Chapter 1 - Checking Out

Stephanie makes a decision that will change her whole life.

 

How did I end up here? That seemed to be the recurring question over the past few months. I quickly recalled the days and hours, painfully recounting the events, like replaying a movie in my head. It’s all so surreal that I have a hard time believing that the memories are true.

One minute I’m the girl that has it all figured out. The next minute, I’m committing myself into a psychiatric hospital. The best way to describe it was that it happened gradually, then suddenly. I didn’t even have time to pack a bag. Talk about it hitting you like a sack of bricks.

It’s not like I wanted to be voted Butler Psychiatric Hospitals ‘Best Dressed’, but my stained and over sized sweatshirt paired with the equally stained and hole ridden yoga pants just seemed a little too cliche for me.

My best friend Brianna drove and made endless small talk as I stared out the window in silence, every once in a while giving her a little giggle or a smile to appease her nervousness. After I broke down crying in the office after our shift at work and confessed every inch of my soul, well almost every inch, she encouraged me to take my own good advice and commit myself into a psychiatric facility voluntarily.

I felt at the time that it was the right decision for me, and having someone who wasn’t going through emotional upheaval confirm the decision made it a little easier to, as they say, bite the bullet. But having her confirmation in my decision or not, still my stomach was in knots and my heart was fluttering. If this reaction was out of nervousness or excitement I’ll still never know, as the feeling I’ll dare to say, was mixed.

 

The idea of leaving my parents, my home, and everything that I had known for 20 years was scary, even if it was just for a brief period of time. I had never really done anything for myself up until that point. Everything in my life up until now had been for somebody, whether that somebody be my parents, my boyfriend, my friends, anyone but myself. Branching out and doing something for myself, not only just some regular old thing, but something that could potentially change my life forever was an exhilaratingly terrifying thought.

We pulled up to the facility and a shiver crawled up my spine. The parking lot was inadequately lit and the signs were hardly legible from the car as we passed by them. We must have circled that parking lot twelve times and asked two different security officers before we found the right entrance, and the entrance itself was frightening to say the least.

I instantly had second thoughts as we walked down this tiny ‘alleyway type parking lot’ as the security guard so pleasantly put it and approached the door. It was tiny and not clearly marked at all, with a single light that illuminating half a foot in front of it. The darkness of the night swallowed everything else up around us. Brianna and I looked at each other incredulously, wondering about the credibility of a place with such a sketchy entrance for their psychiatric patients. Not to be stereotypical, but I was definitely imagining something more pleasant, you know, so as to not make the psychiatric symptoms worse? But what do I know; I’m not a doctor… (sarcasm)

Brianna opened the door and we both hurried inside, hoping the atmosphere would change for the better. Unfortunately, we weren’t so lucky. The room was sterile and cold, like a waiting area if you were being detained for a crime. I felt like a criminal. There was a phone on

 

the wall that you picked up and dialed out in order to talk to a live person. They drill you over the phone before they let you in, asking if you have an appointment and if you called ahead. If you didn’t call ahead why didn’t you. Why are you there? It was all very impersonal. In my humble opinion if I was having a more severe episode all of their questioning would have put me over the edge. I wonder if it has before to somebody else and that’s why they hide in another room and use a telephone. I started to feel bad for the people who came before me and who will come after me and the way they will be treated, like criminals, or worse yet, like feral animals, when all they really need is some help. That’s why we’re here after all, for some help.

            When they’ve completed their questioning we hang up the phone and wait. Soon enough the locked door on our right opens and a middle aged man peeks his head in. The first things I notice about him are his eyes. They are soft and not quite what I imagined given my first impressions of the facility. He is slender and tall, making his movements seem unobtrusive. He says hello and shakes my hand, asking me to confirm that I am Stephanie. I confirm the first of a million times here at Butler Hospital, and he asks me to follow him into another room.

            I suddenly get very anxious because he doesn’t ask Brianna to follow him into the other room, just me. I’m hesitant to go with him and he can tell, so he slows down and asks me if I’m nervous and tells me that if I am its okay, it’s normal for everyone to be nervous. I like him; he’s much more comforting than that questioning woman on the phone was.

            I ask if Brianna can come with me into the next room, explaining to him that it will make me much more comfortable if she can come with me, at least until I’m settled and ready. He agrees without having to do much convincing on my part, he seems to be a very considerate man.

 

Without much fuss we walk down the corridor into a much warmer room with carpeting on the walls. It’s tacky, but at least it doesn’t make you feel like a prisoner.

            Brianna sits down in the waiting as I get my vitals taken. Everything comes back normal except my blood pressure, it is extremely high. They don’t even know how I’m standing it’s so high apparently. They keep asking me if I have a headache and I keep saying no. If they keep asking me though I might just get one. They take my pressure again, and again, and they’ll take it five more times before I even get admitted. Eventually they just chalk it up to stress and anxiety and call it a day and send me on my way.

            After taking my vitals I sit in the waiting room with Brianna for a while. We are laughing and joking about this new life that I’m going to have after all of this is said and done and how I have to start “keeping it real” with people. Just say everything and anything that’s on my mind, no filter. Keep it real. Keep it truthful.

            We are laughing and joking so hard that the receptionists are looking at us funny, but I don’t even care because this is the most fun I’ve had in months. Sitting in a Psychiatric Hospital waiting room laughing hysterically about “keeping it real”. A nurse then asks me if I’ve had any drugs tonight, he says, “most people aren’t this happy to be coming to a psychiatric hospital”. I know he’s right but I can’t stop laughing because he doesn’t know that this is a happy occasion for someone who is chronically unhappy. And that is just me keeping it real.

            Soon a psychiatrist comes down to see me and him and I go into an office to talk privately. He wants to know about what has been going on recently and why I feel the need to commit myself. I tell him of my depression and lack of motivation. How my life is spiraling out

 

of control and that I can’t seem to gain control of it again. He nods and mumbles his “I see” and “oh” statements, but he doesn’t really seem concerned about all of that. He’s more concerned if I want to hurt anyone else, he’s asked me about six times already and the answer has been no six times in a row. I wonder why he has asked so many times. Maybe I was wrong; maybe only people who hurt others commit themselves.

            He tells me that he thinks my problem can be fixed with therapy. Wasn’t he listening? I have a lack of motivation. Even getting out of bed is a task that requires exponential effort. I can’t even remember the last time I washed my hair. Making it to an appointment would be an insurmountable task.

I reiterate this problem again and he tells me so bluntly that insurance isn’t going to pay for motivation. In the end it comes down to money. I guess I should have been able to see that coming as money is to root of all evil, or so they say.

I made a forced effort to pick up my jaw and close my mouth as I was unaware that it had been left agape in shock. A single tear fell, the first that particular day and my heart sank to the bottom of my stomach. I told him that I needed help and that I was asking for help. I told him about all of the previous attempts that I had made to go to therapy, and that I just couldn’t go, not that I didn’t want to go. I wanted to go so badly, I didn’t want to be this person anymore, this chronically depressed individual who sucked the fun out of life. I wanted happiness and I was begging him for it. I felt like he was brushing me off, telling me that I didn’t want it or I would have done it. The solution was simpler than I made it out to be.

 

 

I pleaded my case and he signed the paper checking me in, or rather in my terms, checking me out of my previous life. His aggravation was apparent on his face but I didn’t care, I was in. I felt like I had gained access into this secret club, one that would give me the secret to a happy life. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what was in store for me.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

ignore grammar, first draft, what do you think overall? First time submitting writing for people to read. Don't be nice but don't be to brazen please? =]