The Quiet War, Part 2: An Inpatient in a Psychiatric Hospital · 11:31pm Oct 17th, 2018
WARNING: The following blog has very frank discussions about mental health, psychiatric medications, the side effects of psychiatric medications, suicide, suicidal ideation, and similar topics.
If you are in an immediate crisis where are you struggling with any of the above, please contact a professional psychiatrist, go to your nearest Emergency Room or contact National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
Mid-October Introduction
As with all things regarding The Quiet War, life seems to get in the way. I’ve been jerked around by more psychiatrists, had to undergo intense dental work, find new places to get help and have Rarity’s starter die on me… and that’s just the last forty-eight hours.
These sorts of posts are extremely difficult. More than anything, I want anyone in a situation similar to mine to seek the help they need. That being said, sometimes, it’s really hard to get that help. Insurance companies, incompetent doctors, the wrong medication and dozens of other things can get in the way.
Yes, there are a lot of roadblocks in getting help for mental health. And I’d like to tell you there’s a good reason… or offer any excuse at all. But I won’t. The truth is, most medical groups don’t consider mental health to be a “real” problem. A lot of people are the same way. This is changing, but for all of us fighting this war in this day in age, know that the change is extremely slow.
You’re going to have to work at it. But it’s necessary. So very necessary. You have to keep fighting. No matter what.
Now, let’s get back to the original opening of “The Quiet War, Part 2: Inpatient”
First of all, thank you all for your kind words regarding “The Quiet War, Part 1.” I’m humbled and overwhelmed by the support you’ve all shown. Not once has anyone been dismissive or cruel in their responses, and I appreciate that more than I can tell.
The second week of my therapy at Ulysses Hospital was made so much better by your words. So many people told me how brave or courageous I am by coming forward with this. Even my own parents didn’t know how in-depth my issues were.
So, thank you.
I do want to say something though: my life has not all been doom and gloom. These thoughts couldn’t attack me in certain places. When I was engaged with friends, television shows, video games, I was fine. There were plenty of other times were I was riding high on a victory, such as the warm response to a new story, finishing the fight in Mass Effect 2, or feeding my girls when they were tiny. These are three radically different things, designed to show the depth of how broad they were.
But yes, there were weeks (and occasionally months), where demons were clinging to my shoulder every day. I had 36 hours when I had demons attack me nonstop every minute until my friends helped me break that grip. And I wish I was exaggerating.
And then, there was Monday, July 16, 2018.
Kathy, my therapist, told me during that session that “this” was as bad as it was going to get, as in this moment.
She was wrong. Dead wrong.
Sadly, I would have “as bad as it’s going to get” redefined for me twice before finally starting to climb up toward the light, and even then, I’d often get slapped back down again.
So let’s start with that appointment.
The Talk With Kathy
For weeks now, Kathy had asked if I wanted to check myself into the ER for psychiatric treatment. As I said in my last post, I had resisted because I didn’t think they could help me. After all, I needed weeks of care. Prozac took almost 3 months to have an effect on me. I’d been on Adderall since I was 23 and Clonidine for most of my life. Wellbutrin and Klonopin? I’d been on those for at least 6-7 years. That stuff would take weeks, if not months, to work out of my system. It’s not like they can spare that kind of time (or that I could afford it).
In reality, most Mental Health Hospitals have multiple levels of care, something I discovered a little bit later.
But at that point, when she told me I needed to check myself into the ER, I didn’t know much about any of this.
In fact, I refused to check myself in immediately. I couldn’t do that to Painted and the girls. I wanted one last night with them. Talk to Painted. Tell others. I wasn’t planning on going out and killing myself right then and there.
I wanted to get ready. Heh, I was still incredibly ignorant.
I took the time to tell Painted the situation (she didn’t take it well. Who would?). I sent out texts to my job and a few of my friends, informing everyone that I didn’t know what sort of communication tools I would have after this point.
But I did have that last night. I had dinner with Painted, got to give my kids hugs and kisses and even got to spend some time gaming and getting away from all of it.
However, before that I happened, I had to do my research.
Deciding on a Facility
Originally, I was going to check myself into the closest main hospital--the same hospital we had both of our children at, actually--a place I’m going to call Alto Hospital. I did a significant amount of research into the facility and realized they had another Alto Hospital near the beach, which I’ll just called “Alto Beach.” That’s actually where their mental health care facility is. And it seemed very extensive. I was actually impressed, though I remember being put off by the idea of a Ketamine Clinic, since I knew that was a horse tranquilizer (I should add the only reason I knew that is because of an episode of Psych, when the drug was used to kill someone accidentally, not a great thing to have come up in your mind when you’re considering this). They had more than that, including an incredible outpatient program, but we’ll get to that later.
However, my mother recommended I look into University of California Irvine’s psychiatric facilities. I think highly of UCI, as I was diagnosed with ADHD & ODD through a study done by UCI. In fact, in another life, I could have gone there for my degree (I had actually been accepted to the University, but I hadn’t been mature enough to take it).
(If you’re wondering why I’m saying UCI outright, but not the actual name of “Alto Hospital,” UCI is big enough that they have facilities all over. As for Alto Hospital and Alto Beach, those facilities are a bit too close to home, so I’d like to keep some semblance of privacy.)
I did my research online between the two facilities, asked Kathy by text for recommendations and after going back and forth for quite some time, I finally decided I would go with UCI.
Looking back, my ignorance still overwhelms me, but I think it’s forgivable at this point. I’m going to a hospital for something I’ve never done before and I had about a few hours worth of research. Who was I to know the details?
That night I actually packed. Ironically, it felt very much like going to a con. I got my travel bag set up, the same luggage I’d used for every con last year and EFNW this year. That was surreal. I packed my clothes, and basically treated it like some sort of overnight stay at a hotel.
If you have any experience with this, you’ll know how foolish this was. If you don’t, you’ll find out.
I did take the time to try and get Painted some help over the next few days, but that didn’t end up working out for reasons out of my control.
After talking with my Mom a bit, she volunteered to take me to the hospital the next morning. I took her up on the offer.
But even then, I was freaked out. I was bouncing between shock, terror and depression. I fled into one of my many escape rooms, where I could be someone else for a time, and that helped a little.
And then, I tried to get some sleep.
UCI: The Check-In
The next morning, Painted got the girls up as I slowly rose. I took my shower, did all my usual stuff… but we told both girls that I was going into the hospital. I got hugs and kisses from all three of them. It was a painful, but I think at that time I was in “Crisis Response Mode” and I wasn’t feeling much of everything, save for a constant low-level panic attack.
I did my announcement to the Nook this morning, made sure I had all my ducks in a row, communications-wise. And then… after Painted took the girls to work with her, I waited.
Mom arrived shortly afterward. We headed for Starbucks and while at a street corner I remember thinking “I should just jump out in front of a car.” Yes, it was still happening.
I, of course, didn’t do it and instead, I got my breakfast of a Venti London Fog and a piece of Banana Bread. Then, at long last, we headed to UCI.
I remember just chatting about everything and anything with Mom. It wasn’t all serious doom and gloom. We just talked about life, my research and other things. Small things.
Looking back, I suspect neither of us wanted to talk about what was about to happen. She was there to fill in information gaps and to just be a supportive Mom, something I desperately needed. And she was that.
What I remember about the check-in is that UCI’s rooms seemed a lot older and less high-tech than I expected. The walls needed a new coat of paint. They had old plastic chairs. The staff--at least the reception staff--seemed a little bored of everything. The nurses who took my vitals were nice.
I’m probably stalling here. I have a tendency to start to describe the environment and events without emotions to avoid said emotions. In reality, I doubt I was feeling much in the way of emotions, as I was just trying to get through the experience.
So let’s move on to talking to the intake nurse.
Courage & Desperation
Throughout this process, my Mom told me how courageous I was. Even you folks went on at length about my courage for coming out and talking about this openly without fear. Well, to be honest, I didn’t feel courageous. I felt desperate. Desperate to make it stop. That I’d do anything to make it stop, because the only other option was to end everything.
One thing I’d figured out during all of this is that courage and desperation are all too similar. I still don’t know which one I have (and which one I’m still struggling with). Maybe it’s both. Probably both.
I know I didn’t feel courageous, but as I’ve seen from the comments from the last post, a lot of people see it. So maybe desperation is often what we feel inside and courage is what shows on the outside.
Or maybe I’m just too tired to think about this clearly.
Psychiatric Triage
First and foremost: since this incident, I have learned that every hospital and mental health facility is different, sometimes radically so. What follows is an account of my experience with the UCI Medical Center ER and going in as a voluntary patient. Some places are going to be better, some places are going to be worse.
Either way, if you need help, go through the process. And more than anything else, be honest. This is probably going to be the most difficult part of the process, but it’s absolutely critical.
The first step into getting psychiatric care was the same as most ERs: getting the vitals. The difference, in this case, was that there was a large campus security guard there who did a quick pat down. Not surprising, since even if I was voluntary, they needed to be sure I didn’t have anything on me that could cause harm to myself or others.
Then came the rest. A second set of vitals, the conversations with a few nurses and a quick meeting with a doctor, the quick review of my insurance paperwork. It didn’t take too long. As most of you know, my primary coping mechanism is humor, so I was trying my best to make everyone around me laugh. I did a pretty good job of it.
That was in the ER though.
Once I moved into the psychiatric part of the process, I got moved to a room with a glass separator between the nurse and myself (laid out a little like a ping-pong table). I know this was to keep the nurse safe in case I had a problem or some sort of violent episode (at least, I think so).
My mother joined me in my half of the tiny room and I sat down across from the intake nurse, who we’ll call Jenny. She was actually quite nice and we chatted about all manner of things. We talked about options.
Her job as an intake nurse was to figure out what level of care I needed. Good thing too, because I didn’t even know really what kind of care options were available.
At first, they weren’t sure if I even needed a full standard ER admit. One of the options presented was a form of “assisted living,” where I would live in a dedicated home for a time, a therapist there, group sessions for talking about issues and similar situations. Often, these places are similar in concept to “detox” clinics for people who are addicted to drugs, alcohol and similar stuff.
I admit, I was surprised when the option was broached. I wasn’t a fan of that idea all that much (I especially didn’t like the idea of having to share a room with someone, which was a given for this program--and ironically for any other).
Once again, I got another comment about just how self-aware I am of my troubles.
Then the fateful question came.
”If you had a suicidal thought or plan, do you feel you could come to a member of the staff before potentially acting on it?”
I thought long and hard about the answer to the question, but in the end, I had to be honest. I told them it wasn’t a matter of deciding to come to them first. It was a problem of that the thought happened so damn fast that I didn’t think I’d have enough time to contact someone.
If I’m driving down a freeway at 70 mph (okay fine, I normally do 80 mph. I was born and raised in Southern California. If you’re not doing 15 mph above, you’re driving crazy slow.) and I was struggling with depression, if a suicidal ideation hits me really hard… I might make a mistake I can’t come back from… a very fatal mistake.
To answer their question succinctly… “no.”
With that, we eventually decided that I did need to be admitted.
However, they warned me that an ongoing problem in Southern California is that there’s a severe lack of beds in psychiatric facilities. According to Jenny, this problem has been going on for something like seven years!
So, the catch was: I had no idea where I would actually end up. Even though I had gone here with the intent to get treated at UCI, it could very well not happen.
But, I needed help. So, we took it… and I was admitted to UCI Medical Center.
Within the Walls
After that, I was escorted to the section of the ER dedicated to patients who were at a risk to themselves. There was only about six or seven rooms in this section (at least as far as I could see). This… this was a scary moment. The age of the facility really showed here. Paint was flaking, the bathroom was incredibly cramped… and you start noticing all the little changes they made to prevent someone from hurting themselves. Changes to the sink, the toilet… everything.
I was required to strip completely naked, save for my underwear, and put on one of those hospital gowns (yup, they always open in the back). My mom helped me put the damn thing on. For the record, since then, I’ve encountered ones that were glorified napkins, so I had a fairly decent one at UCI.
More painful however, what finding out that the facility had no room for my luggage. I was required to give up everything. My iPhone, iPad… even my damn FitBit Alta. They put it all off to the side, but made it very clear I wouldn’t be permitted to have ANY of it save for a single change of clothes, my pre-existing medication and a book or two.
After that, I got a short parade of doctors at random intervals. I talked about the various thoughts that had come into my head, my theories on medications and the dates things had changed.
I remember once doctor asked me the same question twice. I believe it was “Do you know how long you’ve been here?” Without a damn watch, I didn’t have a clue, but I guessed 4-5 hours. They do that to test how lucid you are. I also remember almost saying 3-4 hours the second time, and I cannot say why.
The specifics, of course, are rather personal, so I won’t go into those. I do remember that the ER doctors made several changes, like yanking me off a couple medications, such as Adderall and Prozac. They were concerned that Adderall would throw off everything else, since it is a Class II Controlled Substance (and they had other reasons as well).
I remember during the chats with the doctors, my Mom got a little overexcited. She actually interrupted me a few times when we were discussing past history. I had to call her on it, which she quickly apologized for. Heh. She also slipped that apparently I was tested as a child and determined to have a 146 IQ. Like that matters, anyway. I don’t believe in it, but I thought it was funny as hell that this comes up for the FIRST TIME while I’m at a psychiatric facility!
Alone
Despite everything, my Mom couldn’t stay forever. She had to work the next day, so around 4 PM, we had to say our goodbyes. That was not a good time for me. I was very scared, but I was also deep in shock.
After they provided a truly terrible lunch and dinner (seriously, these guys nailed cliche horrible hospital food. Only thing missing was the jello. Also? They only gave us spoons.), I read for a bit. What do I read, you ask?
The Slow Regard for Quiet Things by Patrick Rothfuss.
I didn’t realize just how perfect this book was for my life right then and there. I knew Auri from The Kingkiller Chronicles (Name of the Wind and Wise Man’s Fear), but I never realized we’d get to see a story from her perspective. I saw so much of myself in her. She helped me get through a lot in those first few days.
In the end though, I became desperate for something to process my thoughts, so I got this notebook here:
(The stickers and coloring was added later at the inpatient facility I was transferred to).
They were kind enough to give me that and a pencil and I scribbled like a madman. At first, my handwriting was horrific. But quickly, writing longhand came back to me. And I just wrote as much as I could. Sadly, without the Adderall, my attention span was slipping very quickly. Soon, the only thing that could keep me occupied were books.
Thank God for my hyperfocus ability.
I’m going to be transparent with you guys here and actually give you a direct quote from my composition book:
I just heard 3 terrifying screams/cries from down the hall. Stuff straight out of some horror movie. And right as I was nodding off. I'm suddenly exhausted. Mind is wandering, but oddly descriptive violent images. Also almost worn down my pencil.
The next entry:
Thoughts are jumbled & chaotic. Panic attacks. Terror over what happens next, hopelessness on that no one is available tomorrow morning.
(Painted had work, Mom was helping Pa with some medical stuff, I didn't have Heart's contact information and Mono would likely be at work (didn't have her information either))
Also, still stuck in a semiloud ER ward with the door cracked.
I was hit with exhaustion just after dinner & a little reading. So much I wondered if one of the meds was something else (like a sleeping pill).
I suspect I'm the most lucid person here. And that feels humiliating.
Wish mom could have stayed
Dizzy foggy, mind racing, ideations intermittent, but detailed, memory cloudy and spotty.
Even in this state, I knew I was likely the most lucid there… and it’s scary.
Transfer
Around 9:30-10PM, one of the social workers (who I saw once), came in to tell me they’d found a bed for me. And it wasn’t at UCI.
It was at a place we’ll call Mesa Heights Hospital. It was located in a city almost 50 miles away from my house. A city that wasn’t known for being the nicest place. My grandparents had a place there when I was a kid and while I loved that house, I do remember that the area around it sometimes bordered on dangerous.
I was shocked and terrified. I tried to see if I had any choice in the matter, and to my total lack of surprise, I didn’t. I contacted both Painted and my Mom. Painted took it really hard. I couldn’t believe I would be forcing her to drive there (she’s never liked Southern California highways).
At this point, I was consumed by guilt and fear. Even then, I regretted not going to Alto Hospital. But for all I know, I would have gotten the same treatment. There’s no way to know.
My Mom talked about keeping my shields down in the new area… and once I found out that the new facility took my insurance, I just waited for an ambulance to transport me. Thankfully, once the ambulance staff arrived, I went into PR Mode and cheerily chatted with them the entire time.
The guy in the back with me seemed actually rather pleased to get someone to talk who was lucid and sane. I can’t imagine what those poor souls have to do. Do you realize that EMTs do 24-hour shifts?! Can you believe that?!
We talked about video games, work, his plans for the future… all sorts of stuff. If the circumstances hadn’t been different, it would have been nice.
Mesa Heights: Arrival
I don’t know when I arrived at Mesa Heights, save for that it was maybe 1 AM. The trip had taken an hour or so. I remember being strapped into that damn gurney… though thankfully they kept my hands free--though mostly I kept them crossed.
Don’t get me wrong. Even though the Mesa Heights group managed to get me with a smile, I was freaked out of my mind. Still, I waved goodbye as they transferred me to Mesa Heights.
Then, came the security things. Everything with a string was removed, like my shoelaces and my belt. Those were secured. Medication (of course) was confiscated. I didn’t have anything else really, but I did manage to keep my glasses and sunglasses, because I had to, else I’d get massive headaches.
I went through all the paperwork in the cool, dim facility--within the secured wing--with a member of their night shift nursing staff. They managed to get me a bed in one of the geriatric rooms. The geriatric wing was only a secured door away from where I normally would be (I don’t recall the name, save for the wing names, 2A and 2B). I was put there because they didn’t have room on the normal side.
Quickly, I went to bed… though I slept badly, namely because the roommate was a poor delusional elderly gentlemen who seemed to take extreme guidance even to move around a room. That was rather disruptive.
But I did get a few hours of sleep, I think.
Then, at 5 in the morning, I was woke up for my first day in an inpatient psychiatric hospital.
First Impressions of Mesa Heights
First of all, let’s get one thing straight: I was not in an asylum.
The pop culture version of insane asylums are actually from the mid-1900s. The stuff you would see in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest or stuff like Arkham Asylum is exceedingly rare--if not completely out-of-date. The United States, at the very least, has gone through a couple waves of changing a lot of long-term psychiatric care into shorter-term care.
However, the purpose of this post isn’t to talk about the political, social and economic impact of the changes in mental health facilities.
The primary goal of a facility like Mesa Heights is stabilization.
Mesa Heights is not outfitted for long-term care. Now, there may be facilities in my area that are, but those are very rare these days. They’re designed to get you lucid and functional again, then they hand you off to an outpatient program.
That being said, they don’t WANT to keep you there, but they absolutely will if they judge you’re still a danger to yourself (or others). That’s their job. That’s what they do.
Much of my time at Mesa Heights is somewhat blurry. This isn’t due to medication or some sort of bizarre treatment, but more for the fact that the section of the hospital I was in only had a single clock, and it was by the nurse’s station. Of course, my room was literally as far as you could get from the nurse’s station. And since I wasn’t permitted my FitBit and Painted now had my iPhone, I had to use the Nurse’s station as a general idea of the time. Why they had a setup like that, I had no idea.
According to my second roommate (the poor elderly gentlemen who was completely out of it was moved to another room the first day), all the rooms once had clocks, but the staff at the facility said that wasn’t the case. In this matter, I’m more inclined to believe the staff.
No, the most frustrating thing for me personally was being deprived of normal writing tools.
I was actually forced to write in my composition book in crayon.
Yes, you read that right, crayon.
The first day, they were dull, stubby crayons. My handwriting is actually impossible to read in sections of my composition book. I still wrote in it, of course, because I had to process what was going on around me.
Now, I’m sure you’re asking “Why the hell would they not let him have a pencil, even one of those short golf pencils?”
To answer your question, it’s because someone stabbed themselves in the eye with one of those pencils in December of 2017.
...yup.
I even asked the psychiatrist, who we’ll call Dr. J, if there was a way to get a pencil. He was surprised by the rule (he’d probably never had a patient ask), but he was informed by my case manager--in the room at the time--why the rule had been instituted.
Yup. Someone tried to kill themselves with a pencil, so Mesa Heights was forced to ban all pencils from the psychiatric wings. Don’t get me wrong, I can see their reason. I even agree with it--more or less--but it still sucked.
But if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s working with the tools I have on hand in a true crisis. So, I asked Painted if she would bring me a box of brand-new sharpened crayons (and in case you’re wondering, any sharpener had to be kept up at the nurse’s station). Thankfully, those lasted me the rest of my stay.
Mesa Heights, Day One
My first morning was spent doing labs--drawing blood and other materials--and meeting some of the staff. I didn’t get a tour or anything. But I did start to encounter my fellow patients.
Some of them seemed just like me. People struggling through some serious issues. Some people were nothing like me. There was a very wide range of patients at Mesa Heights. We had people who were constantly preaching their religion—something that made me intensely uncomfortable—such as one I’ll call Preacher. We had someone who insisted of being called Doctor Teacher, because they were going to be attending a doctorate program after they got out. She also wouldn’t shut up. About anything.
If you think I talk a lot, you might rethink that after dealing with a few of these folk (Hell, I thought I talked a lot, but this… was something else entirely).
There were a great many people who were 5150’d (The California term for a mandatory involuntary 72-hour psychiatric hold on someone). There were also people who were 5250’d (which means the involuntary hold is extended to up to 14 days). There were only a handful of voluntaries, such as myself.
Now, I should point out something. While I was there voluntarily, I could be 5150’d if I was deemed a danger to myself or others if I tried to leave without the approval of one of the on-site psychiatrists. That being said, the absolute maximum I’ve heard of is up to 30 days. In reality, there are a great many laws in place for the protection of the patient’s rights. I heard many stories of the hearings people had when they disagreed with a 5150 or a 5250. Some people won those fights, some lost them.
I remember the bitterness of many people who lost those battles. But I also remember them describing their condition and thinking “You belong here, my friend. You need to be here.” I also remember when “Doctor Teacher” won that battle and how happy people were to get her the hell out of the unit so we didn’t have to listen to her constantly ramble or get in fights with “Preacher.”
While I have personally experienced that not all psychiatrists are trained equally, I do still believe in the wisdom of psychiatrists in general. I had gone into this knowing that I needed treatment for my conditions. I decided that I could no longer trust my own judgement in these important matters. So, I decided to trust them. I’ll admit that I also knew that the quickest way to get forced into staying longer than I wanted was to fight with the system.
Each patient saw their psychiatrist once a day. My psychiatrist, Dr. J, quickly made a few changes to my medications. It was a very rushed session, but he put me back on Adderall. In fact, I was on all my regular medications, but the dosages and times were slightly different. Except, of course, the Prozac. That was yanked without me really even noticing.
Note: If you take Prozac, I am not advocating that you stop taking it. Most psychiatrists I’ve spoken to say that my reaction to it was extremely unusual. Do not change any psychiatric medication without consulting your psychiatrist first.
Now, let’s get down to brass tacks.
The first day was hell for me. I was under nonstop panic attacks, likely due to the fact that almost all therapy within Mesa Heights was group therapy, something I was completely unused to. To make things worse, groups were usually dominated by one or two people and their views tended to make me climb into my shell. The nursing staff did not do very a good job of controlling the group therapy sessions.
I couldn’t talk to either my Mom or Painted, as they were both at work. For reasons still beyond my comprehension, the staff actually kept the news running in the main lounge, complete with all the stories of death, murder, chaos and war.
I felt terrified, ashamed and humiliated just by being there. Just by being around these people (I know how this sounds… and I’ll admit before all of this, it was as bad as it sounds. I had a lot more prejudice against folks struggling with mental health than I ever knew. It’s a battle I’m still fighting, but reprogramming the mind is a long and drawn-out process).
Ironically though, the idea of leaving never even crossed my mind. Well, at least not yet.
Mesa Heights, Day Two
Wednesday was easily my lowest point during my entire stay, as Painted wouldn’t be able to come and visit me during the visiting hours. She was deathly afraid of trying to drive up through the freeways to get to me, something I can understand. Still, it left me feeling very alone. I remember thinking back to Monday evening when Kate said that “this is as low as you’re going to go” and thinking how wrong she was. I knew this was my lowest point.
...I was still wrong.
At this point, I did consider leaving. The group sessions weren’t much help. I’d spoken to people at lunch and dinner who were heroin addicts and were going to be picked up by their dealers once they left the facility after three days (a situation where the staff at the facility can’t do a lot, due to the laws in place for the protection of patients).
My depression was at an all-time high. I felt totally helpless and totally hopeless. The fact that our only entertainment was either puzzles, coloring books, crayons or TV seemed to hammer in all of the Hollywood BS. I actually smuggled a crayon out of the lounge so I could write in my room. At least there I could read the books I had brought with me.
I did finally get ahold of my Mom… but she didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that it was a good idea for me to leave. She didn’t agree. She pushed me to get the most I could out of the program, to open up in the groups. She reminded me that one of my primary goals was to stabilize my medication.
While painful, I still did it. I forced myself to engage in what’s called “Process Groups.”
Process Groups are the primary form of therapy in Mesa Heights. It consisted of all the current patients in a certain type (2A, for example). Sometimes the nurse would come in and have a topic. Sometimes, they’d just let us talk. Some were more directed, some were totally fluid. Some nurses seemed outright mean, some nurses seemed to really care.
The Mesa Heights program tended to alternate between Process Groups and Activity Groups. Activity Groups were social activities, designed (I think) to prevent people from isolating, which can be dangerous if you’re suicidal. Stuff like karaoke, social games like “What’s Up” and similar things. As my time went on, I started to skip the Activity Groups and instead stayed in my room to either read or write, but I always attended the Process Groups.
I may not have gotten much from them, but I was determined to get what I could. I met some good people in there. Some people I would eventually call friends.
However, before I went to sleep, I did finish The Slow Regard for Silent Things.
I’ll just quote right out of my journal for this.
I just finished "The Slow Regard of Silent Things." It's a cute, sweet story, surreal and broken.
About a girl who knows she's broken. About a girl who struggles to make it right.
And when she needs to be, a girl who's an incredibly skilled alchemical genius and can face her demons when she has to for a friend.
The perfect story for a broken person heading into (or out of), their own Underthing.
Seeking Options
One thing I can definitely confirm is that the beds in Mesa Heights are terrible. I mean, I’d wake up with terrible cramps in my back and neck. Like, jeez, horrible stuff.
That second day, I spoke to my psychiatrist about leaving. One of the most important elements of any psychiatric facility is making sure that any discharged patient is safe after leaving the premises. So, they do something called “contracting for safety” (basically, making sure that you’re not going to hurt yourself) with your external support structure. In this case, it was my family, specifically Painted.
A key part to being discharged is a Family Meeting, a chat between the staff at the hospital and the family outside. First of all, to make sure that the person inside the facility isn’t hiding or putting a face on everything (something I’m quite capable of doing, but I had made a conscious effort not to do). Second, to make sure there was an action plan in place if the symptoms came back.
The good news was that for me, a family meeting’s best outcome would be me going home with Painted. Sadly, that didn’t happen exactly as I hoped because of a medication change, but it was only delayed by a single day.
I should also mention that I actually wore my Everfree Northwest 2018 Attendee shirt to the ER. Since I didn’t get a change of clothes until Thursday night, that’s what I ended up wearing. A few people ended up asking me about it. I remember hestating for a moment, then just stating boldly where I got the shirt from, what it was and what I did. I refused to be ashamed about it (though no one really tried to make me feel ashamed), but I challenged people about watching MLP vs. the news. Which would make a person happier? Which is better for their mental health? Which is better for your mind and heart?
(Okay, maybe I was ready for a fight when none existed. Oh well.)
In fact, I even shared my Novel-Idea account with one of the patients who did contact me through FimFiction later (she got out earlier than I did and I admit I wasn’t ready to reply to anything on FimFiction for some time after leaving the hospital).
Now, I should say here that the suicidal ideation had decreased by this point, but I still didn’t really know what “better” looked like. Since my suicidal ideation was so random and sudden, I didn’t know how to control it. In the end, I did end up getting a One on One therapy session and they gave me some recommendations (mostly about reframing the thoughts after they occurred, something I had never thought of before then).
However, I did find out that Painted had contacted Kate and Kate knew where I was. Kate had spoken with my case manager there (a therapist or member of the staff assigned to you specifically). I wouldn’t find out until later that what my case manager told me and what Kate had actually said were two wildly different things, but otherwise, Kate knew of the Mesa Heights through a co-worker and said she’d heard good things about it.
Otherwise, I actually had a decent day. Doing a 500-piece puzzle with three other girls was a wonderful challenge (even if I had somehow transported the last piece back to my room and had to bring it back). I had made a couple friends there by then. Doing a puzzle at a hospital like Mesa Heights being a cliche or not, I ended up having a bit of fun.
But the best news I got that day was that Painted would indeed be there that evening.
Painted’s First Visit
Painted will be here shortly. I can't wait to see her. Not being able to text her at a moment's notice is killing me. I really do miss her. I miss my life. I wonder if that's part of the point [of this place].
I'm tired and want to just rest. I want my own clothes and bathroom stuff, toothbrush and sandals.
I want to hold my wife and not feel so alone.
Having to give up my whole support structure is just... nightmarish...
I think I'll read as I wait.
- Quote from my composition book; Timestamp: 5:30 PM on July 19, 2018
Due to a fire in a neighboring city, Painted ended up being thirty minutes late, but she did get there. And having her there… was everything I needed for a boost to survive, even if I could see just how painful this whole thing was for her. We talked about the girls, meds… everything. We were even lucky enough to get some privacy when one of the floor nurses let us have an empty office with the door shut. No, nothing happened, just… talking.
I gave her several impassioned kisses before leaving… just trying to tell her how much I missed her through that simple act, because words weren’t enough.
Even more surprising, Painted had actually made a card for me, with a picture from Mother’s Day 2018 (though I couldn’t remember that for quite a while). The card is below (with names changed, of course).
...I have an amazing wife.
In fact, here’s one of my quotes from the end of the night:
Honestly, this much care from Painted, Mono and the others reminds me why I'm fighting those fucking voices.
I have a good feeling about this.
This is what I need to remember. Even when life is kicking my ass.
I got people who love me.
Little Things
The thing about these places is they’re designed to make sure the staff can check on us at any time. The bathrooms don’t have locks, the shower stalls are tiny (and mine was activated by pushing a button that let water flow for about 30-45 seconds) and there are two beds in the room. We aren’t permitted to keep our toiletries in the bedrooms (or even our clothing outside of a single set of clothes) and all of our personal belongings must be searched before we’re permitted to use them.
While they provide the most basic stuff you need (shampoo, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, etc,), I was so very happy to get some of my own stuff. Made me feel human again. Even if I had to press that damn button a good 20-30 times, that was one of the best showers I’ve ever had.
Thankfully, my new roommate never made anything awkward. Heh. Older gentlemen by the name of Wolfgang. He’d been there for quite some time (a couple weeks, I think), but he was a good guy. We had some good chats.
Mesa Heights, Day Three
If you ever have to be a patient with a psychiatric hospital, you might end up in a few awkward situations, depending on your family and friend situation. I had one or two difficult moments with some members of my family.
After speaking with my psychiatrist and case manager, it sounded like I would be able to go home the next day (Saturday). Even better, I found out that Painted could do a phone interview, which was fantastic, because I absolutely refused to have either of the fillies anywhere near this place (and it was against hospital policy to have anyone below the age of 13 beyond the lobby, I believe).
However, a member of my family disagreed and believed I should stay longer. Honestly, I was completely over the place and ready to move on with my life, so I wasn’t especially thrilled. After a long discussion about it, we agreed that I would try to contact Kate (who happened to be out of town for a family thing at the time) and get her opinion directly.
Even then, I agreed that if Kate said I should stay, I promised I would stay. I didn’t want to. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But I would. I refused to let this thing become an involuntary stay. It would just complicate matters so much more.
Considering how my case manager did not convey Kate’s feelings properly, I do wish I had been able to do that, but that wasn’t in the cards. According to my case manager, Kate was “good with how I feel on this. If I want a few extra days, that's fine. If I want to go home, that's fine.”
Sadly, despite numerous attempts, I couldn’t get ahold of Kate before my time was up.
That family member wanted me to stay a minimum of one week.
In my situation, I decided to trust the therapists and the psychiatrists in the facility. The nurses were taking copious notes on everything I did and said (as to be expected). They had a much better picture than my family did about my current mental state. I had to trust them. If I couldn’t trust them, then what was the point of the stay?
The Reality of Mental Health Care
Now comes the difficult part of this blog. Since leaving Mesa Heights, going to Alto briefly and then finally joining the “Partial Hospitalization Program” at Ulysses Hospital (more on them later), I have heard many stories of other facilities.
For example, there is a psychiatric facility called College Hospital, Cerritos (and yes, that's the real name of the facility). I’ve heard terrible stories about this place from ex-patients, therapists at Ulysses and even Kate herself. Stories about staff drinking on the job, uncaring nurses and apathetic staff. I have not gone there.
On the last day of my time at Ulysses Hospital, I heard an even more troubling story about a young woman being physically assaulted there by her female roommate. This happened twice. In addition, in the cafeteria, her food was actually stolen. At no point did the staff do anything. She did comment that she was in a particular section of Cerritos and she was moved afterwards. Once that happened, she didn’t have those kinds of incidents.
I did not experience it, so I cannot tell you anything for sure.
You know my experience with Dr. G. You know not all psychiatrists are equal. Unfortunately, not all psychiatric hospitals are, either. It’s a horrible truth, but it’s there.
If you think you’re not getting the best care, first remember that psychiatric hospitals are designed for short-term care. Their job is to stabilize you mentally so you can be outside without being a direct threat to yourself. It’s not a place to work out twenty years of abuse, denial or repressed emotions.
In reality, mental health is a very multifaceted system, but to give you an idea, here are some fo the key avenues of mental health support.
1. Close Friends & Family - I’ve recently found that there’s a difference between kinds of friends. I had friends in the past where I wanted to be more open emotionally, but they couldn’t do that for a bunch of different reasons (more on this later). However, if you can find people you can talk to without putting up walls or shields (or can work them down), this is a key element of your mental health.
2. Therapists - Therapists can be found in a number of different places. You can find them in the workplace (look up your workplace’s Employee Assistance Program, for example, most places give you six sessions free) or outside in private practices. There are probably 30 within 10 miles of your home (for me, it would probably be like a couple hundred). There are even programs where you can get therapy online, either through text or through video chats.
3. Pastors/Lay Counselors - If this makes you more comfortable, churches often have counseling programs (or have a list of referrals). While I had a rough time with this, my experiences have been limited to counseling through one church and talking to a pastor in one other. Remember though that these people are usually certified by the church in question. They may not have the training or knowledge base of a traditional therapist.
4. Psychiatrists - Reality check: psychiatrists are usually not there to talk to you about your problems. These are MD’s whose job it is to see if you require medication for your problems and, if you do, figure out what medication. They’re there to figure out the dosage, the type, the frequency and to know potential side-effects. They are not therapists. In reality, most psychiatrists should be working hand-in-hand with a therapist for your care, but sometimes this doesn’t happen.
5. Wellness Centers - This is a newer form of treatment I wasn’t aware about until recently. These are community centers where care can cost a nominal sum or be entirely free. Some of them are done in association with NAMI (National Alliance of Mental Illness). I’m still learning about these places, so more on this later.
6. Hotlines & Social Support - Folks like Heartshine are a great example of the kind of people on the other side of the phones for some of these issues. Not only that, but Monochromatic’s The Choices We Make is a brilliant insight into the struggle when it comes to the people who actually talk to the suicidal people on the other ends of desperate phone calls. These people are there to help you as well. Don’t forget about them.
7. Outpatient Programs - Mesa Heights had an outpatient program, but it was too far away for me to attend, so I was referred to another location (Alto Hospital) and eventually went to Ulysses Hospital. These places run off of insurance (they tend to be extremely expensive otherwise) and may provide in-house psychiatric care, where you’ll go to Process Groups at least 4 times a day and see a psychiatrist at least once a week (depending on your needs). These programs can last anywhere from a few weeks to a few months, though I’ve met people who’ve been attending them for a few years (they tend to be the outliers).
8. Inpatient Programs - Mesa Heights, UCI Medical Center, Alto Hospital and Ulysses Hospital all have inpatient programs, which is what I’ve been describing, of course. These are facilities where you actually live in the hospital, have round-the-clock care and observation. These are for when you’re a critical risk.
Just like not all friends can handle emotional support, not all therapists are the proper fit. Sometimes you may just not jive with a person. And that’s okay. The same goes for the rest of the things on this list.
I’ve struggled with this part of the blog for weeks, but in the end, I decided you needed to know the truth. As I said at the beginning, mental health care is far from perfect in the United States.
Real talk: I’m afraid of scaring you and preventing you from getting the necessary medical care you may need if you’re in a crisis. But, I also feel that lying to you and telling you that all hospitals and avenues of support contain people who are basically human Fluttershys… that’s only going to cause more pain. Some of you have dealt with the harsh reality of mental health care and know that there’s room for a ton of improvement. Some of you have had great experiences with loving and kind people.
Despite all that, I must admit that it’s extremely rare to get to transfer between Inpatient Programs. Usually, you aren’t there for long and while I doubt you’ll ever find a “fun” Inpatient Program, it takes a step of faith. It’s terrifying. It’s scary. It’s freaky. But remember what I said? Courage is desperation from the other side?
It still holds true.
It’s worth it. If you need help, get it. Whatever you have to do to get it, get it.
Mesa Heights, Night Three
During the course of Day Three, I got to say goodbye to a few of my new friends as they completed their treatment.
In the end though, I had one question… would I actually get to go home? The Family Meeting was set for the next day (this would have been Saturday) and I prayed I would finally get to go home. Mono and Swan would be coming out with Painted (sadly, Jyki couldn’t make it because of a work thing).
I thought it would be so damn perfect if I got released that day, because if that was the case, we were so going out to Benihana’s to celebrate my release. It was going to be awesome. That being said, I tried desperately not to get my hopes up too high, as I didn’t want to spiral or get slammed with a depression episode. That wouldn’t do my any favors.
That being said, I had protested the dosage of Adderall Dr. J had put me on. I was having massive trouble keeping my impulses under control during the evening. It was really flipping hard to say consistent or logical. I was bursting out with things to say (an ongoing issue from my lack of medication) and it made it very difficult to concentrate. He had me on 15 mg every 6-8 hours, where my normal dosage was 10 mg every 4 hours.
That being said, I was very much looking forward to the next night. I enjoyed a lot of reading and then crashed.
A Note on Medication
I’ve had several personal editorials in this blog, from remembering to get help if you need it, to the truth behind that some places kinda suck when it comes to mental health care.
Here’s another one—one that I talked about a little bit in Part 1—is that every single one of us has different biologies.
For example, 10mg of Adderall has a half-life (designed to be effective for a specific length of time) of 6 hours. Well, it doesn’t work like that for me. For me, it is very definitely 4 hours. This caused some hiccups at Mesa Heights and even some issues at Ulysses Hospital (at least until I convinced my psychiatrist that, yes, it only lasted for 4 hours for me). However, I didn’t really complain about that at Mesa Heights, as it was something I could work out when I was out of the program.
If you have something like this, speak to your psychiatrist about it. Their job is to help you figure it out. Let them!
Mesa Heights, Day Four
Well, sadly, my first meeting of the day didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. Dr. J wanted to see how I did with the adjustment to my Adderall and how I did at my family meeting before signing me off for the day (and since the family meeting wasn’t until 2PM, not a lot was going to happen there).
I removed myself from public and put on a mostly-brave face for everyone around me, not to let the disappointment show too badly. I even tried to move my friends to visiting on Sunday instead of that day, but sadly, it wasn’t in the cards.
The process groups were pretty typical that day and I got very little out of them, but I was very happy to see my family meeting going ahead roughly on time. There was some minor confusion as to who was handling things, but we got it sorted out.
Real fact: the staff in these places are usually run ragged. It’s okay to push lightly, but don’t be a jerk about it (honestly, this is a true story for ANY situation).
The Family Meeting
We did the family meeting by phone, which was a conference call between a therapist (my case manager wasn’t available), myself and Painted. Painted didn’t say a lot (which is fairly typical for her), but I forced myself to shut up and let the therapist ask her questions. That helped a little.
In the end, I got another compliment about how well I knew my own issues and a very positive result from the meeting. The therapist did come across as being rather trite and cliche, but it was things I could ignore, honestly. I didn’t care. She was a means to an end.
Since then, I have realized that just because statements are trite and cliche doesn’t make them untrue. It helps when you have 6-8 weeks of processing to really dig deep into yourself to really make you come face-to-face with your own prejudices. I had a great many more than I expected.
All that being said, things went well and it seemed like I would likely be going home on Sunday.
Acceptance
I’ll come clean with you folks about something that’s been going on for as long as I can remember: I almost always do better with groups of women than I do with groups of men. Hell, hearing the phrase “groups of men” makes me nervous for reasons I can’t fully explain. My time at Mesa Heights was no different. The young women there seemed more than happy to have me around (at least as far as I can tell, as I said before, my inability to see social cues may have been bad there), but we seemed to have fun.
The company was often far better than the food at Mesa Heights (though I’ll admit that it was also often better than Ulysses Hospital, where I ended up doing my outpatient treatment). I spoke to a young woman who’d actually done some significant modeling… and sadly had to deal with some rather sexist comments from a couple other patients. I strongly encouraged her to get staff involved, though I do not know if she did that or not.
This, among other things, helped me to feel far more “me” than I had been in previous days. At this point, the shock of everything that had happened that week had started to wear off.
Oh, and by the way, this was the day where I found out that Painted had gotten Rarity (my car)’s engine check light investigated. The moment that pushed me over the edge and put me in a psychiatric hospital… ended up being a simple warning that the gas cap needed to be replaced.
...I know right?
One Crazy Lucky Person
That night, I got to spend time with my wife and two of my best, closest friends. The sheer fact that they were the ones who came out to visit me during this hellish time speaks volumes to me. Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of people who would have been there if they could, but simply couldn’t due to time restraints, work or other reasons. I don’t hold that against them.
If you’re reading this and you’re worried that you feel you didn’t do your due diligence by showing up there, don’t feel guilty. You aren’t the people I’m thinking of. I know you would have been there if you could.
I’ve seen the generosity of the FimFic community again and again. There’s a reason I named the car you all bought me Rarity, after all. I knew that even after all of this, I knew I would still have readers to come back to, a server to come back to… and a life to come back to.
You helped give me reasons to keep going.
But for those special few who happen to live close enough to say hi… well, we all know the magic of EFNW, BronyCon, Babs and the like, right? It’s like that, in miniature.
That night, Monochromatic, Swan Song and Painted Heart visited me.
There were a few silly rules. Sadly, the woman who helped Painted and I the day before wasn’t there, and instead we had some super rule-crazy nut of a nurse prowling around the hallways. Made it so we couldn’t have privacy by closing the door (though we did get the same room), and made it so I couldn’t have all three visitors, it could only be two at a time. So, we did Painted & Mono, Mono & Swan, then Painted & Swan.
The words I used for what I got to experience was “a wonderful sense of normalcy.” To see Swan and Mono banter back and forth, to see Painted join in with that banter (plus yours truly), it was a wonderfully magical thing. We talked about how fun a certain person being drunk can be. We talked about books and stories. Hell, I remember the first thing I said to Mono was if she was ready to write a sequel to The Choices We Make with me in there.
But still, they were good friends. Swan was worried I had been focusing too much on helping other people around me and not enough on myself. I assured him that wasn’t the case, though I admit I’m not entirely sure these days.
We had about an hour and fifteen minutes, all together. And it was wonderful. I am beyond lucky to have such friends as these. I’m crazy lucky, in fact. 
The Final Night
The things to remember about that night were few. I tried to encourage someone who had lost their battle to get out earlier and were instead being forced to stay for up to two weeks. She also spoke at length with another guy who was very, very angry, mad that the system didn’t understand him. In a way, I feel like I was the angel on her shoulder and he was the devil. It was difficult. Sadly, she was still there when I departed, so I don’t know when she eventually got out.
That family member I mentioned was unhappy about me potentially leaving the next day, since I had never gotten in touch with Kate. In the end, I decided to trust the therapists and psychiatrists on staff, who could see me and make a good recommendation based on my behavior. It left me with a somewhat sour taste in my mouth, but I was determined to go ahead with it.
Considering how close I got to the brink a couple weeks later… well, I can’t say what the right call was anymore.
Either way though… I was hopefully, soon clear.
Two Stars to the Right, Straight On Until Morning
The next morning, I had an early conversation with Dr. J shortly after 8:30 AM. He glanced at my paperwork, seeing how the medication had gone, as well as the family meeting. Then, he asked me a single question.
“So, you want to go home?” he asked in the most casual manner you could think of.
“Yup,” I replied.
“Okay, let’s get you home.”
And that was it. Within 2.5 hours, Painted arrived, driving Rarity up. I collected my things, finished my paperwork and I managed to say goodbye to a few folks before finally leaving that place at 11:05AM.
The only thing left for me to do was to contact the outpatient therapy program. Since Mesa Heights had contacted the groups on Friday afternoon, I would be required to make appointments with them during the week. This was the last thing on my mind. This was a mistake.
I should note that this mistake almost cost me my life.
However, that story is for another time. Instead, I finally departed the facility as a “free person” and got into Rarity. I enjoyed having my phone again (and was shocked by the emails, Discord messages and phone calls). And with a delighted sigh and my music pounding, Painted beside me in the passenger seat (I desperately needed to drive)... we headed out.
We would make one celebratory stop at Benihana’s for lunch… and then finally head home.
A Long Journey
In this moment, I’m going to pause. The story’s not done yet. I’m actually still living it, after a fashion, but I don’t be going into that much detail in these blogs.
Unbeknownst to anyone, my darkest moment was actually still to come. I have said several times that desperation and courage are two sides of the same coin. Well, there is a darker part of desperation. If you imagine desperation as a cliff, there was a point where I completely fell off, only to grab an outcropping of dirt on the way down.
At that moment, we were happy. Happy that I was home. While I didn’t really know what was next for me—save for what had been written down in preparation for my release—I just wanted to bask in my freedom, enjoy some games and have fun with my wife and kids.
The journey’s not over, not by a long shot. But in this moment, I think I did what I wrote this blog to do: to tell the true story of my experience in a psychiatric ward. There were points I was so homesick it was a miracle I didn’t break down crying (or I may have and can’t remember). There were points where I felt totally normal.
But the sensation of normalcy after leaving a place like this is fleeting. You can’t trust it. In reality, I still had massive issues I had to tackle. Nightmares and demons I had to fight.
The war isn’t over.
But I was still here.
And I’m still here now.
-Novel Idea
If you are in an immediate crisis where are you struggling with any of the above, please contact a professional psychiatrist, go to your nearest Emergency Room or contact National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
Thank you for the insight and the images painted. It helps remove some of the horror imagery people like me use in fiction from the real world.
As long as the place isn't the one in this movie
Very insightful, I'm glad you took the time to write this up and share with us.
Wishing the best for you and yours mate, cheers
"people please believe that "Life is a great thing, treasure it." - unknown (to me) is a good saying"
"Pinke says so"
"GETOUT PINKE!"
"Okiy Dokiy"
"GAAAAAAAAA I think Pinky just likes to irritate me"
(fourth edit)
Thanks for sharing.
You have my sympathies. I’ve been dealing with my own mental issues for about 15 years or so now, I had them before that but they hadn’t been diagnosed and I wasn’t taking medication. I’m extremely lucky in that I can mostly function in society just with enough caveats to make it occasionally difficult. I don’t know that I could willingly check myself into a mental hospital as contol over my environs is something I would never be able to sign away. As such I felt the need to compliment you on your bravery.
Truer words were never spoken. When I was in the Navy, I was stationed on a ballistic missile submarine for ~4 years. Getting on the boat to go out on deployment got harder every time I had to do it, and I never thought of it as something courageous, only as something that I had no choice about. Only later, after I got out, did someone with an outside perspective really say that they thought I was a lot braver than they were to be able to go out on a submarine, and only at that point did it occur to me that maybe to someone else it might look like a brave thing to do.
But still have trouble believing that, because seeing what I did as courage was never a lens I experienced it through. I'm still not really sure what to think about it.
So I don't know, that's made me hesitant sometimes about telling people they're courageous because that can unintentionally coming across as dissonant or uncomfortable or naïve. It always feels weird to me.
But what I will say is that I've been following your Quiet War posts and I'm glad you made the effort to do what it takes. Keep that up.
See you at EFNW 2019!
You really do have a way with words, Novel, to be able to express something that was so obviously trying in such a... well, well-written way. Thank you for sharing your experiences; I'm certain they will help many people.
I’m sorry you’ve had to go through so much. It sounds like you’ve had one hell of a ride. I’m happy to see you posting again. BlazzingInferno and I have been keeping you in our thoughts. Good for you for getting the help you need. Mental health issues are tricky and I’m always happy to see people speak up about their experiences because this is something no one should feel ashamed about. Something was wrong, so you got help and did what you could to make it better. I look forward to hearing more about your journey when you’re ready to share. Continue taking care of yourself. You’ve got this.
This is incredibly well presented. Also very open, and very gutting. I don't think I've thought of courage and desperation in quite this way before.
It sounds like there's a part 3 coming, and it's going to hurt.
Prayers for you and yours, my man.
Novs, I just... want you to know that I still look up to you. And that’s never gonna change. I’m so glad I’ve gotten to know you, and that you’ve been able to put up with my... uh, weirder qualities. I... don’t really have much else to say, dude, except to keep being awesome and you got this.
Thank you.
I... oh, boy. It's good to hear from you. It's been helpful to hear your account of this process--while it doesn't apply directly to me at the moment, I'm glad to have that information all the same. But even more so, I'm glad to hear that you're still here... that things have been happening to move your struggle along, that you've had some moments of happiness and normalcy (even if they were fleeting), that... frankly, that Rarity isn't having too much trouble (it's always the little things that get me the most, and car problems are extremely stressful even secondhand. That's one thing to not freak out about, at least).
As I've said before, I miss your presence around here, but I would never push you to jump back into writing and blogging and whatnot with all of this going on. I hope things get better. I know that's probably not worth all that much, but at the end of the world, what is there left to hold on to but hope and love? I'm rambling... I'm really, really not the best person to give advice right now, but I hope I've given some support, at least. I don't really know what I'm doing, but you can always count on me--and doubtlessly the rest of your followers here--for whatever support we can give. I'd like to think that good intentions count for something, even though they can lead to terrible work sometimes. Good intentions may be all I have to offer right now, but I'm giving them in full.
I think I might not be making any sense, but the point is, thanks, good luck, and I'm here to listen and help however I can.
I'll keep things nice and short this time, and just skip to the part where I say thank you again, Novel, for sharing your story and helping to defeat the stigma that shrouds the perception of mental health. Hang in there.
Thank you very much for sharing.
Thank you for sharing this.
Please don't give up. You will always have friends who are pulling for you.
Writing this must have been incredibly difficult, but I think it is very important you've done it. I'm certain it will help a lot of other people too. Thank you for it.
Your theme song.
Be well, Noble.
People like you'n me gotta fight for our daily existence, struggle harder than anyone else could ever know. It's hard, but it shapes us into the baddest motherfuckers on the planet.
Thank you for sharing that. It was a painful read for me, because it forced me to relive my own memories of the psych ward. I can't say that my time in the ward was helpful for me, but I'm glad that you got something from it. It sounds like your ward was much stricter than mine, but also that they did more to help you. I'm glad. I'll never go back. I swore that when I was not in the best frame of mind, but even now, years later, it feels right. (I've been mostly okay for a long time now.)
Yeah, I don't think it ever ends. It certainly hasn't for me. But fortunately there are ways to make it easier to fight.
Thank you for writing these posts about your experiences. It definitely helps to know we are not alone, that others have gone through many of the same things that we have. I'd like to post some of my own experiences, but so far I'm not sure I could handle doing so.
I do understand what you mean about being desperate vs. courageous, but I'm not sure the dividing line is all that sharp, there's a lot of overlap, and it's easy when desperate to just withdraw and avoid dealing with the problem, to run away and hide from it, rather than face it and address it. That's part of how I tend to handle things, which obviously isn't good.
My experiences with the mental heath system are not quite as extreme as yours, but have instilled in me a strong desire to never, ever go near any sort of in-patient facility. The thought scares me more than the suicidal ideation does.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart in sharing your insights and your story on your experiences, Novel. I know we only just met this year at EFNW, but you're an awesome person and an amazing brilliant writer and I am glad you got help and that you're still fighting the long war.
Once again, I'm going to point a friend to this blog, because she's been through this process herself for reasons that are not my place to say, and is fighting the longest war herself, and perhaps she'll find something in your story that'll help her.
I hope she does, at least.
Anyway, again, thank you for sharing your story and your thoughts. I may not be a close friend, or perhaps anything more than an acquaintance or face in the crowd, but I am once more glad to hear you're doing better, and honored to have met you at EFNW.
Keep fighting,
~Sylvian.
You are here. You don’t stop. You try to improve. You fight for family and friends. By letting us know you show us you care. You are not giving up, so we won’t give up on you. Wishes, prayers, you have them all. You have our support.
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It didn't start with you and I'm not even going to bother trying to find the origin of using madness as a terror trope. To be completely disconnected from reality is a frightening thing. And there is some truth to the horror elements of the asylums of the 1800s and early 1900s (and earlier).
But there are very few asylums around these days. And I, for one, would very much like to see the 'asylum' trope fall out of pop culture. People who are in mental health facilities deserve better. And the sense of isolation that the trope shoves on these people only drives them farther away from the light.
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Thank you very much for your kind words!
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As I said, keep fighting the Good Fight.
I totally hear you on how scary it is to get moved from one place to another. It absolutely doesn't help the chaos in your head. Unfortunately, you can thank Reagan and his crusade against mental health services for the lack of beds and facilities. He started crushing funding as soon as he became governor of California and didn't stop when he got to the White House. Our only local psychiatric hospital had to close down a few years ago when they could no longer keep running on what little funding they had, and when I checked myself in to one of the regular hospitals, they had to send me out of county. This sounds weird to say but I am so proud of you for doing as well as you did. And you're still going. That's amazing.
so many hugs
Ich hoffe nur, dass du besser fühlst.
That is a brave thing you have done. The whole journey, trudging through it, making such great effort and most importantly thanking your loved ones and never forgetting they are there. Well also for writing this whopping diary... it takes guts.
I can only relate 50%, with having been treated with antidepressants for a decade and being weaned off them. /yeah Pharmacists take meds too, we get cray cray as well sometimes/. So here is a huge amount of respect your way, for what you are going through.
You are a wonderful, unique person with a huge amount of imagination and skill. Imagine, I have only known you for a very brief time and only through your sacrifice of personal time to host the Napowrimo events, but still I am thankful you exist. You helped many a person with your talent and patience.
Now take time to fix yourself, or get repaired or whatever ;p and don't you dare think you owe anyone anything /fandom-wise I mean/. You job now is you and your family :D
You are not forgotten and true friends will be there waiting for you, even if it takes years.
I know what it's like to be without medication. I know that there are moments where everything's fine. It's the other moments that royally suck.
You are lucky. Just never settle for "good enough," because "good enough" almost cost me my wife, my girls, my job and nearly my life.
Losing my iPhone, iPad, MacBook Pro and everything else was a nightmare... but I knew that if I didn't do SOMETHING... I'd be signing away my life.
Thank you. Please remember though... I didn't feel brave then. I was desperate. Willing to do anything, including giving up everything, just to make it all stop.
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The more I think about it, the more I realize that bravery and courage is a matter of perspective. To you, it was a matter of duty or obligation (I don't know your reason for joining the service, but I thank you for it), to others, they see it as honor or bravery. Honestly, even now, I don't see what I did as courageous. I think of the terror in my mind. All the horrible stereotypes in my head... if I could point toward one thing I did that might have been courageous... it was not walking away when I still had the chance.
Everything else is up for grabs.
If you feel someone is being courageous, then say it. No one can dispute how you feel. Ever. Say it. You'll lose nothing by doing it. And who knows what they might gain?
Thank you!
I look forward to being on a panel or two with you.
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It's one of the reasons it takes SO LONG for these to go up. They're exhausting in every sense of the word. I do hope people find something they need within these. In reality, I'm presenting the facts and letting the readers come to their own conclusions.
I just hope those conclusions help people in dark places.
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Well, if there's one thing I'm incapable of... it's not writing. Heh. Thank you, both of you.
And if more people were willing to share or at least willing to admit they're not okay... well, I think we'd have a different world entirely.
I ain't done yet.
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Thank you. I wish it was fictional. That would be way more awesome.
Part 3 includes days I've come to call Dark Friday and Black Monday. The closest I ever got to the edge.
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In all honesty... it's still very strange for me to hear that from people. I'm completely unused to being anything even remotely resembling a role model. My instincts are to say "you can do better," but part of my therapy training is to not tear myself down constantly, so instead, I'll say thank you... and that I'm glad you've seen my flaws and failures. I'm even more glad you're still here in spite of them (or hell, maybe because of them).
I ain't done yet. Not done by a long shot.
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Oh, her starter died when I was 40 miles away from home the other night. That was a whole ordeal I'll go into another time, but this time? It was just a "Oh, well, damn. Okay. Where's my AAA card?"
Part of my personal ongoing therapy is that I AM doing NaNoWriMo this year, but it's a completely new story/universe. It might be pretty crazy. It'll be fun. As for stories on here, well, I've got a few that got stopped in the pipeline, but I'm not ready to let them go just yet.
They're good things to hold on to.
Every single person who took the time to post here is another person who is saying that I deserve to be here. That I'm WORTH being here. That's a big deal.
I rarely like asking, to be honest. If you've been following me since the beginning of the year, you saw how uncomfortable I was with the whole "replacement car" thing. (And don't worry, I usually don't know what I'm doing either).
That's fear talking. Yes, we've all heard that saying, but the world would be a much poorer place if we stopped having good intentions. Sometimes, it can all go wrong, but I like to think that more often than not, it goes right and we don't notice or forget. Gratitude for what we do have and the successes we've had... that's worth remembering.
And I'm delighted to have them.
You made perfect sense and thank you. For everything.
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I will see that stigma dead and gone one day. I swear it. Heck, even my own therapist suggested I consider becoming a spokesperson for this sort of thing... and I promptly freaked out.
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A lot of this came from my daily journals there, so it was a fair amount of transcription... but even then, I think I knew I would be telling this story. Thank you.
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Perhaps. But as long as I can do my part to kill the stigma of mental illness... that's bad enough for me.
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Despite this being painful for you, I'm very happy you read it and even happier you commented. These places are never fun.
To be totally honest, the only thing I felt I got from the program itself was an interest in cereal, a chance to do some reading and some connections that EVENTUALLY led me to a place to get help.
You're probably not surprised by this, but that's something I would question. Remember, I admitted that not all psychiatric facilities are created equal. Some are better. Some are worse. Sadly... there's nothing that can be done to control that. But if the choice is doing something you can't come back from and walking into another facility, walk into the facility. If you'll forgive the analogy, if you had one really terrible say at a hotel in Vegas, you wouldn't outright refuse to go to all of Vegas for the rest of your life, would you?
I can't know what you went through. But please, don't cut off avenues of help, even if you keep it as a last-ditch effort.
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Exactly. One of my therapists said that I just may be someone who has to deal with suicidal thoughts for the rest of my life. But there are techniques to make that easier. I've learned a lot about them... and they have become easier.
The problem with going into a psychiatric facility is that the mental health stigma is increased by a factor of a hundred. Went to the hospital to get your gallbladder removed? Facebook post. Go to a psychiatric hospital? Never speak of it to anyone.
That has to stop with us.
I encourage you to do it. Please, for your own sake, don't try anything as detailed as mine (unless you want to, then go for it). The only way to make people understand is to show them the reality of mental health issues. It's our job, as survivors, to tell others, to make them understand, to tell them that Hollywood is wrong. I know it's hard. I know it's a nightmare to relive those moments in your mind, but doing so may actually help others feel less alone. And that's what we need.
No, it's not sharp at all. It's a blurred mess.
And that's how I still handle some things I'm not ready to face. There are a few things in my life I'm not strong enough to fight yet. I will be. But not yet. But I will also say that's how I've been handling the last decade of my life.
When I first heard about going inpatient, I reacted much the same way. But that's when the whole desperation thing comes into play. I had to constantly fight off my preconceptions and previous experiences. I had to go in with an open mind.
I said this to another commenter, but don't cut yourself off from an avenue of support because of fear. You've seen my mistakes. You've seen my misconceptions. I've posted them for all the world to see. I won't say it will be fun or easy. But don't just throw it out.
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Thank you, Syl. I'm honored.
Did it help her the first time? Also, feel free to give her my FimFic PM account, or Discord information. I'm totally fine with doing a one-on-one talk.
You are a name I am always glad to see, be it on story, blog or anywhere else. The people I work side by side with know me only a fraction as you--and my other friends on FimFiction--know me. I don't put on airs with you guys. In the past, I may have cheerleaded so much I wore myself out... but you've always seen the real me.
So thank you. I'm honored to have such great allies as you along with me.
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"You are not giving up, so we won't give up on you."
That sounds like a fair deal.
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What a politician did decades ago or what's actually happening now... well, there's only so much we can do. Frankly, that's above my pay grade. My goal was simply to get help (there's also a lot of facilities in my neck of the woods. I'm actually pretty lucky).
As time goes by... I start to realize just how much I have to fight for.
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Thanks, Rose.
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GOOGLE TRANSLATE ACTIVATE!
Thank you.
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Well, the writing part, that's just me. To quote Brandon Sanderson "This is going to take a while. I'm a fantasy author. We have trouble with the concept of brevity.”
Pharmacists take meds? Of course they do. So do actors like Robin Williams. So you'll get no shame from me for that. Thank you.
Oh wow.... NaPoWriMo... good golly. Last year was the biggest year ever... and I did all the work myself. For obvious reasons, I won't be doing that again this year. Still... that you for that. That's incredibly encouraging and really warms me up to hear that someone actually noticed.
I owe myself to get my tenth NaNoWriMo. ;) (And all the other stuff you mentioned!)
The road to recovery never truly ends, I think. And I'm okay with that. But I've also learned that the more people you have with you on that road... the less chance there is you'll trip and fall.
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I am glad I can offer what support I can, I might not live with serious mental illness but I live with enough to know that in the end we all need allies in the long fight.
And, it's not that the last blog didn't help, I think it did help her. Heck I've even linked her Mono's blogs on her own stuff, which she's read. And she finds them really interesting, and insightful.
It's just that that she's working 18 and supporting her whole family due to her parents being unemployed, and she works basically from the time she gets out of school for the day, clear on through until closing at like 112:30-1am, with it usually being her and two other people running an entire fast food joint. Lot of stress, not a lot of relief on her end :/ On top of her own anxiety and those little voices in her head telling her the world is better off without her there's a lot of days when our personal discord is just her entire support group just dropping everything to try and help her talk through her day and off that ledge.
I think, honestly, in the end, what she really needs is to just get away from where she is for a good long vacation. Which will hopefully happen this coming year with BronyCon (Which I need to save for) and other events.
I'll look into passing your FimFic PM account, she might be up for it or she might now ;3 both ways thanks for the offer, we'll just see how things go.
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Well, seeing your posts here, and one of my personal acquaintances posting about her problems, I think I may try, although it'll probably take some time to work through it all. I don't think I can talk about it without going into excruciating detail, that's just who I am. Problem is, my challenges with mental health are also tied in with a history of abuse as well -- physical, emotional, and sexual -- which makes it even harder, but more worth the effort I guess.
Yeah, I get that, but it's really hard for me, above and beyond that. I have a... I'd hesitate to call it a phobia, since it doesn't actually result in a classic fear/panic reaction, but a strong avoidance response to anything medical. Hospitals are the worst, but even just going to the doctor or dentist for a regular checkup is extremely difficult to force myself to do. Weirdly, it's not like I have any particularly bad experiences from my childhood or anything, either, quite the opposite for the most part. I've had much worse experiences as an adult. And I can be in the environment quite comfortably if I'm there to support someone else, someone not me.
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If you don't mind me saying, it sounds like she's so wrapped up in caring for everyone else around her, she has no time for self-care. She may even be at the point where she feels guilty or unworthy of taking self-care. Running like that for months on end is horrible for the mind and in truth, BronyCon is a very long way away in terms of mental health. At this point, a vacation isn't what she needs, because the stressors will still be waiting for her. She needs the help of a professional to give her the tools to handle the chaos of her life now. That's what I needed.
You said yourself that people need allies in this long fight. That's very true. We also need leaders, people to mentor us and give us the right tools for the job. You don't send a soldier into battle without a weapon, armor or training. That sort of action will only get them hurt (if they're lucky). You have to train them first. In this war, you don't get to do boot camp before you start, instead, you have to learn as you go, but you still need to find those people to help train you on how to do better.
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I totally understand on all points. These things should take time, because you're going to have to relearn (or maybe even learn for the first time) all the lessons from before.
While several therapists have asked me if I have a history of abuse, I've always said no, at least not in the way most people think of it. I did have a rough childhood, but this was caused by social dynamics and issues with authority figures than what's normally considered abuse. While I am VERY close to someone who did suffer from such horrors, I cannot hope to know what it's like. However, I will say that despite all that, I think that makes your story even more important to tell.
Abuse has a huge stigma of shame attached to it, maybe even more so than mental health. But it's another area where others need to understand just how hard it is. Most people only know the version Hollywood has told, and we all know how accurate that is. Your story is your own and no one can tell you what you experienced and how you felt is wrong.
So, I'll say this knowing full well that it's not even remotely easy: tell your story.
I actually understand. It's been at least a decade since I saw anything other than an urgent care doctor, but I did actually start going this year. As for the dentist, I've been avoiding going to one since 2002. That's right. 16 years. Something in all the therapy I went through finally broke that fear and I found myself willing to do that. And yes, it hurt like hell, but... the feeling of accomplishment is pretty freaking sweet, knowing that another demon is down for the count. Get a friend to help you (or just pester you). Do some research. Get advice from people you know.
That's because fear usually lives in your head. And over time, it tends to build on itself. I know it has for me. I had to force myself to go "why do I feel like this?" And when I start taking apart the thoughts (or even more, the worst-case-scenarios), then I tend to get better... and before you know it, I'm able to handle it.
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Yeah, she does need a professional, and it's something we're working on. She'd seen one on and off last school year towards the end, and they helped her a bit, but there's only so much school assigned councilors and psychiatrists can do, especially when she forgets to take her meds. But, we are working on it, slowly. Our major fear is when she graduates college she has no real way to pay for medication or therapy, but we'll figure it out.
I'm worried I'm making it sound more doom and gloom than it really is, but then I really do worry about my friend a lot :/ she's like a little sister to me, and it's painful watching her break down and stuff.
But anyway, thanks for the advice and stuff ;3 it's always nice to get an outside perspective. We'll figure things out, but your advice is very useful and welcome ;3