Certifiable Mermaid

My first night in the psych ward was one of the hardest. I had a panic attack, questioning my decision to check myself in. My body was shaking. My head was throbbing. I kept repeating over and over again that I would have been better off dead than in this place. I had signed away all of my rights to this cold hallway with slivers for windows; no sunlight really came in. My phone was confiscated upon arrival. All I really had for the entirety of my first day was a room to myself and my stuffed animals that the nurses retrieved out of my bag. It was when I was told that I would be getting a roommate sometime in the middle of the night that my anxiety went through the roof. I had no idea who I would have to share a space with and I was terrified, even though we were likely in the same shoes.

Instead of trying to get some rest until the inevitable roommate arrived, I started pacing the hallway. One of the techs, (we’ll call him Mark) attempted to calm me down to no avail. I started begging for medication, but at the same time I was terrified to try anything I hadn’t before. Having OCD makes me very weary of taking substances that I’ve never tried. Anytime I try a new medicine I get scared that I might have an allergic reaction or experience psychosis; and I have good reason to be afraid. I have tried many different psychiatric medications at the orders of doctors and psychiatrists, with several of them triggering panic and suicidal imagery. (I will go into this more in later posts). That last thing I wanted that night was to feel worse, lose control of my body, and have to be restrained by the staff.

After some deliberation and realizing it couldn’t get much worse for me, Mark convinced me to take Ativan, a benzodiazepine. The ward had a “pharmacy” where people lined up every morning and night to get a cocktail of benzos, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, and tranquilizers. The pharmacist gave me the strongest dose of Ativan that night, and within twenty or thirty minutes I got very tired. The hyperventilating stopped and I wasn’t having raging suicidal thoughts. I wasn’t trying to escape the present moment anymore, I just wanted to go to sleep but the knowledge that I would be awakened in the night by a new unknown roommate was keeping me up.

I sat in the hallway with my blanket rocking back and forth, looking like a sick child waiting for their mom to come take care of them. Mark told me I wasn’t allowed to sit in the hallway but I ignored him and wouldn’t move until he forced me to get up. I went into the common area and pushed together the heavy plastic chairs (they’re heavy so they cannot be thrown by volatile patients) and turned them into a bed. I laid there for a while, ignoring the discomfort on my back. Finally I convinced myself to get in bed. It was 3 am at this point, but I knew I wasn’t going to go to sleep until I met the person who would become my roommate.

Sure enough, sometime around this daunting hour of the night, a nurse walked in with a young girl (she looked about 22) who was hyperventilating and clearly terrified to be in this damned place. The nurse showed her to her bed, told me we would get along well, and left us alone together. All of the sudden my anxiety about her was lifted. She was adorable, and I saw my younger self in her. Her presence redirected my own pain and struggling, and my maternal instincts kicked in. I wanted to make sure she felt safe and protected in such a scary and vulnerable moment; clearly I could relate. Even though this was my first night too, I felt like I had been there forever and maybe I could help calm her down, or at the very least, we could be anxious together.

I asked her if I could come sit with her and if it would help to have her back rubbed. It probably seems a little weird to ask to touch a stranger, but I didn’t know what other comfort to offer. It’s not like I could make her tea or get her some ice cream. For my entire life, the thing that has comforted me most is having my back rubbed. My mom used to lay in bed with me when I was a little kid and rub my back until I fell asleep every night. Now my boyfriend does it for me (one of my favorite parts of our love language). I didn’t know what else to offer this sweet soul in the moment, but it seemed like something. She said that it might help so I rubbed her back and told her she was safe and brave. We definitely bonded that night.

Luckily the nurses didn’t come in the room because they would have separated us. For good reason, to ensure the safety of all patients, physical touch or sharing bed space is not allowed in the ward. I think I intuitively knew that, but in the moment I didn’t care. I just wanted to make another wounded bird feel safe, because all of us in that building were birds with broken wings begging for a little nurturing or safety from our own demons. She and I felt safe together immediately, and seemed to have a sisterhood in our pain and desire to escape it.

She was a bit worse for wear physically when she came in than I was. She had already attempted to harm herself, and I hadn’t made it that far but I knew I would’ve. She told me her roommate at home had found her, and by the grace of the Universe she made it to floor five of Stone Springs. In a way, she saved that me that night. For the first time in a while I couldn’t focus on my own illness. I’m sure the Ativan helped too, but by nature I have always been a caretaker. Someone else to take care of was a break from the reality that I couldn’t take care of myself any longer.

My roommate and I are still friends. We did a month of outpatient treatment together following our stay at the hospital. We realized we have a lot in common in the way we give to others but not ourselves, the way we internalize our heavy pain, and even in the desire to finally get better. We text each other reminders of our power. We are connected with the same psychiatrist office and luckily have both been getting decent support through them; we’re both still here and thats saying something. She has been a champion for my healing and my art. She is beautiful, graceful, athletic, funny, outgoing, and so much more than that night or her illness. She is good reminder for me that I am too.

My future blog posts will go in depth a bit more about experiences in the psych ward, including advocating for myself with the nurses and doctors, dealing with other patients who tested my boundaries, and visits I had with my parents, boyfriend, and sweet friend. Thanks for reading.