When one is on a psych ward, there are at least 2 constants: crazy people, and "checks". Checks are the constant "checking on" every patient throughout their day. One staff member per hour walks about with a clipboard, making sure that everyone is safe and accounted for EVERY 15 MINUTES. They bang on every closed door, including the bathrooms. A running joke amongst "serial patients" is that if you get REALLY good, you can get into a bathroom, shower, change, and leave before someone comes banging down the bathroom door, insisting that you scream out your first name, last initial over the sound of running water whilst you scrub your hair. It's like a guillotine that comes out of nowhere, blasting your last dignity; a hot shower where, for a short time, you can forget that you are so crazy you live in a locked space.
Life on an inpatient unit is a real lesson in diversity and similarity. It's a study in opposites, and how they co-exist. In this particular case, everyone is here because "coping on the outside" has become impossible. We are a danger to ourselves and others. How we handle this ranges from sleeping 20 hour a day to running around the halls in socks at all hours of the day and night, making signs for "those that are not aware of how things work" and refusing all medications.
We squeeze stress balls and wrap ourselves in hospital blankets. We talk to each other about the "good old days", when we used, drank, cut ourselves. We compare scars and "The Lists"; lists of the hospitals we've been to, lists of the restraints we've been subjected to, lists of the drugs the docs have "tried out" on us. We eat far too much, sharing candy and treats visitors have brought us. We are from the city, country, suburbs. We live in mansions, ranches, split levels, apartments, group homes, and cars; mental illness is the Almighty Equalizer.
I have watched as a young man cried into the shoulder of an elderly woman, finally accepting his addiction. I have been the recipient of a piece of candy and a smile from a Hells Angel who loved classical music as much as I did. We are a beautiful and highly dysfunctional family. We scream and yell and laugh and cry and try to be "normal".
Today I am reeling; mania has taken over my life in a very real way. I am inpatient now, trying to mix meds and coping skills into a kind of "cocktail" that might work.
Mania has made me angry, violent, and frustrated. My mood is labile (Holy understatement, Batman!) and I find myself getting into arguments with friends and family for no "good" reason. I cannot sit in a group for more than 15 minutes without having to leave. I have a nasty twitch in my hands if I try to stay any longer. I find myself pacing the halls, biting my nails so I don't scream at nothing and no one. I shake violently just trying to keep my brain from leaking out my ears. Sitting in a group starts to give me a glimpse into the life of Bruce Banner.
Up until yesterday, I would have said that I continue to have great faith in the medical profession to get me through. Now my feelings are mixed. While speaking with a doc on Tuesday, we discussed the medications I have taken in the past. One of them is Depakote; I took it from about 1998-2001. The doc immediately interjected "Well, I would never put you on that again; it obviously already did its worst." When I asked what she meant she told me that Depakote has been shown to cause PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome). This is the condition that prevents me from ever having children. Now the truth comes forward; the very medication that was supposed to "help" me ripped away one of my biggest dreams: motherhood. The Brahms "Lullaby" plays over the loudspeakers here as I write this, indicating a baby has just been born. Everytime it plays a bit of my heart bleeds faster.
And now here I sit, at the end of a little twin hospital bed, writing on a tray table, begging God and all the saints and angels to come and bear a little grief and mania with me. Maybe if they do, I can finish this latest of life's showers in less than 15 minutes.
Life on an inpatient unit is a real lesson in diversity and similarity. It's a study in opposites, and how they co-exist. In this particular case, everyone is here because "coping on the outside" has become impossible. We are a danger to ourselves and others. How we handle this ranges from sleeping 20 hour a day to running around the halls in socks at all hours of the day and night, making signs for "those that are not aware of how things work" and refusing all medications.
We squeeze stress balls and wrap ourselves in hospital blankets. We talk to each other about the "good old days", when we used, drank, cut ourselves. We compare scars and "The Lists"; lists of the hospitals we've been to, lists of the restraints we've been subjected to, lists of the drugs the docs have "tried out" on us. We eat far too much, sharing candy and treats visitors have brought us. We are from the city, country, suburbs. We live in mansions, ranches, split levels, apartments, group homes, and cars; mental illness is the Almighty Equalizer.
I have watched as a young man cried into the shoulder of an elderly woman, finally accepting his addiction. I have been the recipient of a piece of candy and a smile from a Hells Angel who loved classical music as much as I did. We are a beautiful and highly dysfunctional family. We scream and yell and laugh and cry and try to be "normal".
Today I am reeling; mania has taken over my life in a very real way. I am inpatient now, trying to mix meds and coping skills into a kind of "cocktail" that might work.
Mania has made me angry, violent, and frustrated. My mood is labile (Holy understatement, Batman!) and I find myself getting into arguments with friends and family for no "good" reason. I cannot sit in a group for more than 15 minutes without having to leave. I have a nasty twitch in my hands if I try to stay any longer. I find myself pacing the halls, biting my nails so I don't scream at nothing and no one. I shake violently just trying to keep my brain from leaking out my ears. Sitting in a group starts to give me a glimpse into the life of Bruce Banner.
Up until yesterday, I would have said that I continue to have great faith in the medical profession to get me through. Now my feelings are mixed. While speaking with a doc on Tuesday, we discussed the medications I have taken in the past. One of them is Depakote; I took it from about 1998-2001. The doc immediately interjected "Well, I would never put you on that again; it obviously already did its worst." When I asked what she meant she told me that Depakote has been shown to cause PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome). This is the condition that prevents me from ever having children. Now the truth comes forward; the very medication that was supposed to "help" me ripped away one of my biggest dreams: motherhood. The Brahms "Lullaby" plays over the loudspeakers here as I write this, indicating a baby has just been born. Everytime it plays a bit of my heart bleeds faster.
And now here I sit, at the end of a little twin hospital bed, writing on a tray table, begging God and all the saints and angels to come and bear a little grief and mania with me. Maybe if they do, I can finish this latest of life's showers in less than 15 minutes.
