“What
if, instead of being
diagnosed—being
called mentally
ill—what if I
had been able to
receive care for its
own sake. To be in
distress, to ask for
care, to receive it.
What if there were
space in the world for care.”
—Suzanne Scanlon, Committed
After
my discharge from the
snake pit, I was
assigned to follow-up
care alternating
between a therapist
and a psychiatrist.
The therapist was
relatively
sympathetic, but she
seemed rather detached
and was prone to
giving advice rather
than simply listening
and offering empathy.
The psychiatrist was
cold and seemed almost
hostile, peremptory
and even occasionally
rude, not engaging
with me beyond
deciding what meds she
should prescribe. I
should mention that
this facility, near
the hospital where I
had been confined, was
greatly distant from
where I live. If my
partner wasn’t
able to drive me, I
had to take a nearly
hour-long bus ride for
at most, fifty minutes
of
“therapy,”
followed by the same
lengthy ride in
reverse. Given the
unhelpfulness of the
visits, I stopped
going.
I spent the next
several months in a
fog of anxious
depression (the only
way to describe the
state I was in). I
spent much of each day
in bed, saw almost no
one except my partner,
occasionally getting
out for a bit of fresh
air or to shop for the
little bit of food I
would eat. I had no
desire to read, listen
to music, walk or
bike, or engage in any
other activities that
I once passionately
enjoyed.
As before, the one
bright light in this
situation was the
steadfast support and
presence of my
partner. Even when it
was clear that her
patience was sorely
tried, she came over
and spent time with
me, usually offering
comfort, sometimes
pushing me a tiny bit
out of my comfort zone
(though
“comfort”
is not exactly
accurate). Despite my
seeming resistance to
what I perceived as
pushing, she remained
steadfast and quite
clearly my recovery
would have taken quite
longer if it occurred
at all.
But at the time,
recovery seemed
distant if even
possible. I drifted
through those
miserable days,
plagued by
fears—certainly
delusional, but real
seeming at the
time—that
I’d lose my home
( I assumed, quite
wrongly as it turned
out, that I was on the
verge of running out
of money), never see
my sons again, never
write again, and live
the rest of my life in
this half-dead
condition.
What finally broke
this pattern
(literally as well as
figuratively) was a
sudden fall . Whether
it was a symptom of my
condition or a side
effect of the
medications I was
taking, I would
occasionally find
myself on the floor,
banged up but
otherwise uninjured.
This time, however, I
got up with a sharp
pain in my left side
that didn’t
lessen after a couple
of hours. I went for
an X-ray that revealed
two cracked ribs. I
prepared to settle in
for some extended pain
when my doctor called
and told me he saw
something on the X-ray
that might be a bigger
problem.
Indeed, the subsequent
X-ray revealed a
collapsed lung (not as
bad as it sounds but
bad enough) from one
of the broken ribs. So
off to the hospital
for a procedure in
which a ventilator was
inserted into my left
side to provide extra
oxygen. It remained in
me overnight, pumping
away. Somehow I
managed to get some
sleep and the next day
it was removed, though
the pain lingered for
quite a while
afterward. I had to
remain in the hospital
for a couple of days
and for some reason,
likely my uninterest
in eating and general
low affect, I ended up
being sent downstairs
to the behavioral
health unit.
Believe it or not,
this is where my
experience began a
slow turn toward
recovery, though it
hardly seemed so at
the time. This
particular facility,
unlike the first (at a
different hospital),
was cleaner, brighter,
with a much more
humane staff.
Nevertheless, the
actual experience was
very similar to my
previous stay: the
same infantilization,
and lack of autonomy;
the seemingly constant
parade of
psychiatrists, each
with his or her own
theory about the exact
nature of my condition
and the propped
medications for it;
the disturbing nature
of some of my fellow
patients, though I
never felt I was in
actual physical
danger. Near the end
of my stay, I was
subjected to several
sessions of ECT, which
was terrifying
regardless of whether
it helped or not.
It’s hard for me
to gauge how
beneficial this
treatment was. My
partner insists she
saw some improvement
and it’s true my
appetite did come back
and my energy level
increased slightly. I
was fortunate enough
not to suffer the
memory loss and other
side effects that
often accompany ECT.
Nevertheless, I
declined further
treatments after my
release and, having
read a number of
accounts of
others’
experiences, I believe
that was a wise
decision.
The one unmixedly good
thing about this time
around was that the
hospital was in
Arlington, VA, near
where I lived, which
made it possible for
more people to visit.
The kindness of
several of my friends
and that of a couple
of my partner’s
fellow congregants at
her Quaker meeting was
of enormous benefit.
Though it might seem
strange to say,
despite the actual
ordeal of this second
psych ward stay, in
retrospect, I feel
that it marked the
beginning of my
recovery. At a
minimum, I
didn’t feel
worse afterward as
with my first
experience. I was
discharged on my 64th
birthday and a couple
of days later, went
into a halfway house
for recently released
mental patients.
For the first time in
my entire journey, I
experienced true
warmth and compassion
from the social
workers in charge as
well as some of my
fellow residents.
Though I didn’t
think I felt any
better, in reality my
condition began
noticeably improving.
I began to read again
and took some small
pleasure in
socializing and some
of the activities
offered.
The long slow path of healing had begun.
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