I was hospitalized in a psych ward.
“How did you end up in the psych ward? Did you like go crazy and try to kill yourself?”
“Is it really an insane asylum like in the movies?”
“Were you restrained to the bed? Did they give you a tranquilizer shot?”
“Were all the patients insane?”
“Was it terrible?”
These are the questions that often follow people finding out that I was hospitalized in a psych ward. Although these questions stem from a place of curiosity, they are often filled with stigmatizing language that may trigger feelings of shame, fear, and isolation. Many questions people have originated from the portrayal of psychiatric facilities in the media, which makes the inaccurate representations more infuriating. It also makes people feel afraid to reach out for help, which surely must add to the mental health crisis.
And here is the thing: it was neither all good nor all bad. And would I recommend treatment in a psych ward? That depends on the individual’s current mental health state, access to additional crisis intervention options, their support system, and the facility itself. In all honesty, the truth is that for some people, it is an amazing option that helps keep them safe and teaches new skills, while for others, it is traumatic and not necessary. For me, it was a bit distressful but certainly necessary. I was a danger to myself and needed to be under surveillance. But, for me, it was not the right facility and much of it felt like a traumatic experience.
Let me walk you through my experience.
On March 24, 2019, all I could think about was how much I wanted to be with my grandfather and how much I hated that my uncle wasn’t here anymore. So, I went to the cemetery. I was sitting at the cemetery with my back against my grandfather’s plot on the wall looking at my uncle’s plot. I was journaling everything that I was feeling while tears streamed down my face. I had sat in the parking lot for ten minutes searching how much of each medication was considered toxic to ensure I would take enough because I was tired of waking up after each attempt.
My journal was full of my darkest thoughts. I was blaming myself for other people’s actions toward me. I was blaming myself for things I had absolutely zero control over, like the deaths of my grandfather and uncle. I wrote about what I thought everyone’s life would be like without me and it seemed so much better for all of them. Repeatedly, I was stating how much I wanted to be with my grandfather. By the time I finished journaling, I was crouched on the floor in a ball and my tears covered my elbows and knees rocking back and forth. I walked to the bathroom, took out my scissors, and started cutting up my sternum and rib cage. No matter how many cuts I made, the emotional pain would not numb. I desperately wanted to not exist anymore, but I decided to call and text a few people begging them to intervene. The response that became my determining factor was “I am out golfing. Stop calling me. I do not have time for you and all your drama. It’s not all about you. They died, get over it.” I texted that person and asked for them to make sure I had the spot in the wall beneath my grandfather so I could be with him. Then, I walked to the bathroom, hid in a stall, and took the pills. I felt so nauseated just by the sheer number of pills I was swallowing. I went back to where my grandfather and uncle were, sat down, and closed my eyes.
My head started hurting in a way I could not describe, and my body was shaking. My stomach was feeling worse, I was becoming increasingly restless and was suddenly terrified. The thought of dying felt calming but the pain and sickness I was experiencing felt chilling. Everything was becoming blurry, and I understood that I only had a short window to drive myself to the hospital before I got too sick from it. When I got to the hospital, I texted the same person whose response cut me deeper than the scissors did and told them what I did and that I was scared.
I walked into the hospital and the lady at the front desk asked me what happened, as she noted that my skin looked pale, and my lips were blue. I was hysterical as I told her what I had taken and that I wanted it all to just stop. I was taken back into a room and given charcoal. A young man entered the room and would not leave. I asked him why he was there, and he said I was now put under mandatory supervision and would not be allowed to leave. This was called a “Baker Act” in the state of Florida.
The criteria for the Baker Act shared by the Florida Department of Children and Families:
An individual may be taken to a receiving facility for involuntary examination under the Baker Act if:
There is reason to believe he/she has a mental illness and due to the mental illness, the individual has refused or is unable to determine if examination is necessary; and either;
Without care or treatment, the individual is unlikely to care for themselves which can result in substantial harm to their well-being, and it is not evident that harm can be avoided through familial intervention or other services; or
It is likely, based on recent behavior, that without treatment, the individual will pose a serious threat to themselves or others.
This was the day of my younger brother’s 17th family birthday party, and while I lay in the hospital bed, I was told how selfish I was for ruining my brother’s birthday. I wanted to die. I was so angry at myself for failing to complete another attempt to die. After the acetaminophen levels in my bloodwork began to decrease, I was put in an ambulance and transported to another hospital that had behavioral health services where my bloodwork was routinely monitored. Throughout the entire process from the emergency room to being taken into the psych ward, one of my uncles did not leave my side. I do not think he will ever understand how much I needed that, because he gave me reassurance that someone cared.
When I got to the new hospital, it was late at night. I was put into a glass room that had a line of recliners. As I sat in the transparent enclosure, I felt like what I could only describe as a character in a circus that someone would refer to as a “freak” on exhibit for the amusement of others. It was 20-year-old me and an older gentleman in the room. He was screaming and moving around a lot, which made me feel unsafe. I had no idea what was happening, I was overwhelmed, confused, frustrated, angry, and hopeless. And on top of that, no one was communicating with me. I was not able to leave, still waiting to find out what was going to happen.
In the morning, they brought me into the psych ward. I did not have any clothes, just the hospital gown from the ER. The nurse examined my body as they were required to do, and she noticed all the cuts. She asked me what happened, and I lied. I said it was rug burn. She knew I was lying but she did not call me out on it, instead, she hugged me and said that it was going to be okay and to wait there. She went and grabbed clothes for me to wear.
My room had two hospital beds, empty beige walls, small windows with heavy glass that made it impossible to see out of, and a bathroom with no door, just a shower curtain. There was a balcony, which we were allowed on for one group session. It was caged in, and I felt like I was in prison. The windows were so thick that there was no natural light or view of the outside world. This made the room feel small and stuffy, which was amplified by the plain walls and dim interior lighting. The entire facility was a bland beige, and the walls appeared to be dirty. To me, the physical environment felt chillingly unsympathetic and despairing, which was the exact opposite of what I needed at the moment. I needed a warm environment that felt safe, compassionate, and hopeful.
I was woken up for bloodwork at 4 a.m. every day. I feared needles and had never had a blood draw without someone holding my hand, so I was extremely uncomfortable and afraid as soon as I was woken up each day. In the mornings, they would bring a cart around with toiletries we could use for oral hygiene. We were allowed to shave with the provided razors but had to be supervised. We were permitted occasional showers under supervision. I remember the unsettling feeling of knowing there was a male waiting on the other side of the curtain. He occasionally asked if I was safe, even so, my privacy was always respected. We were given limited options for our meals, mirroring the menu and how they take food orders when you are admitted to the hospital. I had a very unhealthy relationship with food and no options were supportive of someone struggling with disordered eating behaviors. The closest thing to a health-conscious meal was Caesar salad three times a day. Breakfast was served promptly at (I believe) 8 a.m., lunch at 12:30 p.m., and dinner at 6 p.m. If you were late, you missed it. There was snack time before bed at 8 p.m. where I would eat two oranges every night. Outside of mealtime, activities, and group sessions, we were expected to hang out in the common areas but were given limited resources. Thankfully, I had books from my family because there were not many reading or movie options. We were not authorized to use any of the art supplies or games from recreational therapy outside of the elected time. One patient had UNO cards from home, thus there was a group of us who played a lot of UNO.
On the first day, the recreational therapist came into my room where I was lying on the hospital bed inconsolably crying. I was begging her to let me go home, telling her that I was not trying to die. However, the risk of liver damage due to a substantially toxic level of acetaminophen in my blood made it impossible for them to believe my lie. She told me that if I wanted to be able to go home after my involuntary hold, I needed to stop crying, pull myself together, and spend my time in the group sessions or in the common areas. She was trying to help me, but she taught me that the only way to get out was to either get over it or put on a fake smile until I did—a message I’d been told my entire life. Here I was, terrified and overwhelmed in desperate need of validation and compassion and I was being told to suck it up and smile. This led to stronger feelings of isolation and the pressure of putting on a brave face to prove I was doing well enough to go home. I started to invalidate and gaslight myself, telling myself things like, “Big girls don’t cry. Stop acting like a baby. You’re being dramatic.”
I came out of my room and this one lady who was probably close in age to my mom came up to me, hugged me, and introduced herself. She sat with me during group activities and meals. I felt not alone for the very first time in days.
We had different activities and sessions happening all day. Our group sessions were often filled with clinical psychology students completing their required hours and learning how to host a group in a psych ward. But none of us wanted to talk about how we were feeling or what brought us here. Looking back at it, the commitment to silence was silly, because we all had a similar experience. We either attempted to end our lives or were at imminent risk (means, plan, and 48-hour timeframe) of ending our lives, yet we had this idea that no one would understand, and we could not talk about it.
During visitor hours, my family showed up. I do not remember anyone else in the unit having any visitors. In fact, because there were no other visitors, I was allowed to have six visitors when the maximum was two. My family brought my clothes to wear (mainly pajamas and sweat outfits with drawstrings confiscated by the facility as a safety precaution) and lots of self-help books. Over the course of the next 5 days, I read one book per day and underlined passages I found inspiring so that I could share them during group.
After I made it through the night, I was seen by the psychiatrist. After about 5 minutes of asking me about my personal information and checking boxes of “Are you depressed? Are you anxious? Are you suicidal?” he told me that I was not allowed to leave for five nights and was required to take an antidepressant daily while hospitalized or my admission would be extended.
I started to feel a bit relieved because suddenly there was no stress. I could go to activities and color, play bingo, listen to music, and play card games without having to worry about anyone or anything else. I could just exist as me. I spent a lot of time on the shared phone calling my family and laughing again. During karaoke night, I grabbed other patients to duet with me and be my backup dancers, which was not permitted (apparently a bunch of psych ward patients running around in an enclosed room was well-intentioned but ill-advised due to safety). The one nurse who was so kind to me on the first day told me how proud she was of me to see this sudden shift in my personality about three days in. I was “a bubble of energy bringing so much light into the psych ward.” I made it a point to talk to every single patient and say good morning and good night. I was so full of life. What none of us realized at the time was that I was experiencing a hypomanic episode. The drastic change in my personality and behavior triggered by taking an antidepressant should have been the first hint. However, the psychiatrist did not try to learn anything about me and assumed that because I tried to end my life, I needed an antidepressant. The facility did not provide us with any individual therapy sessions to be evaluated for a diagnosis or treatment plan. I wish I had known then that I could advocate for myself and tried to request further evaluation before starting the medication. I wish I knew more about the different mental health diagnoses and symptoms so that I had the language to express what I was experiencing in terms that made sense to the psychiatrist “evaluating” me. The case manager reviewed our files and decided if we needed inpatient services or to follow up with a therapist upon discharge. I was required to see a therapist and have an appointment scheduled before I could be released, but it would not be for another year and a half that I would get the diagnosis of bipolar II disorder and start a mood stabilizer.
Although the physical atmosphere of the environment was less than ideal and the facility was noticeably underfunded, understaffed, and overextended, it was not all bad. Through group activities, I started to learn different things I could do to make myself feel better. I wish that these were introduced as coping mechanisms and not simply “activities” at the time. I had to form the connection myself, which took me a while to understand that I could utilize specific activities when different overwhelming emotions arise to help me move through them in a more manageable way.
In the psych ward, there was a modest range of activities encompassing art, music, and exercise. We had an arts and crafts afternoon where I realized how much I enjoyed coloring because it kept my hands busy. We had multiple music classes and I learned how much I loved listening to music and having a dance party to release energy, but also how much I did not enjoy playing instruments. We had an exercise class that made me feel extremely bored because it was all seated movement, and I learned that moving my body by walking brought me more relief than sitting down did. And, through group sessions, I learned how much I loved talking about my mental health. The first session was very awkward and uncomfortable because it was a lot of silence only broken by the individual leading the group. But, once I started sharing passages from my books in the group sessions and how they resonated with me, I noticed other people felt more inclined to share why it resonated with them too. And just like that, we opened a conversation, removed the stigma, and ended the silence. When we started talking about it without the fear of judgment and lack of understanding, I started to find more comfort in it rather than shame. It was going to be okay, and my mental health crisis did not have to be a dirty little secret. Now, I talk about it so much that I often bond with strangers over our shared experiences from being in a psych ward.
After five days of taking the antidepressants and my mood continuously amplifying, I was released. A few days after they released me from the hospital, I decided that I did not need the medication anymore. A therapist had told me that my suicidal behavior was in response to the traumatic losses of my grandfather and uncle back-to-back so I would not qualify for a diagnosis. So, I stopped it “cold turkey” because I believed that I was not depressed and did not need it. But within a few days, the elevated mood turned intense. I started having these episodes where I would start screaming at my loved ones. There was one afternoon in the car that I was screaming at my mom begging her to stab me. My family took turns babysitting me throughout the day. My uncle would take me to the gym with him and to breakfast every day; he constantly brought me more books because he knew reading helped me. My father forced me to go to therapy four times a week. For the first two months, he, my grandma, or my cousin would come with me and sit in the waiting room to ensure I went. Flashforward 4.5 years later, I am still alive, thanks to the intervention, support, and my personal willingness to keep trying.
For a while, I felt very angry over the experience in the psych ward. When I left, I did not have any new tools to keep me safe. I was removed from stressors for 6 days and then thrown right back into the world where time had not stood still, only I had. The connection between the activities and coping skills was not there, so I had no idea what to do when I felt worse again. There were no resources given to me on what to do, where to go, or who to call. I was given a medication that made me worse and, as a result, I was petrified of taking medication again until I learned it was a vital part of treatment for me.
But it was in the psych ward that I realized how much I wanted to talk about it and be a voice for those who lost theirs. I reflected a lot on the day that I ended up in the psych ward and how no one was truly hearing the solemn agony in my voice; I realized that I needed to find my voice and use it to make sure other people’s voices were being heard. This initiated the evolution of Inspiring My Generation from a blog to a nonprofit.
Why am I sharing my experience?
Because I wish I knew what to expect before being admitted and I wish my loved ones understood the depth of the experience and how it impacted me. And, because I am confident that we are only scratching the surface of the bare minimum when it comes to effective crisis intervention within many (if not all) psych wards.
With more funding, the facility and staff could be better equipped with productive resources; the walls could be repainted to bring light and brightness into the environment rather than darkness; the patients could leave with tangible resources for the transition and what to do next; more beds can be designated for treatment to increase the number of people receiving help; follow up care can be added to ensure patients are not alone in the process and have access to re-evaluation; a more comprehensive care team can be provided for proper evaluation, diagnosis, and effective collaborative treatment planning; family sessions can be added that support reintegration into homelife and ensure both the patient and family member have questions answered. Simply put, an increase in funding means an increased quality of intervention and a greater likelihood of success post-psych-ward.
How can you advocate for increased funding? Here are a few ways you can advocate.
Research both state and federal bills that are circulating about funding for behavioral health services. If there are, make note of the name of the bill(s) and status.
You can reach out to the committees, lobbyists, and congress members via phone call, email, and/or written letter to share why the specific bill (or more generally an increase in behavioral health funding) is important to you.
Encourage your representatives to support (and/or sponsor) legislation that increases funding for behavioral health services.
Research different organizations that are supporting different bills related to funding for behavioral health services and ask how you can get involved. Signing up for Action Alerts can help you stay up to date on what is happening and what you can do.
And, for individuals who want to learn more about someone’s experience and offer them valuable support, remember that your language matters. Below are a few examples of the language that I prefer people use to inquire about my experience.
How did you end up in the psych ward? Did you like go crazy and try to kill yourself? —> How are you feeling now? If you want to talk about it, I am here to listen and support you however you need.
Is it really an insane asylum like in the movies? —> If you are comfortable talking about it, I am curious about what your experience was like.
Were you restrained to the bed? Did they give you a tranquilizer shot? —> What type of intervention did you receive while you were there?
Were all the patients insane? —> Did you make any friends or have people to talk to while you were there?
Was it terrible? —> Did you find the overall experience to be helpful for the support you needed?
To succinctly answer those questions stated above:
I am feeling safer now. When I struggle, I know what tools are out there and am utilizing the tools appropriate for me as frequently as possible. I also have some people in my life who allow me to be honest about how I am feeling without any judgment and with compassion. I ended up in a psych ward after attempting to end my life and being placed under an involuntary hold known as the Baker Act in the state of Florida. Each state has different laws in place for involuntary holds.
The experience of being in a psych ward was overwhelming and complex. The physical environment and atmosphere were inappropriate for what my brain needed. The food was not supportive of my unhealthy relationship with food. The facility was severely underfunded and understaffed. They woke me up for bloodwork at 4 a.m. every day, which was not an enjoyable way to wake up. There were only two movies for us to choose from, a few books provided, and limited access to any of the games or activities outside of designated activity time. But there was a community of people who were experiencing what I was, and we leaned on each other.
I received intervention through medication, a short meeting with the psychiatrist on call, group therapy sessions, activities, and a daily questionnaire ranking depressive, anxious, and suicidal symptoms on a scale from 1-5. I was not personally restrained; however, the type of intervention may vary based on facility and current mental status.
Everyone was kind. I connected with other individuals, we always sat together at mealtimes and during activities. The people hospitalized in the psych ward were also struggling with their mental health. Some individuals had more severe diagnoses, but no one was “crazy” just in need of support. There were a handful of individuals who had been in the same psych ward more than one time, and it was their best option due to a lack of financial resources or a support system.
The psych ward helped me realize that I was not the only one going through it and I enjoyed talking about my mental health. I also saw the impact of having a community where you feel accepted even at your lowest moments. On the other hand, it was dark, cold, isolating, and not set up for success beyond keeping a patient from ending their life during the involuntary hold. I would love to see improvement in this.
And, if you are not sure how to respond when someone shares with you, below are a few examples of language that I prefer, which accentuates validation, support, and empathy.
It sounds like the experience brought up a lot of different emotions and felt overwhelming.
It makes sense that you felt afraid. I have not been there myself, but I would love to listen, learn more, and try to understand if you feel comfortable talking about it with me.
I understand your frustration with the lack of resources you were provided. I am here if you need someone to talk to about it or help with finding resources.
Even when it may feel like it, please know that you are not alone in this. I am here for you however you need me to be, whether you need someone to listen to you, distract you, sit with you, or make you laugh.
If you are unsure about whether you need crisis intervention and/or the level of crisis intervention that you need, here are just three (of many) options available to you:
Talk with your licensed mental health professional. If you are worried about what happens if you disclose certain information, you can ask them what the laws are surrounding involuntary holds. However, being honest can help the professional to properly evaluate and assess what type of support would be best for you at this time. Their goal is to help you not to put you in a harmful situation.
Talk with your medical doctor. (A great option if you don’t have a licensed mental health professional and are unable to schedule an appointment within an appropriate timeframe.) Again, you may ask them questions, but remember, the more honest you are, the better chance you will receive the proper intervention.
Reach out to a crisis hotline. There are many hotlines available for calling and/or texting. The trained counselors will ask you questions to assess your safety. They will listen to you, validate your feelings, and help you develop the next steps to stay safe.
In conclusion, remember that everyone’s experience with behavioral health services is different because we are all different. Just because I had a good or bad experience does not dictate what your experience will look like. A licensed mental health professional can help you determine what type of support you need. And yes, you are worthy of support. It does not have to feel like this forever.
