Psych Ward E

by V. Lewis 18 days ago in treatments

A recount of my stay inside of Psych Ward E

Psych Ward E

Psych ward E

Knowing now why we are called patients, the psycho’s all awaiting their release sit staring at walls, watching their skin and looking internally with idle minds, contemplating the reasons they are here and when it will be they are given back their freedoms. Waiting by the nursing station for someone to ask how we are or if they are okay- we wait patiently.

Most know there is something wrong with them and those that don’t are the real trouble. As for myself I know we are all crazy in someway, not that everyone wear’s a crown drawing pictures like a child believing they are some sort of prince, yet this young African man is calm and content enjoying his drawing and sandwiches he quietly responds to any questions asked by other patients. More polite than anyone I’ve ever seen.

The young Serbian kid spotted that I was an Aries, maybe he just glanced at the label on my wrist, he likes to believe he is the smartest alive yet used the old psychological ‘pink elephant’ term falsely. His psychiatrist used it on him but he doesn’t understand like someone who isn’t completely psychotic. I corrected him though; we are both here so who’s to say anyone is right. We are all sick that’s for sure.

Dazed and doped up, all the patients seem lost within themselves and what to expect other than breakfast, lunch and dinner. What are we all waiting for? So this is where mental health is supposed to be treated, it is by in large detrimental to any one person’s health being in a place like Ward E.

My first night I had no induction to the premises, high on LSD I had taken in the waiting bay while being admitted it started to kick in hard while being interrogated by the angry nightshift nurse. Mean old hag, treated me like dirt as I sought help. The whole thing has been an attempt at being diagnosed, I never felt normal, nor tried very hard to become it but suicidal idealization and the idea of sweet relief from living was something I looked toward. Still do.

After being shown to my room number 9, the nurse closed the door behind me, taking my phone charger, yet letting me keep my headphones; which seemed counter-intuitive in my opinion. Anyone suicidal enough could slit his or her wrists with plastic cutlery given out with each meal. That or drown themselves in the sink or shower somehow, but most people don’t really want to die, and I guess I am one of those playing in the fascination and fear of death. Weak people we are, trying to find something that can’t be found. Peace of mind.

Pulling on the blinds I notice another option would be by hanging, easy enough to someone who had lost full hope while be eager to break through to the other side.

As the door closed behind me I was completely unaware that I could open it from the inside and found myself locked in my cell peaking on strong LSD. After combing the room and on-suit making note of where the hidden camera’s were kept, I read through the pamphlets given out that note the expectations and what to expect. “Communication” one title reads, yet the only communication one receives is through complaint or disturbance. No one talks to you or asks if you are okay.

I had to knock on the door while the nurse did their rounds just so she could have me made aware that I could actually open the door from the inside, no door knobs, just a strange small round lock. I freely roam the U shaped halls. I found a coffee machine and poured myself a hot chocolate, taking it back to my room I placed it beside me and stared into it, then into the wall and back to steaming cup. I wondered when the doctor would see me- prior to entry a nurse said that there would be a meeting. I waited all night, reading an encyclopaedia I found on a mostly empty bookshelf with boards games having mostly missing pieces. The collection of encyclopaedias were few as all letters that referenced to either religion, sex or drugs were missing, I began reading about birds and send some messages to my loved ones, letting them know not to worry. I found some sleep eventually after viewing the psychedelic show down on the walls where stories of the room’s history were told. The air was thick with sadness and failure.

The night turned to day and I slept heavily, being awoken only to be asked to eat; unbeknownst to me I was expected to get up and get my own meal from the cafeteria area. This went on for two days; I slept the next day and had stayed up all night waiting for my doctor that first night which had left me deprived. On the third day I still hadn’t eaten or drank any water and the dehydration was getting to me. “Why hadn’t a nurse brought me any food”

“Hadn’t they noticed I had been ridden in bed for over 48 hours?” Were these pipes in the on-suit safe to drink from? I had no idea so I continued lying down until finally a nurse took me to see a doctor. The nurses change twice daily and do not introduce themselves to you, therefor making it hard for you to communicate any concerns.

At this time I hadn’t an idea how long I had been there it could have been a week or two days for all I knew. I spotted shit that had been smeared on the toilet roll I was suppose to be using and made the nurse aware that along with the dot of blood on my pillow, I couldn’t use my toilet paper and therefor was avoiding going to the bathroom. She seemed concerned and said that it would be taken care of while walking me to the doctor’s office.

The doctor was young and Asian who gave me some comfort because she asked questions about how I was feeling, the head nurse was sitting in on the conversation cross legged and rocking her foot back and forth as if to speed up the interview impatiently, she had important things to attend to (likely a cigarette which had been banned from the ward, yet patients would find a way to smoke by rolling up newspapers or anything else their desperate souls could find). The nurse stared at me while I talked to the doctor and I made the effort to not look her way. She told the doctor she had to step out, and I was glad; hopefully she would be changing my blood stained pillowcase and giving me a fresh roll of toilet paper, but this was not the case at all. As I exited the doctor’s office she was chatting gleefully at the nurses station to her co-workers about something unrelated to work before heading out for her own very undeserving cigarette break.

After giving the low down on circumstance as to what brought me into the hospital and describing the confusing story to the doctor, who found it rough to get her head wrapped around.

“Should I know why I am here?”

I went back to my room to use the bathroom finding both the blood still in its place and noticing the shit smeared toilet roll.

“That’s what I’m supposed to use to wipe?” I thought as my soul crushed inward another level.

I walked into the hall where I told a nurse who was watching over the patients eat their lunch, she was standing next to the nurse on cleaning duty with her trolley full of bleaches, wipes and towels.

They laughed when I told them that my toilet roll that I was yet to use had shit on it. Asking them to rectify the situation the lady with the cleaning trolley handed me a toilet roll and a glove. I nodded my head disappointingly at the situation, went back to my room with my glove and toilet roll, throwing the shit smeared one in the bin beside my shower.

Once walking out of the bathroom I sat and continued reading about birds in the encyclopaedia until the cleaning nurse came to my room. She sensed I was unhappy with the treatment I had received so far and tried her hardest to cover up the unclean bathroom, pouring bleach frantically and mopping the floors harshly, trying to make small talk, but I didn’t want to talk to her. I showed her the bloodstain on my pillow, which she tried to justify as being either rust, or from me. Not once have I woken up to a bloodstained pillow or seen rust gather on a bed sheet. She went into the laundry and threw two newly washed pillowcases onto my bed, which I changed immediately.

I slept the rest of the day and night, only awoken by nurses doing their rounds, which included them sometimes opening the door to locate each patient.

My dehydration grew, as did my dissolution with reality, days passed without food and small fragments of water when a nurse would give me a pill. I have no idea what they were giving me.

The nurses would open my room door asking me to come to lunch, and I would dream that I had gotten up and fixed something to eat only to find that I had not left my bed at all. A second reminder would come and again I would dream or hallucinate myself into having gotten out of bed. Then dinner would come and I knew that if I didn’t drink something soon I would die there. Again thinking multiple times that I had gotten up, I eventually found myself actually physically moving down the halls towards the kitchen area. The other psychos had long finished their food and I sat alone to eat and rehydrated myself slowly sipping water and trying to eat. I had the option of two meals and the nurse serving food behind the counter offered both to me, which I happily accepted but ate neither.

Time moved slowly as though it were half set concrete.

Men and women cried at night, they screamed through the day and would shake in their rooms talking to themselves. When asking the male nurse a question he was bite back, giving no answers and telling me that its just vitamins. He would sweat constantly at the discomfort of being around mentally deranged people and it gave me power. I liked to see this horrible man in discomfort as much as he would like to see everyone in the ward dead. I gave the bastard hell by asking him ridiculous questions that had no answer whenever I could.

As days passed I was feeling healthier. Maybe I was building a tolerance to their medicines but I don’t know for sure. ”What’s the point of being here when I can kill myself just as easily as outside? “Why can’t I stop thinking about that?”

“This place is a hole”

I see the psychiatrists consisting of an old Indian man and a young lady. She’s beautiful, he is happy about that I can tell and she is doing a great job. I tell half-truths but never lie and convince them that the place is detrimental to my health. They want to keep me but I am clear with them, using all the body language and communication techniques I know to win them over and this psycho is free.

treatments
V. Lewis
V. Lewis
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V. Lewis

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