Content warning: Suicide, Self-Harm, Mental Illness
Writer’s note:  This is my experience, and it does not represent all mental illnesses as a whole. If there was easier access to counseling services here at UF, my trips to a psych ward might have been avoided. I am appalled by the decision SG made to decline a campus fee increase that would have allowed the Counseling and Wellness Center to hire more people. Let your senators know about your opinion on the matter. This article was written before this decision.
I have Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder NOS and traits of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder. I had a rude wakeup call this past week because I was not truly open about my disorders to everyone, including professionals in psychology. Because of it, I was hospitalized…in a psychiatric hospital — for the second time.
This will be a long reading into my experiences with psychiatric hospitals.
My trips to the psychiatric hospitals begins with some foreshadowing. Prior to my first visit in late June, I had been having delusions and states of psychosis that caused me to hurt myself, as well as suicidal thoughts. I was also hearing voices in my head, which surprisingly happens with depression sometimes. Because of this, I was taken off my prior antidepressant, Celexa, and put on the antipsychotic Abilify at 5 mg. All was fine until I started feeling restless. I felt like I had to move around and I couldn’t sit still. I felt so weak just standing. I couldn’t focus on anything. This happened for about two weeks, until I snapped. I thought about killing myself to rid myself of this feeling. I knew I couldn’t trust myself, so I called one of my friends and asked him to take me to the emergency room. The hospital called me up pretty quickly because I was a psychiatric emergency. This began my hospitalization. I was placed into a hospital bed, and I was in the psychiatric emergency room. There’s always security in there. The restlessness was still there as I tossed and turned in bed. Nurses came in asking for samples, taking blood pressure and blood. When I had to go to the bathroom, I had to be escorted by a security guard and a nurse. I felt very hopeless in there.
After seeing the doctor and PA and telling them all about what I was going through, they decided to Baker Act me. The Baker Act is a Florida statue that involuntarily institutionalizes someone if professionals believe that they may be a harm to themselves, others and is self-neglectful while also possibly having a mental illness. This meant that I was going to a psych ward.
In the morning, I was woken up and taken into a van, and I went to the UF Psychiatric Hospital, otherwise known as Shands Vista. My parents had driven for two hours in the morning to see me. They first saw me as I entered the lobby. But just as soon as they saw me, I was taken into intake to see a doctor. One thing that becomes habitual, but very frustrating, in a psych ward is that you have to constantly explain what brought you in there. I told the doctor everything, and she allowed for my parents to see me one last time. Then she took my phone away, and my jacket because it had strings. A nurse then came in, checked my vitals and had to search my whole entire body to see if I was hiding anything. It was demeaning. After, she took me into the actual ward.
After going past many electronically locked doors, I entered Shands Vista North, which is primarily for adults without acute mental illnesses. It consists of a big room with rooms lining the walls, a nurses station with unbreakable windows, entrance to one small outdoor space, a tv, puzzles, cards, coloring, magazines and newspapers and tables and chairs that are the heavy so that no one picks them up to hurt someone.
The nurse took me to my room and left me with basic toiletries. The rooms consists of one or two beds, chalkboard paint on the walls so that staff can write on them, some shelving, two heavy chairs and a bathroom with the coldest shower possible. You have to either let it run for a while or flush the toilet many times to get it warm (to flush you had to push a button, so that no one can break off a handle to hurt someone). There was not even a toilet paper roll holder because of the same reason as the button.
My experiences in there are a bit hazy because it was about three months ago. What I do remember is making friends, one of which I still talk to today, eating, puzzles, briefly going outside, having my life interrupted for medical stuff like vitals or doctors and waking up at 4 am due to the antipsychotics still in my body.
Oh, I forgot to say that the doctors actually knew what was happening to me. It’s called Akathisia. It sometimes happens when a person takes too high a dose of a medication than they can handle. My psychiatrist didn’t start me off on a lower dose and so I stopped seeing him after that.
I also remember groups, which is short for group therapy. There are fun groups, recreational ones and actual therapy ones. In the therapy group, I tried to hide my problems when asked to share, which would bite me in the butt later. My favorite group was a painting group, where I painted this painting of me, staring into the stars while I’m surrounded by fire, which represents my mind.
My friends came to visit, one on the first night and the other on the second night. I was so grateful because 1) The first one brought me extra clothes from my place after I had given her my keys in the hospital 2) The other brought me a coloring book that honestly relieved my boredom. Also, obviously because they’re my friends and I love them.
On my third day of me being in there, my assigned psychiatrist in there said he thinks I’m doing fine and should be released early by turning me into a voluntary patient. I was so relieved, but the problem was that I shouldn’t have left so early. I basically lied my way out of there. I lied to doctors saying I was fine, that the voices weren’t there and that I was ok. I would come to regret this later.
I called my friend to see if she could pick me up, and at about four I was released. We went to Lollicup to celebrate and then she took me home. Once I got home, I slumped on my bed and took a nap. Little did I know that I would again visit Vista.
After I left Vista, I thought I was fine. I was stable and feeling good. However, my mental health started to deteriorate again; I felt so alone. I had coping mechanisms that put my life in danger, and I denied that they were bad for me. The week before I went back to Vista, I hit rock bottom, and I started to self-harm again. It hit the point where I tried killing myself, and then I knew I had to go get help. I did the same thing as I did last time, and I ended up in Vista for five days and four nights– twice as long as last time.
I got Baker Act-ed once again. This time I prepared by bringing clothes and having an extensive list of phone numbers to call when I was in there. I also brought coloring books, too — except they wouldn’t let me have that, or some shorts, or a security blanket I had. (At least they let me keep my poop emoji slippers and Chacos.)
Unlike last time, I didn’t feel like I was lying to get out of Vista faster. I actually strived to get better. I went to groups, I was honest with the professionals and my well-being was always in mind and I was determined to make it better. They increased my dosage of medicine, and I got the help I needed. The only bad part about it was that I was there on the weekend, so I did not get as much help as I would have on the weekdays because the psychologists and psychiatrists weren’t working.
Since I was there for a second time, I knew the ins and outs of the facility. However, I wanted to make sure that any younger patients who were new weren’t scared like I was the first time. I tried talking to them and making them feel included. Honestly, I wanted to make sure everyone was good. I talked to everyone in the facility, old and young, and it helped me because I didn’t feel alone. However, I feel like I was compensating for myself because I did not have people that were so helpful in the past.
The really scary thing is…I actually miss Vista. I miss how calm it was. When I was in there, I felt like I had no stress. I finally felt safe from my own mind because of how much support I had in there. I miss the routine of each day and also the constant amount of cereal and cookies I had. The amount of snacks in there was great.
On the day of my discharge, I had so much anxiety. The feeling of not being supported constantly is what I was afraid of. I was scared that I wouldn’t know what to do, and I was scared of the autonomy that was going to be returned to me. I was also scared by the shock of returning to the real world after being in a psych ward for five days. However, I knew that I couldn’t stay in there forever, and I had to move on with my life if I ever want to get better. When I returned, I went straight to my bed. I threw away the stuff that I used to hurt myself and contemplated everything. Now I’m getting my life back into order and march on. I’m looking for a new therapist and doing more self-care for myself.
If you are struggling with mental health problems, please know that you’re not alone. This lonely mentality is what screwed me up royally. I know that it’s hard to actually ask for help; I understand. Do what is in your comfort zone and move at your own pace. Don’t lie to others that want to help, but also be careful of who you accept from. You are the catalyst for change, and you do not have to fight this alone.
Please refer to these mental health resources if you or a friend are ever in distress:
Suicide Hotline
1-800-273-8255 or suicidepreventionlifeline.org if you want to chat instead
Crisis Text Line
747-747 (Great resource if you’re afraid to call and talk over the phone.)
If you are struggling with mental health problems, just remember you’re not alone. There are others, including myself, that do not want you to suffer.
Photo courtesy of Sophia Ahmed.