#13—Psychiatric center: second stay
Creation Date: 2022/12/12
Prep talk—
So, I have vented; and I have given myself a singlarity/multiplicity pep talk. I have written some little, teeny, tiny pieces of information on events leading up to my third emergency room visit, and consequentially my second stay inpatient at a psychiatric hospital: a civil hospital. I had my full range of emotions back, I could recall my past that pharmacology anti-psychotics regress, and I could think clearly so as to say I had critical thinking abilities back that, again, anti-psychotics drastically reduce when I am on them.
I can't control society wanting for my pharmacology drug use. I can control whether or not the drugs are going to be forced into me without my consent. It comes down to the forced drug administration. Communism's cooperation ideals, if you will. It feels like sometimes even if I tell people how my emotions were in turmoil, and that societal acceptance of the life I have lived - the good, the bad and the ugly - I am not allowed to be emotional no matter what. And because of such a thought, that I should be shunned into anti-psychotic use which severly debilitates my cognitive functioning and my emotional range. If I am on anti-psychotics it's like everyone who abused me wins the day because one of the diagnosis features is delusions: "you liar", "you're delusional", "it wasn't that bad", and "that never happened". It's a terrifying diagnosis when a main proponent of it is delusions, and I have dealt with so many terrifying experiences. If society wants to suppress my voice with a defunct diagnosis and these pharmacology drugs, I won't willingly allow it.
I needed to breathe—
So, I had been working on the road in other states and cities without pharmacology drug use and I was doing quite well. Before I found employment with the company that worked on the road, I ended up quitting a job after I had been sexually assaulted by a staff member who was not fired for the misconduct, or even disciplined. When the opportunity of work in other places outside my hometown was presented, you better believe I wanted to get as far away as possible for a while to cooldown because trauma scenes just keep popping up in my life. I was already dealing with outpatient therapy sessions, pharmacology drug use that had terrific side-effects, and I was out-of-touch with the companions I once roamed the town with. Some had moved to other towns and states, some I was not ready to interact with because I had to take care of me for now, at least until I was able to lay to rest parts of my life holding me back from experiencing joy again.
The worst mistake I made was when I returned to my hometown after leaving the business that worked on the road. I attempted to get my old job back. Which I did, and I ended up explaining to the business owner exactly why I had left before, because I was sexually assaulted, but also that I may be willing to forgive and forget. The staff member was still employed, and I ended up working under him one day, and this staff member, a manager of sorts, along with their sidekick called down to the business owner regarding me not leaving the business early, because they wanted to cut my hours. I was intimidated into leaving, I didn't, and they said the owner would be up shortly. I waited in my car as fear took over that I would be assaulted again. When the owner arrived, the owner stuck up for the staff that had previously sexually assaulted me, told me to cash out, and then I was fired.
I sat at home in silence wondering what is happening to the world around me, a world where people who cause physical and emotional trauma to others get ahead in life. No reprocussions, or anything of such nature.
I cried out in silence to the world. I felt like giving up again, and family wanted me to take pharmacology drugs again. I was adamently against it because these drugs were terrible. I didn't have a full range of emotions, I was terrorized every night trying to get to sleep as I had restless legs, and I could barely last 2 hours on jobs before I became detached from my environment, unable to dritically think for the life of me while on the pharmacology drugs.
My family didn't care to much about the drug interactions, I was emotional and it was time to get me back on drugs so I would stop being emotional. They wanted me back in the academic field of mental health programs. So, police were called to my home once again, this time I said nothing. I didn't speak with them, I cooperated with their commands to get in the vehicle for a ride down to the ER. They knew from my family that I had a mental health dis-order diagnosis and wasn't taking medications for it. A bunch of hootenanny from my family to the police officer if you ask me.
I didn't want to get tasered or shot by the police so I went along without a word spoken again until about two weeks into the inpatient stay at the psychiatric hospital I was previously at after a transport from the ER's behavioral health unit in roughly three days of time in the BHU. I wouldn't eat any food on Sunday's, only drink. I was silently protesting the system, trauma, people in general for what seems like a wanting to see me suffer a million times in my life before I depart this trauma scene called life.
Back in the center—
Well, when I finally arrived the behavioral health unit had already told the psychiatric hospital staff I wasn't eating any food, that I had spoken not a word to the police, or ER or behavioral unit staff, and this was a crisis.
The same questions were asked to me at intake, and all I could do was stare at the ground, because I knew I wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. The staff was getting nowhere with questions, so they simply said after like half hour of trying to get me to talk that I needed to follow them to the unit. So, I did. I found the same chair I had sat in the last time and just sat there until meal times. Or, sat there without eating, not leaving the chair, no bathroom breaks or anything.
I would eat breakfast and dinner on most days, but on Sundays I would eat nothing, only drink if I felt like it. I became quite skinny, getting down to a weight under one-hundred and forty pounds. I sat in silence for about a month when I was on unit. I grew quite the beard during this month long silent protest of mine before the hospital said they were calling a court hearing for forced drug administration.
Mental health court—
About a month into my little protest, I was told I had a court hearing for forced drug administration like the first time I had been there. I just remained silent. The morning of the court procedure, when I usually eat breakfast, I was refused a meal by the hospital until the court procedure was complete. They did not present me with food. The court hearing seemed to last until about noon when lunch was being served. The court found that I was in need of immediate drug administration and that any means necessary was given to the hospital for administration. They wanted to use the same drugs as before.
Staff members gathered around me and let me know if I made any sudden moves while the nurse administered shots I would be strapped to a bed. I just let it happen. I mean I didn't go to court for the hearing, so it was whatever.
Now, they wanted me to take a tablet form of a pill as supplemental to the shot. Mind you, these were same drugs I had been taking before, so the tablet was the one that made me hungry, that made me want to eat profusely, and this was something I expressed to them the last time, and to the outpatient clinic I was discharged from.
When it came to oral "meds" before bedtime I refused to take them. So, about five staff showed up later that night for the court-backed by-any-means administration of drugs. There was an injectable form of the tablet that took over my eating habits, that lasted for one day and if I refused on any day not to take a pill I would be shot. Now, the nurse that came to the room was someone I had not previously seen. And what they did to my arm I had nightmares about.
They stuck the needle into my left arm, took their hand off of the needle for about 10 seconds just letting it hang in there. Then, she grabbed the needle and slowly injected the solution while twisting the needle in circular motions to create significant pain. A river of blood started streaming down my arm, but I had to wait until she took the injection out, or they would have to start all over again.
As soon as that needle was extracted from my arm after over a minute of being in it, I got up, set my Holy Bible down that was in my right hand so as to keep it from getting blood on it, and I immediately exited the bedroom and marched down the hall. I was looking for something to wipe the blood off of my arm with. The blood had run down my arm to my hand. I came upon a list of patients on a desk down the hall, so I picked it up but then decided against using it like a sponge because I didn't want my blood to cover the names of other clients. I set it down and approached a hallway door. With fury and disgust I rubbed my shoulder and arm all over the door with my blood, smearing it, covering the upper region of the door.
I cried like I had never cried before when I returned to my bedroom. I took my Holy Bible and threw it out of the window. I watched it land at take the form of a closed book on impact as if I had simply set it down after a good read. This Holy Bible was returned to me a couple weeks later as it was my confirmation Holy Bible and had my name on the inside of it. So, the grounds keepers and staff who found it knew it belonged to me.
Two weeks of daily shots—
I went two more weeks without talking after the court hearing for forced drug administration, and two more weeks of daily injections of the "med" that the psychiatrist assigned to me. The tablet suppliment in injection form. The one they wanted me to take orally.
After two weeks of daily shots, I spoke. My vocal cords hadn't been used for about 7 weeks and I didn't even recognize my own voice when I finally started talking. The first thing I wanted to know was if there was record of the blood smearing on the door; and if pictures were taken, or did they simply clean up the evidence of that hellish crime. A crime indeed, but then again because of the diagnosis, delusions will follow me in life, even if the diagnosis was and is wrong. Like, I don't believe the diagnosis personally. It doesn't fit my life experience.
I did thank staff for returning my Holy Bible.
"Cooperating"—
After I began speaking again, I let administrative nurses know I would now take the daily tablet form of the supplemental pharmacology drug that was paired with the two-week antipsychotic injection. And, it didn't take long for me to lose my ability to control my eating habits. I ate a lot, having to ask to program's nutrionist in charge of my meal planning for double portions to keep up with the emptiness I would feel day-in and day-out as a side-effect of the daily tablet "med" I was being forced to take under threat of forced administration by needle injection if ever there was a day I would refuse the "med".
Now, I had been going to groups the first two weeks after the exclusive mental health court ordered the forced administration of drugs, yet as I wrote, I had not been speaking for those first two weeks of injections every night. I just wasn't talking or participating in groups, merely sitting in and listening.
When I started speaking again, I limited the amount of speech as I regained my voice. If I wasn't in group, I was either in that same chair sleeping or I was walking in circles around the unit hallways. I knew I was underweight and gaining weight fast and I need to keep up with mobility. Stagnation was taking a toll on me from the first six weeks in the inpatient program because I was sitting in the same chair daily with my mouth shut and my eyes closed. I was at odds with society during that time.
After a few more weeks I was allowed to participate in chosing which groups I would attend. This was a great first step in allowing me to participate in treatment; for the diagnosis I didn't believe in, of course. I picked groups that may help me with redeveloping stronger mentalities for future life experiences, and those that seemed relevant to dealing with emotional and physical trauma, not for the diagnosis founded on delusions.
Eventually after about a month of participating in the groups I chose, I was allowed the same priviledges I was getting toward the end of my first stay at the psychiatric hospital. I was able to exit the compound and explore the area, on foot albeit. But first, the off-grounds exploration was under supervision. It started with field trips with other clients who were cooperating with treatment and approaching release, followed by self-exploration unsupervised. Again, I would check out the library down the road, and also checking out a fine local pizza restaurant nearly every time I was allowed out.
When family came for visits, and to take my out on the town, I would come back with clothing and shoes much needed because the first six weeks, I had only the scrubs I was given in the emergency room before departing for my second inpatient stay. I didn't even have shoes the first six weeks; and no socks either. I walked barefoot around the facility when I roamed the hallway track. On a positive note of not having shoes, as rough as my feet were from years of wearing socks and shoes all day every day, six weeks without shoes and socks smoothed out my feet. Like, baby feet soft. So, that was nice.
Treatment complete—
As a condition of discharge from the facility, as was the case the first time inpatient, I was required by staff to apply my signature acknowledging treatment for the diagnosis having to do with delusions. I was instructed that if I did not sign, I would not be allowed to leave and be discharged if I did not give my signature affirming I had been treated for the dis-order applied to me by the Psychiatrist in charge of the Behavioral Health Unit in the general hospital back home. I marked an "X" on the line because I had learned years ago an "X" as a signature was denoting a legal signature of a person on a contract, but that it bares the implication that the person agreeing to the contract was under distress at the time of signature. Staff came rushing back over when they noticed the "X" about an hour later that I signed instead of my actually name. We argued for about fifteen minutes over the legal implications, and eventually I gave in after speaking with a staff member I had developed a cordial relationship with during my time in group therapy. They talked me down and I did end up signing another duplicate treatment plan with my signature, and within a day or two, I returned home with family.
And again, I was back with the Psychiatric hospital's affiliated outpatient program, the Assertive Community Treatment team for in-home care, so they could keep tabs on me with that short chain.
Side-effects seemed worse than the first time experiencing them. While inpatient I gained even more weight, topping out around two-hundred and twenty this time by the time of discharge. I was kept in a locked building that was quite small for the thirty plus clients on the unit at any one time. There was one television and lots of chairs that could be likened to dinner table chairs with wooden arm rests. Sometimes chairs were like two to three chairs as one chair construction. Very uncomfortable for people dealing with pharmacology drug side-effect interactions, all of us with our own treatment plans and stress to deal with.
There were familiar faces of people who had still been there since the first time I was admitted to the hospital. They were either making little progress in treatment, or were being held as hostages. Like, how great of a life is it when clients are forced to take drugs and be around 30 people with different diagnosese, with one television on the unit in uncomfortable chairs, allthewhile staff are treating patients like incompetent puppies who need to be potty trained. What what you do or say when Psychiatrists won't let you experience society again, only views of the outside through a sound proof window.
"C'est la vie"—
So, I finally make it home, and I wanted to get back into the workforce to be productive again. I found employment through a temp-to-hire agency at a local business. I lasted two weeks before I succumbed to the pharmacology drugs because of bad side-effects interacting with my body and I could not perform my duties, so I resigned from my position at the business.
I didn't know what to do next. All I wanted to do was eat and sleep, because that is how the drugs were making me feel. My life was dismally dim in terms of a future. Like, I wasn't sure if this revolving door was what the rest of my life would be.
Am I worthless?—
I had feelings of worthlessness. I explained to staff that came to my home that working for businesses has been a disaster, as I struggle to critically think because of the side-effects of the pharmacology drugs: the inability to critically think, the sluggishness, the desire to consume food often when I was on the job. They suggested options to me for income like Supplemental Security Income and Social Security Disability.
I knew next to nothing about these options for income. I thought income came from employment. The ACT team let me know that they would assist me in applying with the Social Security Administration. I was delighted. Although, I knew next to nothing of what to expect. It was more of a "Just Do It" moment.
So, an appointment to start the process was setup with the regional SSA office. During the interview, the adminstration asked about the diagnosis that was to be considered for Disability. They let me know that Disability would require ten years of work history at the least and that I would have to tell them in my own words how the diagnosis had affected my life. The diagnosis information I left to the ACT team who was with me during the process to give to the administration. It was up to me to write in my own words how the diagnosis has debilitated my ability to hold employment.
The process to determine disability lasted months. I was given an initial denial of disability status, but the administration said that the determination was still under review. The final decision finally came after about 5 months. They determined that based on the information provided, how I described in my own words how the diagnosis has affected my work ability, that I was in the right to begin receiving disability benefits, certified with the status of "Fully Disabled".
Disability reviews come up every five to seven years as a terms and conditions of disability benefits. Being it determined that I would be allowed a disability status was something that left me in shock. First, I didn't believe in the diagnosis, but I did believe in what I had told the administration regarding how it has affected my life.
Now, if the SSA agrees with the diagnosis coupled with how it was affecting me, this is when I began to believe that if the SSA agrees, I should start trusting the Psychiatrists. I just still couldn't get over the delusional aspect of the diagnosis. I had experienced time after time physical and emotional trauma that broke me down to nothingness, and my experiences seemed delusional to academic professionals in the mental health field? Albeit that I had given very little insight into the physical and emotional trauma in my first stay inpatient at the Psychiatric hospital, whereby a psychologist wanted to hypnotize the experiences out of my memory.
I had mixed feelings about the determination, although a weight was lifted off my shoulders whereby I could begin to try and get a handle on the pharmacology dosages, so as to say, participate in pharmacology drug use for the disorder I was beginning to accept because of this new experience.
The assertive community treatment team eventually helped me back into the outpatient program affiliated with the general hospital back home, just like last time. In fact, after they learned about the final "Disability" determination, they practically ushered me right out of their program and back with that outpatient program. I still don't know why.
After getting back into the outpatient program, there was something I felt like I could get back into while I worked on pharmacology drug dosages I had still not been allowed to meddle in whilst a client receiving treatment at the Office of Mental Health's affiliated programs, services, and facilities. I started the process about a month after the "Disabled" designation of getting back into academia. It had been ten years since I was a student at an academic institution, and I wanted to learn something new.
Academia!—
Part of the processes of getting back into academia involved a certificate of residence, immunization records, financial aid applications, finding an academic program to explore, and the right academic institution for me!
I was somewhat excited at the thought of academic life again, but I did have critical thinking issues because of the pharmacology drug use, among other side-effects of course.
My next blog article will be me writing about my experience back in academia, allthewhile taking pharmacology drugs.