LOSING MYSELF, FINDING PEACE POST 4 THE PSYCHIATRIC WARD

In 2017, my life imploded and I made the decision to do electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). In the beginning, when I first started ECT, I improved. At last, I was stable. I told myself I didn’t need ECT anymore. I was going to get my life back. The doctor agreed so after phasing off it, I stopped ECT. Big mistake! I had a psychotic break just as the day of the treatment I had cancelled arrived. Had I stopped it too soon? Or was it simply not going to work?

 My fears grew. I deteriorated to the point that I was convinced I had an alien in my head and it was this alien’s fault that I was having suicidal thoughts. If I could just get rid of the alien, I would be fine. But, of course, the doctors wouldn’t want to cut my scalp open to remove the alien because they’d run the risk of having the alien infect them too. It made perfect sense to me, but I still hoped and believed there had to be some way to rescue me. Something someone could do. So, the ECT was restarted.

I did ECT for 6 more months before I ended up back in the hospital, completely destabilized. Continuing ECT treatments had not brought my psychosis under control. I was desperate. I couldn’t handle the hell I was in. I was so depressed. I couldn’t think clearly. Thoughts of self-harm went through my head. Should I slice my wrists? Should I take pills? I had a medicine cabinet full. Tears ran down my face as I called out to God. Finally, I knew I was going to act on my thoughts. I held the bottle in my hand, not opening it, just holding it. My mind ran through what I wanted to do. I stared at it, envisioning me opening it, pouring them into my hand and swallowing them. A nagging thought interrupted my reverie: my family. They would be devastated. I wanted to end my life but the mama bear inside me didn’t want to hurt my children or shatter my wife. In desperation I called my psychiatrist. I had called him in crisis before. His answering service’s number is recorded in my phone. I reached the company that monitors it.

“I’m a patient of Dr B. I’m suicidal.” Saying the words cemented them in my mind. I was scared.

He called me back immediately. “You need to go to the hospital.” Broken, I agreed to admit myself to the in-person treatment at the hospital’s behavioral health unit. He wanted me to be in the hospital, started on a last-ditch medication, Clozapine, so dosages could be changed quickly and under supervision. The medication was dangerous with life-threatening side effects. He thought that if I was in the hospital, they could monitor me and increase the medication doses faster. Feeling desperate I didn’t want to wait until my wife got home so I called a friend from church. We’d never been close, but I knew her from serving on Women’s Ministry together.

Wednesday at 11:00am, I went to the ER. Thursday at 3:00am, I was checked into the psychiatric ward – the Behavioral Health Unit. 16 hours spent in a small room on suicide watch. They took my belongings including my phone. There was no TV in the room. No books or magazines. Nothing to do but think. Lost in my own thoughts all I could do was think, “what did I do?!?” I wondered why I was there. What made me think this was a good idea? The urgency I felt at home to get help dwindled away when left with the reality of the impersonal hospital.

It was different being in the psychiatric ward. I was told I had been hospitalized there for eight days several months earlier, but I had no memory of it – another victim of my memory loss. I didn’t recognize the interiors or the care team. The first day, I didn’t want to be there. I was scheduled for an ECT treatment but struggled to get an answer from the nurses if it was going to happen. It took searching for the doctor to get an answer: If the ECT wasn’t working and I was suicidal, there was no reason to continue the treatments. I was taken off my primary psychiatric medicine and put on the minimum dose of Clozapine.

In the ward, I grudgingly went to the “classes” that were offered (required). Eight to twelve people sitting around a table in a room. Some had been there for a while and could actively participate. Others appeared almost catatonic, staring without focusing. The counselor took us through assorted options like cognitive therapy, psychoeducation, or coping skills. At first, I was so depressed that the classes did nothing.  As the medication began working, however, things changed. I started participating in the therapy groups. The medication worked quickly and by day two I was better and asked about going home. I hated the psych ward and wanted to leave. Just being in the psychiatric ward was enough to spur me to get better. I was dismissed on day three, thinking the nightmare was over. It was only just beginning.

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Photo by Anda Lupulet on Unsplash