Personal Narrative: My Experience At A Mental Hospital

I was sent to a mental hospital when I was thirteen. I was sent to an actual hospital first in order for the staff to evaluate my condition. They gave me XL scrubs that fell off when I stood up and told me to stay in my room until someone could come and ask me questions. I waited for hours until I fell asleep and was jolted awake by a harsh light. It was 3 AM and a stranger woke me up in my hospital room to ask me a hundred questions.
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“Yes.”
“Are you suicidal?”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
I was escorted by the police to the hospital where I would stay for about a month. They said they had to handcuff me to make sure I did not escape. I requested to go through the back door, but they were parked out front. I felt like a criminal being led to jail, not knowing how long my sentence was. The cops went 120 the entire way there, eyes glued on their phones. Ironically, police are the most unsafe drivers I know.
We walked into the other hospital, which looked nothing like a hospital, but more of a hotel lobby. There were fake palm trees and a gift shop and doors that opened automatically when you walked up to them. I wondered what the cards in the gift shop
would have on them; a depressing “get well soon” or “happy birthday” would be fitting for this place. I did not get to stay in the lobby long before the police showed me into the elevator and we rode up to the eighth floor. The place we stepped out was in stark contrast to the lobby: dull, dingy, clinical. The walls were a faded yellow (yellow is a happy color!) with questionable stains on every inch; the floors had short green carpet in the same condition as the walls. I was immediately taken to my room at the very end of the hall. It was once the tuberculosis room, with two doors and two heavy deadbolts that made a loud bang when they were locked at night. The walls in the room were the same yellow that was in the hallway. My bed had no sheets and my pillow was without a pillow cover, just one gray-blue worn out and thin woven blanket sat on the end of the bed. The closet was locked, we were not allowed to have clothes in our rooms until we earned the privilege. The bathroom was near the bed, also locked -- supervision was needed every time I entered. It was embarrassing to have someone stand outside the bathroom every time I had to take a shit or shower, but that was the point, we were not there for leisure but rehabilitation. A large picture window was in the corner of the room, it was the only time I saw the outside world during my stay. That is how I could tell time, by how dark or light it was outside. I would sit at that window for hours and watch the cars and people, pretending what their conversations would be like, what they were going to do, or what they were thinking at that moment.
A timid nurse walked in my room and explained that they had to make sure I did not have any weapons or drugs on me.
I was striped naked and searched; it was humiliating. All my jewelry was taken, a few were cut off. She explained that until I shown that I could handle the responsibility, I could not have any of my possessions -- no clothes, books, blankets, paper. No pens were allowed in the room either, but she snuck in a few for me when the head nurse was not looking. I was made to shower, brush teeth and hair, and make sure I was presentable everyday, show up for every meal, drink my entire gallon of water. “You’ll get used to the routine” she said as she departed. I was told to take a shower and change into more scrubs, another XL pair, before going to a group
session.
There were about ten people in the group. We went around the room and said what we were in for; this was mandatory for every session. Jonny wore a long black trenchcoat and black boots with the laces taken out. He was first in the circle. “I stuck some firecrackers up my dog’s ass and exploded him” he stated simply, as if he was reading a grocery list. “Why do you think you did that?” said the nurse, who was working on a crossword. “I was angry” was the reply. Jonny was in there the longest of us all, three months. He was forever on the waiting list to transfer to a different facility, one where he would stay for years. The next to go was Jake; “I am here because drank a whole bunch of bleach.” “And why did you do that?” said the nurse, stuck on a clue and tapping her pen against her mouth. “I hated my foster home, they hated me.” Ana was next, she was about 6’ and 90 pounds. She didn’t sit in the chair, but crouched, staring straight ahead. “Are you going to talk today?” said the nurse, who already knew the answer to that question. No reply, no indication that she even heard the question. It was now my turn. Everyone stared, as this was my first session and they were eager to hear why I had been sent. “I tried to kill myself” I said. “Why did you do that?” said the nurse. “I don’t know. I was just stressed out I guess.”
While there, Ana and I became good friends. She did not eat. The first day I was there, she tried to make herself sick by drinking her entire travel-sized bottle of baby shampoo. Shortly after, she went on a hunger strike, refusing to eat or leave her room (other than to watch our nightly Lifetime movie), just crouching on the floor and staring straight into the eyes of the nurse who was usually by her side. As her already emaciated body became thinner, there were threats of feeding tubes and forced meals, but she did not budge. I envied her willpower and resilience. I knew she was starving inside, but she controlled her outward reaction. I could not go more than a few hours without gorging myself at that time, while she could spend days staving off hunger. She is the person who taught me how to make myself throw up. “Only for emergencies” she said, but I could never control myself around food and used it regularly.