Chapter 2: In Which Joy is assigned a room and a therapist and finally gets some food.

So, after a whole day of nothing other than a grilled cheese (with bacon) Matt snagged me from the hospital cafe, I'm starving.  I've been poked and prodded and stuck and examined and questioned and criticized and buckled in and, now at the "facility", locked up. Rules are being thrown at me so fast I can't catch them all and I have to continually look at the bulletin boards in the hallway to see WTF is going on hour to hour. 

The nurse gets to do a body evaluation - seeing what marks are on me if any.  That was when we both noticed the blood pressure cuff had caused blood blisters all over my arms - so I fit right in with the other inmates who had trach scars and wrist slits.  Drop pants, lift shirt, check my bra for underwire, which was a no-no along with drawstrings, shoelaces, belts, hair conditioner, tweezers, etc.  No cavity searches, thankfully.  And then run down the list of preliminary questions - any medications?  No.  Health problems? Nope.  Abuse?  Negative.  Their first solution was to get me on a mood stabilizer, something mild since I told them upfront that a Benadryl will knock me out - 50mg of Zoloft it is.
 
They assign me to a room directly across from the smaller gathering/day room.  Noisy, but convenient.  The rather nice nurse makes the bed, gets me towels and toiletries including a completely inadequate plastic comb and watered down shampoo/body wash.  I curl up in a fetal position on the bed, cause I'm out of options and completely exhausted at that point.

I finally get to see my assigned shrink shortly after dinner.  He sized me up within 10 minutes, asking questions I'd been answering all day, and determined I was suffering from major depressive disorder.  I don't know if I agreed entirely - I mean, to me, disorder means you cannot function and it impacts your entire life, all the freakin' time.  I'd been functioning relatively okay for the previous 8 months, considering my circumstances.  I consider it a major depressive "episode", with the understanding that I had quit taking Wellbutrin over 2 months prior since my goddamn hair was falling out.  Gotta love those side effects.

Through blurry eyes I tried to convince him I was "fine, totally fine, I have no idea why I'm here."  Here's my book titled "Joy is okay, you can let her go" and he said in his thick Indian accent "Yeah, I'm not buying it."  I asked for a second opinion, and got to meet with a large Greek man with an even thicker accent, who concurred with Dr. SeeThruYourBS, and determined I needed a few days in Hotel Cuckoo.

He saw me for 2 minutes at a time, each day, but still had the final say on when I would leave.  The first night he said "Probably Friday or Monday", but would never really commit to a specific day. I asked them if I could attend dinner, but the psychiatrist has to give you permission to leave the ward for any reason, other than the courtyard to smoke.  This is one of the last remaining hospitals here that still allows smoking, I learned - all the others have switched to the patch, no cigs.  Not that I smoke, but it was my only opportunity to get outside & get some "fresh" air, so I took it.  Anyway, I had not been granted "cafeteria privileges" yet, so I ate out of a Styrofoam container like take out in the day room. 

I barely met my roommates that night - one slender quiet black girl and another boisterous Russian alcoholic, both older than me but still close to my age.  They slept a lot, so we didn't interact too often.  After dinner we lined up in our respective day rooms (divided by last name) for medication.  I was given trazodone, if I so desired, to help me sleep.  Considering the events of the previous 12 hours, I was more than happy to line up and take one, just to get some shut eye.

While I'm waiting for meds, this very skinny shaky woman with grey hair and a beige cable-knit sweater (in Florida in August) is talking to a guy I can only describe as Tyrone Biggums.  For reference:


That guy.  He asks me if I'm taking meds.  I shake my head yes.  Then he asks Shaky Hippie Lady if she's taken hers (this was common, since final smoke break was after meds and wasn't allowed til everyone had gone.  Ever seen 40 addicts going thru withdrawal and nic-fitting at the same time?  It gets ugly.)

Shaky Hippie:  No, they want me to take them but I won't.  I'm going to expose them for what they did to me.  I know the truth, they don't want me to take them because then I'll expose them.  I've reported them... (this went on for a full 15 minutes)

I backed away slowly, tried not to make any sudden movements, and retreated to my room after meds were dispersed.  Thankfully it knocked me out clear through 6 am, when a loud-ass nurse came in to take vital signs.  Hoo-rah.

That was my first day there, aside from Matt coming to visit that night and the conversations I overheard from other visitors.  Stay tuned for parts 3 and more, which include paranoid schizophrenics and crazy people sex.