treatments
The past, present and future of psychiatric diagnosis and beliefs about treatment in every culture and pocket of society.
3 Ways to Know If a Mental Hospital Is Right for You
Are you considering a Mental Hospital as treatment? If so, this list is the right article for you. First, I want you to think about a mental hospital. What's the first thing that comes to mind? For me, its the scene from the film Good Burger. The barred windows, people walking around like zombies, looking completely disheveled, and admitting to being psychopaths. There were security guards, and people in there that were convinced they didn't need to be there. It all seemed realistic. Minus the outrageous dance scene of course. But what are they really like? Is it a place for everyone, or is it truly just for those who are "psychopaths?" Here are three simple ways to know if a mental hospital is the right treatment for you.
Rachel BonnevalPublished 6 years ago in PsycheBarriers to Mental Health Care for Mental Health Professionals
The sad truth is that there are often considerable barriers for anyone to access mental health care. There are also some unique barriers that those who work as mental health care providers must face. As a mental health nurse, this has made things extra complicated for me when seeking out treatment.
Ashley L. PetersonPublished 6 years ago in PsychePsych 1
Walking through the double doors to Psych 1 was not as nerve-racking as I had expected. I originally envisioned a room full of noise, and overly medicated patients drooling over themselves in wheelchairs. Just like they show you in the movies. Instead, I was met with an empty room, and three Nurses. In the empty room, I could see that it had books, a television, crayons, and a door that led to the outside. Looking at the door, all I could see was my disheveled reflection in the window. I noticed there were no brown recliners, but there were leather sofas, and tables with connected metal seats. The nurses station was on my right, with a counter that was so high I could barely see over it. I was told by the nurse that I needed to be searched again, to be sure that I didn’t bring anything from the other hall that I wasn’t supposed to.
Rachel BonnevalPublished 6 years ago in PsycheHallways
I was staring out the glass partition window, and I had felt my arm hairs pull. It was something sticky on my arm, and as I looked down, I saw my hospital bracelet. Placed a bit too tightly, and pulling on the fine hairs. It was annoying more so than painful. The tech asked me if the information on it was correct. Which was something she should have done in the beginning. My last name was wrong. She had typed ‘Bonnevon,’ and not ‘Bonneval.’ I asked her to fix it, and she didn’t know how. We asked the techs who had taken inventory of my belongings earlier, they didn’t know. Every tech we asked, didn’t know how to change my name! She said “I will find out soon, and we will get it taken care of.” I just nodded as if to say “Yeah okay.” Inside I was rolling my eyes at the lack of knowledge these techs had. I began to wonder if they were even trained. I was sent back in the waiting room, and about five minutes later, I was called by a tech. We started making our way through door after door. We finally stopped at a door with a sign that read “Women's Hall.” I thought it a bit odd that they called it a hall and not a “ward” or “wing.” It wasn’t until the door opened that I saw why they called it a hall. It was just that. A straight, narrow hall. With no windows, and nothing but locked doors. The doors were heavy, and had the small vertical windows in them. You couldn't see much looking through them. We began walking down the hall and all I could see was a cart, and a small chair with yet another tech just sitting there holding what looked like a phone.
Rachel BonnevalPublished 6 years ago in PsycheThe End or the Beginning?
Going in, I never thought I would be admitted. I wore my favorite Maroon sneakers, my leggings, and my Harry Potter shirt that read “Mischief Managed” with a criss-crossed front, and my hair was thrown in its traditional ponytail. I left my backpack in the car, and walked up to the Mental Health Hospital entrance, hand in hand with my husband. There were two sets of doors. They buzz you into the first set, and then when those doors close, they buzz you into the second, basically trapping you in a little enclosure to ensure you can’t leave without a badge or them allowing you out. That alone had me anxious because I loathe confined spaces. When we entered, I was nervous, shaking, and could barely speak to the receptionist. She handed me my clipboard and told me to fill it out, typical doctor appointment protocol. However, this place felt far from typical. It seemed more like a jail rather than a place to go to for help.
Rachel BonnevalPublished 6 years ago in PsycheInterviews with a Big Black Broad: Session #4
Interviewer: How did your collegiate aspirations relate to your experience with BDD? BBB: Before I begin, I should to warn you that this may be the most bizarre coming of age story you've ever heard. I chose a difficult major in college for two reasons: It was revered as prestigious and lucrative, and I was told that once I graduated from all those years of rigorous study, I would have little to no time for a social life while I practiced my trade. I wanted a career that would keep me so busy that I had no time to dwell on my awful appearance. I also wanted a preoccupation that would provide an understandable reason for why I had no time for romantic relationships—why I would never have children. My plan was to strictly focus on my studies, after which, I'd rely on my friends to satisfy whatever social needs I had. I loved to laugh and discuss politics, philosophy and art. So, I targeted those who majored in these subjects to help me indulge my interests when I wasn't studying my more conservative curriculum. Perhaps every now and then, I would enjoy a casual tryst or two if I was feeling up to it. I'd be a workaholic socialite from now on, I thought. Without time to focus on myself—to obsess over my ugliness, I could avoid what I referred to as "The cloud," which were my severely depressed episodes. My new distractions worked to steady my moods and lessen my obsessions. My grades were almost perfect. I'd even managed to acquire a small but well-coveted grant from the university strictly based on my academic merit. There are ugly people all over the world who are very prosperous, I thought. I studied the careers of very successful, powerful men who were also practicing the trade within the field I was studying. Most of them were single, with few or no children, and no one seemed to criticize their life choices. They weren't stigmatized for not living a conventional life. They were celebrated as playboys in fact. This was one of several observations that solidified my decision to become a playgirl. I could be satisfied with just a great career and friends. No husband. No children. I couldn't really conceive of living what all the other girls had coveted since holding their first doll baby: A "normal" life.
Anarda NashaiPublished 6 years ago in PsycheGo to Rehab or Nah?
The pain pulsing through the right side of my torso should have been enough incentive. But no, it wasn’t until the tear drops spilling on the linoleum floor of my kitchen in North Hollywood pooled enough to wet the back of my head that I realized I needed help. I had reached rock bottom. It was not my first and it would not be my last, but a bottom it was indeed. Emotionally, I was emaciated; crippled by loneliness with life threatening symptoms of untreated alcoholism. The thought of entering treatment scared my ego but motivated me enough to seek the help I desperately needed. For those financially able to even consider in-patient rehabilitation, we should consider ourselves lucky. According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Administration in 2015 “About 6.7 percent of adults who had AUD (Alcohol Use Disorder) in the past year received treatment. This includes 7.4 percent of males and 5.4 percent of females with AUD in this age group.” (www.niaaa.nih.gov, 2017) With over 15 million suffering from the “chronic relapsing brain disease characterized by an impaired ability to stop or control alcohol use despite adverse social, occupational, or health consequences” we can acknowledge that a majority of us are still suffering; still dying. I was there, so this article goes out to the ones who are still suffering.
Eric HunterPublished 6 years ago in PsycheHorror Asylum Story in Fort Lauderdale
April 19, 2018 marked the start of a nightmare dressed as the light of freedom from the prison of being at home locked in my room every day. As a person who suffers from a debilitating anxiety disorder, I was desperate to get help by going almost anywhere just so I can control my anxiety. As I was about to board the plane at the gate in Harlingen, Texas, I hugged my mom and cried. I remembered all the times I told her how, if it weren’t for my crippling anxiety, I’d run for the hills and go to a big city and live the life I so desperately want to live. This was my opportunity. I was flying to Fort Lauderdale, Florida to seek treatment for my OCD. I was so excited.
Ivan UrteagaPublished 6 years ago in PsycheAlcohol Instead of Medication Is a Bad Idea
Alcohol promises fake stability for us mentally ill alcoholics. You see, it calms you down well-enough, but medication does a far better job of that. Alcohol leads to fraudulent stability since drinking counts as self-medication because mentally ill people are in a lot of pain either way. Alcohol really doesn’t help, especially if you treat the drinker well while they are drinking. Alcohol sometimes makes people curious as to what it would do to your body in large quantities—that’s why I stayed alcoholic for so long, because I was in general, curious. In college, I was drinking to fit in.
Iria Vasquez-PaezPublished 6 years ago in PsycheInsight on My Need for Meds
From the age of 12, I had insight as to why I needed medication. I’d see doctors at Lucille Packard Children’s Hospital where they would help me manage my diabetes. There was enough proof even then that I was competent enough to care for myself even if my mother tried to find some excuse, a primordial need, to take away my legal rights to custody of myself while I was a child. Even as young as 10 I knew I needed medication, but I didn’t get my first set of meds until the age of 20.
Iria Vasquez-PaezPublished 6 years ago in PsycheAdulting with Depression
It's been one month since I've been on antidepressants. Now if you know me, or read my article on medication (see below for it), you would know that I have always had a fear of taking any form of medication. Fear of how it might change me, how I would feel afterwards, and how I would act once I started taking them. But I had to accept what was and that was this: I couldn't control the chemical imbalance in my brain. I couldn't control the fact that there were things I wanted to accomplish in life and I felt like my body simply didn't live up to my mind's capacity. I couldn't control the days where I was feeling super low and the other days where I was erratically high and moving at all speeds. It was all very inconsistent and super depressing, so I caved. Or so it felt that way.
Aurea GonzalezPublished 6 years ago in PsycheHow Many Children Must Live a Life Like the One I Have Before We Step in and Provide Good Mental Health Care for Our Young?
Anybody that knows me, really knows me, will know of my battle against the demon in my head and the urge to cut, to self harm.
talia masonPublished 6 years ago in Psyche