The Psychiatric Facility | Teen Ink

The Psychiatric Facility

July 25, 2015
By Anonymous

“I want my dad!” I desperately sobbed through my tears. “Your dad is dead!” my mother screamed back at me. It’s true. He’s been dead for about three and a half years. In my time of fear and depression, I could not think of a more comforting person to be around. Everything turned into a blurry mess-- high pitched screams tore at my throat as I rocked back and forth on my floor. My shattered mirror cut into my toes and made little drops of blood form on my skin. My nails sunk into my forehead and suddenly, the police were in my living room.

I approached them cautiously, eyeing their weapons and thinking of all of the police brutalities against vulnerable people that have been in the media lately. “You’re not in any trouble,” the tall one said to me as if I was a young child, “but are you having suicidal thoughts?” I don’t think I really understood what he said. All that was running through my mind were police brutalities, and I knew I didn’t want to get hurt, so I nodded yes. My anxiety was extremely high. I couldn’t remember anything besides my dad telling me when I was little, “Always comply with police,” so that’s what I did.

Emergency medical services arrived and asked me a bunch of questions I don’t think I understood. At one point, the chief of EMS asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. “Well, I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?” I snapped at him, realizing my fate. He replied, “No, but it’s more polite to ask first.”

They lead me out of my house and into the back of the ambulance. A long time friend of my older brother’s was tending to me in the back. We made bets on what my blood pressure would be, he tended to my slightly bloody toes, and we joked and laughed. When we were at the emergency room, he high-fived me and they wheeled me in on the gurney.

I spent over twelve, long, uncomfortable hours in ugly paper clothes they use for psychiatric patients. I couldn’t get off my bed for anything. By the time I got to talk to the crisis counselor in the morning, my back, shoulders, and hips were killing me. I had to remain on that bed until they could find placement for me in a psychiatric facility where they told me I was “only going for a psychological evaluation and I’d get to go home if they deemed me stable.”

Imagine the anger I had when I got to the facility and they told me I had to be admitted after I got there. No evaluation, no going home like I was promised. I’d have to stay there until the next day to be evaluated. I hesitantly followed the nurse who politely showed me around the facility and explained what would be expected of me. I went to my room because it was room time and sulked in my bed while my roommate napped in the other bed.

I hadn’t showered for a few days. I asked the behavioral tech if it was alright for me to shower. She gave me the OK to get cleaned up, and when I was done, she let me put my hygiene products back in the hygiene locker. After room time came dinner and recreational time. I didn’t like adhering to such a tight schedule, but I also didn’t want to prolong my stay, so I sucked it up and followed the rules.

I missed my boyfriend. I missed my phone. I wondered how long I was going to be in here and how I would survive the stay. I sat in a corner while everybody else went outside in the little rec yard. A different behavioral tech asked me why I wasn’t being so social.

“Well, I just got here. I’m not in the best of moods, and I’m very shy at first.”

“Girl, what has being shy ever done for you?” she questioned me with a very sassy tone. She had a point. I couldn’t think of a good reply. Just then, a girl walked up to me and said “Hey, want to come hang out with us?” She motioned to a group of people outside. “She would love to!” the sassy tech said before I had a chance to reply. I followed her outside and sat on the fake grass with them. They all introduced themselves to me and were very sweet, unlike what I expected.

Over the next couple days, I made friends with just about everyone. We poured our hearts out to each other, played Jenga, watched Shrek about a million times and pigged out at snack time. We talked about crushes, relationships, insecurities, hopes, dreams, and just about everything in between. Suddenly these people I knew for a day knew me better than my friends at home who have known me for years. They all had just about the same story: they were outcasted by their peers and/or families, felt rejected by society, had no way of coping, so here they were.

I felt a connection with these people I only knew for about four days. We all saw each other with no makeup, unshaven legs and armpits, pajamas, and messy hair. We saw each other cry, panic, scream, worry, and isolate themselves. Yet not one time was anyone outcasted for any of that. We all supported each other, listened, welcomed new patients with open arms, shared secrets, and ate every meal together. And not a mean, judgemental, unsupportive word was uttered from any of us.

The best friendships I’ve had are the ones I formed in the facility. My friends talked about how they’re bullied and don’t have many friends because they’re different. The nicest, most caring and kind hearted people I’ve met were in this facility with me for suicide attempts and self-harm. Sadly, leaving the facility means leaving these friendships where they began.

I don’t understand it. Why do these beautiful, worthwhile, valuable individuals have to spend their teenage years suffering? I guess I won’t ever know the answer.


The author's comments:

I've had to spend a little bit of time in psychiatric facilities. This is a little bit about my experience at the one I was at this summer and the people I met there.


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