Back to the Psych Ward

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I checked myself into a hospital last week. My suicidal ideation was just getting too bad. I found myself touching the blade on a pocket knife to see if it was sharp enough.

That scared me enough to go back into a psych ward. Although they are virtually prisons, I knew it was the right decision.

I forgot just how bad and claustrophobic the units are. When they took me inside my unit, all I saw was a tiny day room with locked hallways where people slept.

The only good thing is that it didn’t reek of urine. I had a panic attack and began crying for them to release me right then and there. The head nurse had to take me into a private room and calm me down.

After about ten minutes, I accepted the fact that I was not leaving any time soon. A single TV showed an ancient cowboy movie with the sound turned down. People were either sitting in vegetative states or they were stumbling around muttering to themselves.

This isn’t what the pamphlet showed. It never is.

A schizophrenic black guy in a Batman t-shirt came over to shake my hand and tell me not to touch his stuff. I saw nothing nearby, so I guess he meant the stuff in his room.

I eventually decided to play dominos with a guy who tried to hang himself. He said his neck still hurt. A great guy; I’m glad he didn’t succeed.

As usual, time in a psych ward is quite interesting. I couldn’t fully enjoy my stay since my anxiety was in full swing, and I was feeling claustrophobic as hell.

I was released the next day. There was no treatment or adjusting of my meds. Just turned loose.

Another thing I noticed were all the Bibles on the tables in the day room. They were turned to either Psalms or Proverbs. It reminded me of the saying:

There are no atheists in fox holes.

I am so grateful for my freedom. I cannot stress that enough.

~t

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About Topaz

I'm a college teacher, writer, and faithful Catholic. I do my best to juggle all of these while dealing with my mental illness -- a constant thorn in my flesh. View all posts by Topaz

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