Reflections on Past Institutionalization

Today was the day that I knew would be coming. The day I would have to face, process, and differentiate between my past experiences in psychiatric facilities, and my future stays. I know that all of this doesn’t necessarily happen in one day, but rest assured - it is happening. 

5 years ago, In April of 2015, I entered a hospital in Schaumburg, IL at around 8pm. My Auntie had heard that this hospital offered free psychiatric evaluations, and we had planned to go and have a simple assessment where they could provide insight into which medications were hurting and which were helping my cause. About 6 weeks prior to this, I had been prescribed Celexa as an antidepressant and it caused my depression and anxiety to skyrocket beyond my control, and I became flooded with suicidal ideation. My doctor (the psychiatrist of every student on psych medications throughout my university) insisted that I remain on the medication for 6 weeks. As my symptoms worsened, he prescribed me Trazodone as a sleeping aid and Klonipen to help with my multiple panic attacks daily. As medications were thrown at me, my health worsened. I struggled with sleep disturbances (insomnia, night terrors, inconsistent sleep schedule), I lost weight (food quickly became unappealing on the medications, I had no appetite, I had difficulty eating as I would become nauseous and vomit during and after consuming food) and my health deteriorated. I stopped going to Yoga and working out multiple times a week because I was no longer functional enough to continue. My grades slipped and I received 3 “incomplete”s in my classes and had to finish my work months later for credit. I dropped my commitments to the Chicago Coalition for the Homeless, alongside many clubs and school groups. I was closeted from my family and all but 2 friends, I had recently broken up with my partner of 3 years. I was in therapy on my college campus, and nothing seemed to be working... so a free psych evaluation sounded like the right thing to do.

That day, I received an award from Loyola University Chicago School of Communications that I was their top student in the Advocacy and Social Change program. Little did the school staff know that within a few hours I would be Baker Acted. I got dressed up and invited my Auntie and 2 friends to the celebration. Like most days when the world feels like it is crumbling, I laughed and smiled and moved through the motions. Saying goodbye to my friends, I packed a weekend bag to head to the suburbs, this was typical seeing that my Auntie is one of my closet friends and mentors, and I frequently “ran away” to her guest room in order to escape my troubles. We agreed to go to dinner with my uncle and cousin, then go for the free evaluation. I pushed food around on a plate and I drank a Shirley Temple with my then 9 year old cousin, Dylan. 

I entered the hospital with Auntie late in the evening. I put in my headphones to listen to Bon Iver because my anxiety was triggered by the hospital environment. I filled out a form that asked two yes/no questions: 

Within the last 24 hours, have you had thoughts of killing yourself? Yes No

If yes, do you have a plan to kill yourself? Yes No

I circled yes for both.

I told myself that dishonesty was not going to get me the help I needed, so I told the truth. After I handed in that questionnaire, my hands were tied. No matter what I said in the clinical evaluation, they would legally have to keep me under the Baker Act. I tried to explain the ways that the medications I was taking were making it worse, how my anxiety and depression were related to trauma, but they were not interested in that. They were interested in protecting me from the threat of myself. The admissions staff informed me that I would be staying for the next few days in the hospital. When I protested and tried to leave, they threatened to call the police. I looked to my Auntie for guidance and she broke down saying “I am so sorry, I wouldn’t have brought you here if I knew they would take you from me”. My auntie is the light of my life and even though this experience was incredibly trying, I am so glad that she was there with me holding my hand and making sarcastic jokes throughout the process. She was, and continues to be, my rock and my safe space. Thank you, Auntie.

I was stripped of my clothes, searched, asked to squat and cough. I was brought into the adult ward with nothing besides the clothes I wore in, and a notebook. I was shocked as I finished the evaluation process - it was now the middle of the night. One of the night staff saw me enter my room and was intrigued because “I don’t look like the other patients in here” to which my response was “what should I look like?” we spoke about religion, and what my goals were; I shared with him my purpose - to bring peace to the world through advocacy, conflict resolution, and vulnerability. He was kind. He very well might have been an angel. But I am convinced he was real. He gave me a gift, and I still have it. A book about hope, religion, and peace. Inside the front cover he wrote “Be at peace and know that you are love”. When he left my room less than 30 mins later, I showered and got into my bed, I slept till the techs woke me to take my blood and I never saw that man again.

The next 72 hours consisted of sharing a room with an older woman who insisted on being naked 24/7 and caused plenty of problems in the ward, attending all-day therapy and coping skill development groups, trying to convince the doctors and nurses I was cured and able to leave, attempting to escape my parents worried calls, being constantly poked and prodded by nursing staff, commiserating with other patients (most of whom were much older than me), and coloring in mandalas and calling it “art therapy”.

During this stay, the psychiatrist kept my diagnosis of depression and anxiety and added “You need to watch out for Bipolar”. He immediately started me on Abilify, an antipsychotic, and after 3 days was convinced the Abilify helped enough to discharge me. I went straight to the pharmacy after my stay and found the medication was $116/ pill. The drug was new, did not have a generic at the time, and I could not afford that, so I discontinued the use of the medication. 

By this time, I am deeply concerning my parents and they have bought me a one way flight to South Florida for the summer after my sophomore year. I was planning on working at Boston College for the summer and spending my entire junior year abroad in the Philippines and Vietnam, but the international travel was not brought to fruition. My parents were hurt by my secrecy, terrified, and looking to help alleviate some of my suffering. They helped me to get to a psychiatrist that might be able to help with the medication situation, and he did. I was put on Zyrexa, an antipsychotic, and the next day the sun came out. I stayed on the medication for over 4 years, but it caused grueling side effects including excessive sleeping, sedation, mixed mood episodes, and extreme weight gain to name a few.

After I was institutionalized, I told myself that I would try whatever I could to avoid the trauma, the expense, and the repetition of my experience in the ward. I felt that while I was held there, I was a prisoner, I had no rights, I had no resources, and I had a one person support system. I never wanted to go back.

Now, I am in very different shoes. I have knowledge and information. I have an entire degree dedicated to better understanding mental health and the system, I have years of experience working clinically in the field, and I have an incredible support system. I am currently seeking treatment to titrate off all unnecessary medications, to stabilize my mental and physical health, and to work intensively with clinicians on sustainable coping mechanisms. This is not like before. 

Today I spent most of the day crying and wondering how I could possibly face being stripped of my agency and belongings again, being isolated from my supports again, and being forced to take medications without consent again. The answer that I found in my tears is that I don’t have to face that again. This new situation of seeking residential treatment is dredging up emotions and memories from my experience 5 years ago; but this is different. I am afraid, and I am allowing myself the grace to feel that fear and tend to it. As I care for myself I am also caring for my younger self, my self at 19, and at any other age when I felt alone, afraid, and out of options. Once I have done my tending, I am able to open my eyes and see that in the here and now I am surrounded by support, I am brave, and I am patient with my options. 

I am surrounded by love. I am love. I am at peace.

Here is something I created in 2015 while in the psych ward. All text is quotes of staff and peers during my 3 day stay.