Certifiable Mermaid

“Hello, welcome to Eli’s house of pain, how may I hurt you?” Is the answer my friend Tameka got when she called the hospital to check in on me. Eli (name changed), another patient with a warped sense of humor, answered the ward’s old school “pay phone” that would ring all day, except for when it was shut off during group therapy sessions. Eventually Eli called for me and handed me the phone, much to my friend’s confusion and dismay. I explained that this is just the reality of living in a psych ward. People have twisted senses of humor and strange ways of finding camaraderie. Eli was no exception. On another occasion he extended friendship by attempting to sneak me an Ativan, but thats a story for another time.

All patients phones are confiscated upon arrival. Some patients questioned and fought the reason for this. The only answer the staff could come up with is that it was best for our healing not to have our phones. They were probably correct in that, but I think the real reason was to protect the hospital when staff didn’t handle situations properly, as well as to protect patients from privacy violations. If phones were allowed, there would be so many recorded incidents and vulnerable moments, which could cause a lot of trouble for the hospital and patients alike. Regardless, the ward had two “pay phones” connected to the wall across from the nurse’s station so that all patient conversations were within earshot, in case we were plotting a group escape or pharmacy raid.

The “pay phones” were big boxy phones connected to the wall with a very short curly cord and they were highly sought after. Upon arrival, we were allowed to write down a couple phone numbers so that we could make calls and give the hospital number to friends and family to reach out to us. Immediately after writing our few lifelines down, our phones were locked back up. My roommate and I frequented the vintage phone booth regularly to call our boyfriends and parents, and to answer calls from more family and friends. Anyone in the ward could answer the phone when it rang, and hang up on callers too, if they wanted to. At one point, E (front the last post) answered one of my aunt’s calls speaking in jibberish and hung up. A hospital tech intervened and handed me the phone when my aunt called back explaining the situation. The rest of us in the hall just laughed. It was the little moments of humor that kept us all going.

In the mornings my parents and boyfriend would check in with me via “pay phone”, and usually I had the same information to report; the psychiatrist was increasing my medication doses, and I got no sleep the night before because E’s screaming kept me up. Regardless, it was nice to have some contact with the outside world. It reminded me that I was still alive and loved, even though I felt like I was (voluntarily) locked in a haunted house. And haunted it felt, indeed. There were patients who looked ghostly pale from lack of nutrition and sunlight. There were screams and cries throughout the night and people trying to literally escape the two locked double doors at the end of the hallway.

And then there was my own mind, a haunted house of its own. I couldn’t forget that I was there because my brain was sending me clear messages: Escape. Kill yourself. Get out of this world. Leave this life behind. Your destiny has been written and its time for you to go be with your grandpa, the other people you lost to suicide, the musicians you look up to who left this realm because they too, were dreamers. Dreamers struggle in this world. We suffer, but we shine bright.

When we had group art activities I would ask the occupational therapist to bring out her phone and speaker so I could listen to Mac Miller, Prince, Amy Winehouse, Jimi Hendrix, other souls who were too beautiful to last long on this earth. I have painted all four of them (see at bottom of the post). I wondered if my fate was going to be like theirs; would I be another artist with big dreams and visions cut short? I am by no means comparing myself to the talent of those legendary figures, but explaining that its hard to want to exist when your idols have disappeared into the abyss, leaving behind their legacy but a million questions about why they had to go so soon.

Now, back to the “pay phones.” They were cut off at 10 pm, which seems late, but in the world of the psych ward, 10 pm was like 6 pm. It was bustling in there at 10 pm. Patients were screaming, the night shift was night shifting (not doing shit), and sleep was not happening. There was one night where the screaming was so bad that I was able to coerce the nurse on staff to get my cellphone out of storage so I could “listen to music” in the common area and try calm down. This was NOT allowed, but I begged this specific nurse because she was not a rule follower. She was lazy at best and negligent at worst. She was the same nurse who wasn’t watching the halls the night that E came rampaging into my room.

Regardless, this instance was the ONE time I got my phone back in the hospital. I turned on some music, made a bed out of three chairs pushed together, and started texting my boyfriend. He immediately responded “wtf how are you texting me?!?!” That ended up being a good night for me because I was able to see all the gifs and messages he had been sending me. We weren’t used to going more than a couple hours without sending silly pictures and life updates to one another. *Sigh* I love him. But that’s also a post for later.

Anyway, the hospital “pay phones” were a blessing because they were our lifeline to the outside world. They were in high demand, caused a couple fights, and were sometimes avoided when we were feeling too low to answer calls. It was definitely a reminder for me that pre-smart phones, this was how people regularly communicated. It didn’t change my cellphone addiction upon being released, but it did make me grateful for being able to call my loved ones whenever I want.

My next post will be about my boyfriend and I, and how we were able to stay connected throughout my time in the hospital. It will detail my worries about losing him due to the shame I had because of my mental illness, and how my struggle made us closer, and our love stronger. Thanks for reading ☺️.