod Touch with Spotify, to play music. Boxes of stress toys. A diffuser. A rocking chair and weighted blanket (I have one these days, and it’s the best investment I’ve ever made). There were plants and a water lamp-not a lava lamp, but I don’t know what to call it. The lights in the room could be dimmed, too, and more often than not, I’d sit in the rocking chair with the weighted blanket in my lap, rocking back and forth while listening to Sigur Ros and the sound of thunderstorms, writing on my tablet-I was allowed to have it in there, as long as I put a lock on the camera, which I did obligingly in front of the staff. Privacy was important, and I respected and understood that.

Then, the reception area-also nothing special, but behind it was the room where patients’ belongings were kept. Everything was monitored from here.

And, of course, there were the rooms. There was the one I’d been in the first couple of days while they monitored me. The other rooms had about four beds in each room, and no mixed genders in the rooms, either, of course.

I ended up in the room the furthest from reception with three others, the people often rotating out, but only one woman was a constant there, and she slept much of the day. I might touch upon her later on.

There was a laundry area; one of the things I liked about this place was that they encouraged you to make a schedule for yourself, and that included doing your own laundry. Such a small thing, but it was nice to have something that resembled normalcy in there. Apart from the cameras, the hospital bracelets and the general high security, it was easy to forget that was anything other than a very medicated vacation.

Then, finally, there was the shower rooms. Again, nothing special, just nice open bathroom with a shower bath combo and a sink. Also got timed in there-again, people who are very determined to hurt themselves will find a way, which is why there was a bathroom across from reception, as, if you wanted to shave, you had to do it with the door open.

The tour didn’t take long, and that first day, I spent most of the day in my room, but, soon enough, I would have to come out. The place was nice, but...I was still angry. Suicidal. Unwilling to accept help.

I wanted out of there, and fast.