***This is a fictitious account of a man named Danny who deals with Clinical Depression. Some content in this series may be triggering. If you are easily triggered, please do not read this***
It took these nurses what seemed like an eternity for them to transfer me to this psychiatric hospital. However, when they finally did, the first thing I noticed was how massive it was. I mean, it was built like an old Roman Catholic Cathedral! It had tinted windows lined up all around the building. I assume that was to prevent anyone from seeing the people inside. I guess I can appreciate the fact that they want to protect our privacy. The hospital is called Memorial Hospital and I was told that it is actually run by the Catholics. No wonder it is so massively huge. As the transporter is wheeling me into the building, I look around and immediately notice that along the walls are crucifixes hanging. I also notice that they have pictures with sentimental sayings such as "Home is where the heart is". It actually makes me sick to my stomach. I do not feel like I have a home. The house I live in is an empty shell with a woman who would be happier if I were dead. I just want to die already. Oh, Lord, why couldn't You just let me die in my kitchen? Why do I have to continue living this pathetic excuse of a life? One of the nurses approach me and the first thing I notice is how rotund she is. She literally looks like she ate one too many Boston Cream Donuts. She greets me with a gentle smile and speaks to me as if I am a child, which just further aggravates me. This woman must think I am the dumbest man alive. Maybe I am. I mean, I couldn't even succeed at killing myself. She lets me stand up from my wheelchair and then she leads me into some tiny office. This office looks pretty empty, except for a small table with a computer on it. The walls around are pretty bland too. There is not a single decoration anywhere in this room. It actually perfectly describes my life. Bland and boring. We take our seats and she then proceeds to ask me a series of long questions.
"So, what brings you here to Memorial Catholic Psychiatric Hospital?" She asks and I am bewildered. Weren't they informed of what I had attempted to do before I came here? I groan loudly and she does not even flinch. I carefully explain to her how I attempted to kill myself. She quietly types on the computer. For about two minutes all I hear is the rapping of the keyboard buttons being tapped. I decide to stare at my feet. I notice that my right foot is tapping on the floor. I must be nervous. I guess I am because I do not know what to expect. I've never been to a Psychiatric hospital before and all I've known about them was from movies. Am I going to see people acting like zoo animals or am I going to see a bunch of walking zombies because they are hopped up on medication? Are they going to give me a whole bunch of medication? I shudder at the thought and now I want to die even more.
"Why did you want to die?" She calmly asks me. I groan again. I really do not want to explain this to her. However, I decided to give her the condensed version. What could it hurt? I tell her that I miss my mother and I would like to be with her again. She was the only person who truly cared for and understood me. The nurse begins rapping on the keyboard again. I stare at the clock on the wall. I did not notice it before, but now I see that it has a Mickey Mouse face in the center. The Mickey Mouse's face seems to be mocking me with his smiling face. Why does he have to appear to be so happy? If he were real, he would not be so happy because real life is not a joyous thing. I hate my life.
"Are you still feeling suicidal?" She proceeds to ask me and I honestly do not know how to respond. I was not expecting this answer, but I just cooperatively say yes. She then asks me if I have any plans. I did not think of that because I am not sure how I could manage to hurt myself in a place like this. So, I just tell her that no I don't. She resumes her typing yet again. I see the clock again and this time I pay extra close attention to the ticking. It's 5:00 in the evening and I am feeling famished. I hope they are planning on feeding me soon. I have not had anything in all day. I really should not care about whether or not I eat because I want to die but I heard that dying by starvation is not pleasant. I do not want to die slowly either. She proceeds to explain to me what she calls my "patient rights" such as my right to privacy and my right to not have my picture taken and other meaningless things. Then, I have to sign some piece of paper. I feel like I am signing my life away.
"How long do I have to stay here for?" I ask because I am afraid they will try to keep me here forever. I just want to leave and go kill myself. This time I'll succeed because I will get ahold of a gun somehow and blow my brains out. Imagine the glee that Angela will feel when she sees my brains splattered all over the walls. She then told me that it is up to my psychiatrist. Oh, great, he is going to keep me here forever! I groan loudly again. She just ignores me and continues typing. Then, she stands up and says that she will now take me to my room. I actually get a room? Maybe this place is not so bad. I wonder how comfortable my bed will be. If it is comfortable I will just sleep the whole time I am here. On the way down the long hallway, she explains to me that I do not have to attend the group therapies but if I do then it will go a long way in helping the doctor know if I am ready for discharge. That gives me hope. So, if I attend these stupid groups, then I can get out of here sooner? She then asks me if I identify with any cultural or religious beliefs and I tell her that I am a Christian. The truth is, I have not been to church in many years and I have not read the Bible in just that long too, but I do believe in Jesus though.
As we walk into the room, the first thing I notice is two twin beds laying parallel to one another. I also notice that there is one chair up against the wall too. Some man is sitting in that chair with the lights turned off. The nurse calls the man's name. He is Justin and she introduces me saying that I am his roommate. All of a sudden, I feel scared. Why do I have to share a room with a complete stranger? I do not even know if I can trust this man. What if he tries to kill me in my sleep? I guess I'll be sleeping with one eye open while I am here. The man politely says hello to me and he seems friendly, but then he goes back to staring blankly at the wall. I wonder what he is thinking. Or what he is staring at? The walls here are not too fascinating. They are much like the walls in the tiny office the nurse had me in before. There are not even any pictures or anything at all. I lay on my bed for about five minutes, but it is not comfortable at all. It feels like I am laying on a hard gym mat with a pillow and a thin blanket. All of a sudden, a nurse announces on an intercom that dinner is being served. Good, I am feeling starved. I immediately stand up and start heading out to what is called the Day Room.
The Day Room looks more lively because the walls are actually colorful. I see one wall painted red and another wall painted yellow and the two other walls are green. I like that a lot. I also notice that there is only one television that seems like everyone shares. I notice that the people here all seem like normal people that I would see in daily life. No one is running around like a zoo animal and no one seems to be hopped up on too many sedatives either. I guess the movies were wrong in their depictions. I sit down at a small round table and a nurse brings me a tray with a lid on it. I open the lid and to my surprise, I see two cheeseburgers, green beans, a fruit cup, and chocolate milk. This actually looks like a delicious meal. I decide that this place might not be so bad. It is also very quiet in here, except for the television playing Gunsmoke. I hate that show with a passion. I do not understand what people see in it.
I eat my meal in silence and the other people seem to just ignore my presence. I am fine with that because I want to be left alone anyway. After I finish, I put my tray away and begin heading back to my room. However, I overhear one of the nurses announcing on the intercom that it is time for Process Therapy Group whatever that means. I start heading toward the room where the group is being held and take my seat. I notice that this room has a 75-inch plasma screen television in it and I wonder why they need such a massively large television in this room. However, I do not ask about it because I do not care too much. There are pictures of Jesus holding lambs all over the walls in this room too. I think they look nice. Four more people come into the room and take their seats. The group therapist has us introduce ourselves. There is Amy, who suffers from severe panic attacks, Greg, who is a suicidal alcoholic, John, who is a Schizophrenic, and then there is Justin, who suffers from severe Depression. I feel a sense of relief to be around these people because for once I do not feel so alone. Maybe these people will understand me.
The group therapist begins talking about the importance of having coping skills. What is a "coping skill"? I've never heard that terminology before. She explains that coping skills are things we do to help us cope with life's stressors. I am not sure what my coping skills would be, but I do like listening to music and watching movies though. Do they count? I guess that they do because they are what Amy says she likes and the therapist seems pleased with that answer. The therapist continues talking, but I drone her out. All I can seem to think about is how after I leave this place I am going to succeed at killing myself. Maybe I should drink Bleach or this time stab myself in the throat. The group seems to last forever. Amy begins crying, but I am not sure why though. Greg hands her some tissues and she tells him thanks. I just want this group to end so that I can go back to my room and sleep. I would love to fall asleep and never wake up.
After about thirty minutes, the group therapy is over. I guess that was not so bad. It was kind of mundane, but this whole place is pretty drab. I stand up and begin walking back to my room in a slow shuffle while looking down at the floor. I notice the tiny cracks in the floor. When was the last time they had someone take a look at this? The floor tiles look like they need to be replaced. Once I am in my room, I can finally breathe a sigh of relief. I actually find solace in this boring room. I pull back the blanket and lay down on the bed. At least the pillow is nice and soft. After about five minutes, I drift off to sleep. I wish that it would be the sleep of death.
STAY TUNED FOR PART 3 OF THIS SERIES...
-David Lee Chu Sarchet
Christian Mental Health Advocate
Check out the Christ-Centered Mental Health Ministry Website
Check out the other Christ-Centered Mental Health Ministry Website
"So, what brings you here to Memorial Catholic Psychiatric Hospital?" She asks and I am bewildered. Weren't they informed of what I had attempted to do before I came here? I groan loudly and she does not even flinch. I carefully explain to her how I attempted to kill myself. She quietly types on the computer. For about two minutes all I hear is the rapping of the keyboard buttons being tapped. I decide to stare at my feet. I notice that my right foot is tapping on the floor. I must be nervous. I guess I am because I do not know what to expect. I've never been to a Psychiatric hospital before and all I've known about them was from movies. Am I going to see people acting like zoo animals or am I going to see a bunch of walking zombies because they are hopped up on medication? Are they going to give me a whole bunch of medication? I shudder at the thought and now I want to die even more.
"Why did you want to die?" She calmly asks me. I groan again. I really do not want to explain this to her. However, I decided to give her the condensed version. What could it hurt? I tell her that I miss my mother and I would like to be with her again. She was the only person who truly cared for and understood me. The nurse begins rapping on the keyboard again. I stare at the clock on the wall. I did not notice it before, but now I see that it has a Mickey Mouse face in the center. The Mickey Mouse's face seems to be mocking me with his smiling face. Why does he have to appear to be so happy? If he were real, he would not be so happy because real life is not a joyous thing. I hate my life.
"Are you still feeling suicidal?" She proceeds to ask me and I honestly do not know how to respond. I was not expecting this answer, but I just cooperatively say yes. She then asks me if I have any plans. I did not think of that because I am not sure how I could manage to hurt myself in a place like this. So, I just tell her that no I don't. She resumes her typing yet again. I see the clock again and this time I pay extra close attention to the ticking. It's 5:00 in the evening and I am feeling famished. I hope they are planning on feeding me soon. I have not had anything in all day. I really should not care about whether or not I eat because I want to die but I heard that dying by starvation is not pleasant. I do not want to die slowly either. She proceeds to explain to me what she calls my "patient rights" such as my right to privacy and my right to not have my picture taken and other meaningless things. Then, I have to sign some piece of paper. I feel like I am signing my life away.
"How long do I have to stay here for?" I ask because I am afraid they will try to keep me here forever. I just want to leave and go kill myself. This time I'll succeed because I will get ahold of a gun somehow and blow my brains out. Imagine the glee that Angela will feel when she sees my brains splattered all over the walls. She then told me that it is up to my psychiatrist. Oh, great, he is going to keep me here forever! I groan loudly again. She just ignores me and continues typing. Then, she stands up and says that she will now take me to my room. I actually get a room? Maybe this place is not so bad. I wonder how comfortable my bed will be. If it is comfortable I will just sleep the whole time I am here. On the way down the long hallway, she explains to me that I do not have to attend the group therapies but if I do then it will go a long way in helping the doctor know if I am ready for discharge. That gives me hope. So, if I attend these stupid groups, then I can get out of here sooner? She then asks me if I identify with any cultural or religious beliefs and I tell her that I am a Christian. The truth is, I have not been to church in many years and I have not read the Bible in just that long too, but I do believe in Jesus though.
As we walk into the room, the first thing I notice is two twin beds laying parallel to one another. I also notice that there is one chair up against the wall too. Some man is sitting in that chair with the lights turned off. The nurse calls the man's name. He is Justin and she introduces me saying that I am his roommate. All of a sudden, I feel scared. Why do I have to share a room with a complete stranger? I do not even know if I can trust this man. What if he tries to kill me in my sleep? I guess I'll be sleeping with one eye open while I am here. The man politely says hello to me and he seems friendly, but then he goes back to staring blankly at the wall. I wonder what he is thinking. Or what he is staring at? The walls here are not too fascinating. They are much like the walls in the tiny office the nurse had me in before. There are not even any pictures or anything at all. I lay on my bed for about five minutes, but it is not comfortable at all. It feels like I am laying on a hard gym mat with a pillow and a thin blanket. All of a sudden, a nurse announces on an intercom that dinner is being served. Good, I am feeling starved. I immediately stand up and start heading out to what is called the Day Room.
The Day Room looks more lively because the walls are actually colorful. I see one wall painted red and another wall painted yellow and the two other walls are green. I like that a lot. I also notice that there is only one television that seems like everyone shares. I notice that the people here all seem like normal people that I would see in daily life. No one is running around like a zoo animal and no one seems to be hopped up on too many sedatives either. I guess the movies were wrong in their depictions. I sit down at a small round table and a nurse brings me a tray with a lid on it. I open the lid and to my surprise, I see two cheeseburgers, green beans, a fruit cup, and chocolate milk. This actually looks like a delicious meal. I decide that this place might not be so bad. It is also very quiet in here, except for the television playing Gunsmoke. I hate that show with a passion. I do not understand what people see in it.
I eat my meal in silence and the other people seem to just ignore my presence. I am fine with that because I want to be left alone anyway. After I finish, I put my tray away and begin heading back to my room. However, I overhear one of the nurses announcing on the intercom that it is time for Process Therapy Group whatever that means. I start heading toward the room where the group is being held and take my seat. I notice that this room has a 75-inch plasma screen television in it and I wonder why they need such a massively large television in this room. However, I do not ask about it because I do not care too much. There are pictures of Jesus holding lambs all over the walls in this room too. I think they look nice. Four more people come into the room and take their seats. The group therapist has us introduce ourselves. There is Amy, who suffers from severe panic attacks, Greg, who is a suicidal alcoholic, John, who is a Schizophrenic, and then there is Justin, who suffers from severe Depression. I feel a sense of relief to be around these people because for once I do not feel so alone. Maybe these people will understand me.
The group therapist begins talking about the importance of having coping skills. What is a "coping skill"? I've never heard that terminology before. She explains that coping skills are things we do to help us cope with life's stressors. I am not sure what my coping skills would be, but I do like listening to music and watching movies though. Do they count? I guess that they do because they are what Amy says she likes and the therapist seems pleased with that answer. The therapist continues talking, but I drone her out. All I can seem to think about is how after I leave this place I am going to succeed at killing myself. Maybe I should drink Bleach or this time stab myself in the throat. The group seems to last forever. Amy begins crying, but I am not sure why though. Greg hands her some tissues and she tells him thanks. I just want this group to end so that I can go back to my room and sleep. I would love to fall asleep and never wake up.
After about thirty minutes, the group therapy is over. I guess that was not so bad. It was kind of mundane, but this whole place is pretty drab. I stand up and begin walking back to my room in a slow shuffle while looking down at the floor. I notice the tiny cracks in the floor. When was the last time they had someone take a look at this? The floor tiles look like they need to be replaced. Once I am in my room, I can finally breathe a sigh of relief. I actually find solace in this boring room. I pull back the blanket and lay down on the bed. At least the pillow is nice and soft. After about five minutes, I drift off to sleep. I wish that it would be the sleep of death.
STAY TUNED FOR PART 3 OF THIS SERIES...
-David Lee Chu Sarchet
Christian Mental Health Advocate
Check out the Christ-Centered Mental Health Ministry Website
Check out the other Christ-Centered Mental Health Ministry Website
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