One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (Hospitalization)

I was 19 the first time I was put into a psychiatric hospital. I was too old to be with the kids and felt way too young to be with most of the people in my ward. At the time, I suffered with alcohol abuse and was therefore lumped together in a dual-diagnosis program that treats mental illness and substance abuse and dependency. I didn’t think I had a problem, and was really intimidated by all the users around me. I thought, “I’m not like them.” How wrong I was.

The heart of the matter is, I really was like them. Maybe I hadn’t hit rock bottom yet, but it was assured that it would happen if I kept on the same path. When I say I abused alcohol, I don’t mean I drank all the time…after all, I wasn’t a freshman anymore. Geez. No, my problem was why I drank. I’m a very emotional person who happens to hate actually showing it. (example: Once I cried after being dumped and my friend told me he liked it because he finally got to see some human emotion from me. That’s a little sad). But I digress. The truth was that whenever I was upset, I drank. A lot. As if the physical detriment of drinking wasn’t bad enough (throwing up, passing out, destroying my liver, etc.), the psychological effect drinking had on me was tenfold. I became an idiot when I drank.

Drinking never took away the pain or sadness I felt. On the contrary, it intensified my feelings. Soon I would find myself doing amazingly stupid things to try to make the pain go away when I was drunk. You can do stupid things when you’re drinking, right? I would get myself into precarious sexual situations (one of which turned into a situation for which I now seek treatment for PTSD), dangerous physical situations (think drunk driving), and I would eventually fall into my self-mutilation phase. I cut like a fiend when I was drunk and upset. Nothing felt better than physical pain when I couldn’t cure my emotional pain. I could control any bodily hurt, but I couldn’t help what was eating my heart and my soul.

One night after going to a party and finding that the guy I was interested in (and had former relations with) was scamming on another girl, I went home and I hurt myself very badly. I still have the scars from that night all down my arm. It seems so stupid now, that one man could make me hate myself so much. I know now that he was never the real problem, it was how I processed my feelings. More psychobabble bullshit, I’m sure, but it’s got merit. Going on…The next day my roommate saw that I had stayed in bed yet <i>another</i> day without going to work and then he found the wounds on my wrist and forearm. He (quite literally) pulled me out of bed and got me into his car and drove me to a crisis center. From there I was shipped to the psych hospital.

I was seriously expecting it to be this crazy place with invalids sitting around drooling on themselves and talking to pink fairies. That wasn’t quite how it went, though. It was more like living in a really tightly-knit dorm room where you had to do EVERYTHING with a set group of people. Even thought I wasn’t being stalked by Nurse Ratched, it was still scary as hell. My roommate was a sweet lady, but the first night I was there she climbed on top of a wardrobe and had to be tranquilized. Not a good start. She eventually calmed down and the wardrobe was never spoken of again. I think she may have been in shock, actually.

I made friends quickly when I was in the hospital, though. After I got used to my new medications and was not a walking zombie and had to take naps to get through the day, that is. I made friends with an unlikely sort, too. My group consisted of an 18-year-old girl with anger problems and a history of child abuse, her friend who was a mute, the “mom” of the ward, and a lovely 60-something man to whom I gave cigarettes when I was almost out. He claimed it was the nicest thing anyone could have done for him in that place and he would watch my back from then on. See? Being nice has it’s benefits.

The rest of the people I spoke with occasionally, we played Spades and watched TV when we could. There were really only a few patients I couldn’t stand, but when I say that, I mean I couldn’t stand them at all. A self-righteous alcoholic who repeatedly refused to admit his problem even though everyone on the ward (including those without substance abuse problems) knew it. We listened to him speak in our AA meetings and we could see that he knew something was wrong, but no…he was not an alcoholic. It was his bipolar disorder or it was his wife or his kids or his job. I have bipolar disorder and yes, it does make it easier to fall into situations where one might abuse substances (risky behaviors, people!), but ultimately we as the individual are responsible. Maybe he just didn’t want help, but maybe he was just too scared. I really can’t say, but even as much as he annoyed me, I hope he’s OK now.

Continuing on.

Hospitalization actually worked wonders on me. I admitted my alcohol problem, got into a good therapy program, and got on some good medications. It was set up differently than I’d imagined, though. Much more group therapy as opposed to individualized therapy. There were group sessions to let you know what was happening that day, sessions to vent problems, sessions on types of mental illness, sessions on substance abuse, and even an art class! (OK, it was called Expressive Therapy…so sue me). I didn’t think I was getting any real help at first. I was still scared and still wanted to hurt myself. I thought, “I’m so much more intelligent than these people. Isn’t there an honors program here?” It’s something I had to realize for myself. I’m no different than anyone else who has a problem. We all need help.

More to follow…

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