The Hospital

This is a story loosely based on my own experiences in a mental health unit a couple of years ago.

It was a crisp and cold November morning when she went into the hospital, or the “unit”, as it was called. She had been severely depressed for months and knew that this was her last resort, before ending her own life. The thought of being locked up somewhere terrified her, but she really didn’t know what else to do. Everyone in her life, some with obvious impatience, were urging her to go, saying that it was for her own good. She thought secretly that they were just sick of her, and wanted her out of their hair. Whatever their reasoning, she was going, and was not happy about it. She would have to leave her home, her child, her life behind for a bit. What would that be like? She had always been “present” in her life; nothing had really passed her by or left her behind. This time, though, a lot of things were going to pass her by, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

She packed her bag of toiletries, clothes, and books and got into the car with her husband. His hands were gripped on the wheel and she could not see his emotions by the blank look on his face. “Am I doing the right thing?” she asked timidly, afraid of the answer, but knowing what it would be.

“You have to do this: I can’t take it anymore. Jordan can’t take it. You’re not being a partner to me or a mother to him. You don’t have a choice this time.” He said it with vehemence and bitterness, and she knew that the discussion was effectively over.

The rest of the ride was quiet, and then she was in the hospital. Having to ask the front desk attendant for directions to the mental ward was thoroughly humiliating and exhausting, and she wished that there was a hole or something she could crawl into until it was all over. When she got upstairs and saw the heavy metal door that contained the “unit”, she almost turned around and walked the other way. Her husband pushed her to knock, and she did. A heavyset man with earrings and tattoos answered, and gruffly asked her who she was. After entering the unit, the nightmare began. She sat down with lots of people, answering questions and alternately crying into a kleenex. `How long had she been depressed?` `Had she ever tried to kill herself?` `Why was she there?` Everything was overwhelming, and she thought she must be having some kind of nightmare to be in a place like this.

She had led a charmed life up to that point. She did well in school, had a good childhood, and won lots of awards and commendations for things she did. Everything she wanted and went after, she got … there were no obstacles in her way. Now, though, she was completely stuck, and wasn’t living any kind of life at all. She woke up each morning with a terrible sense of dread, and had to force herself to get out of bed to take care of her little boy. The pain was real and terrifying, but no one seemed to understand. Her husband grew impatient with her and sighed loudly every time he came home to find the house a mess or her feeling sad and weepy. He had never experienced it himself, he said, and so could not begin to comprehend what she was going through.

In the hospital that day, she would soon be all alone, and forced to face everything she had been putting off for months. No one would let her slide this time, and that scared her badly. Her husband left, and she was alone. She didn’t know what to do or where to go. Her room seemed inviting, but patients were encouraged to “hang out” in the common areas, not take refuge in their rooms. With a sigh, she plopped down on a couch in the common room, glancing around her. There were several people in there with her, and all of them were lost in their own reveries. An obese woman wrung a tissue in her hands as she muttered something under her breath, and a man sitting at the table playing Scrabble suddenly threw the board onto the floor and cursed his luck. She was really nervous now, and didn’t know if she should talk or just stay silent.

Deciding to venture forth with a question, she asked, “Excuse me, when is lunch?”

The large woman answered her: “Should be soon, but they’re usually late these days. And they haven’t gotten my order right in weeks.”

Weeks? Is that how long she would be there too? Already she was feeling a sense of panic at the thought of spending weeks here. She had always had claustrophobia, and the thought of being locked in here with mentally ill people made her queasy and hot all over. What the hell had she done?

* * *

As the days went on, she went through the motions like everyone else. There were morning and afternoon therapy groups, classes to attend, and lots of medicine to drug herself with. She saw her doctor almost every day, and he methodically nodded as she told him how desperate she felt and how much she needed to get home to her son. She realized that he probably could have cared less about her situation, seeing as how he had more patients to attend to. She wanted to rip her hair out, or his, and scream that she couldn’t take one more minute in this terrible place. It definitely wasn’t helping her; she almost felt worse. All the medicine her doctor had her on was just doping her up; nothing else. She talked to her husband almost every day, but his voice was cold and flat. She could tell he had had enough; it was only a matter of time before he told her.

The one light spot in her time in the hospital was that she met some really interesting people. One man was schizophrenic and hallucinated quite a bit, but he was the meanest Scrabble player she had ever seen. His mind was sharp as a tack, even though it betrayed him almost all the time. He told her about his long-suffering girlfriend and the fact that he was no longer able to drive because of his illness. He told her he really missed that.

She also met a woman who was detoxing there, because there was no space for her in the drug detox program upstairs. She had never seen someone withdrawing from drugs or alcohol before, and it was quite scary to watch. The woman shook, cursed, tore her hair, writhed around, and just generally professed her hatred for the world. She had stolen some money from her mother and sister, and neither were speaking to her anymore. She was all alone, and if she didn’t kick her drug habit, would end up on the streets with nothing.

After her week was over, she was given the “go ahead” to leave the unit. She swore up and down that she was “cured”, and her psychiatrist believed her, was duped by her. Many people with mental illness will try to work people over around them, to get what they want, and this is exactly what she did. She packed her bags, said goodbye to everyone there, and walked out the door.

* * *

Life did not improve after that. Her marriage was clearly over, and she felt that she didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Her illness was still covering her like a smothering blanket and there was no relief from it. She realized soon that the only solution was to leave, to start over, to be another person. In December, she left her child and home and everything she knew to start a new life, far away. She mourned her son every single day, but knew that she couldn’t have brought him with her and cared for him like he deserved. She was broken, and messed up, and he didn’t need that. She began to live her life and try to forget about what had happened to her.

To Be Continued

 

Reviews

[Calypso]

This was very nice. i loved how it was told.