Joy Goes to the Nuthouse

My absence following my last post was not without cause.  I fell into a deep, deep depression, and felt I had no other way out.  I couldn't even see the hands that were outstretched offering to help me, or more often, batted them away in refusal of being considered "weak." But instead of doing anything rash, I finally reached out for help in the only way I felt remained to me - my local hospital.

I drove myself to the ER and parked in the garage.  I sat in the car for a solid five minutes before shutting it off, laughing internally at the absurdity of both my happy name and the colorful butterflies on my shirt.  Externally, I didn't appear depressed.  Internally, I felt like I was dying, sometimes already dead.  In hindsight, there were many times I could have turned and run - I could have stayed on Riverside Boulevard and just driven into work instead.  I could have gotten back in my car and left.  I could have walked out of the waiting room before my number was called.  But something was nagging me in the back of my mind saying "yes, this is scary - but the alternative is scarier."

The nurse took my BP and vitals, and asked why I was there.  I couldn't talk, I just started crying.  She asked the question, the Big "S", and I nodded through my tears.  She made a call to the back desk, telling them she had "another number 9" or some shit, to which I could hear the nurse on the other end of the phone exclaim "oh, lord", likely with a roll of her eyes.  It wouldn't be the last time I felt like nothing other than a huge inconvenience.

The ER doctor pulled a pretty fast one on me, I'm ashamed to admit.  Here's the extent of our very brief conversation.

Doc:  So, I understand you're feeling depressed?
Me:   Yes.  My daughter was stillborn 8 months ago, and I feel hopeless.
Doc:  I'm sorry to hear that.  What were you thinking about doing?
Me:   (shrug)  I hadn't really thought of any particular way...
Doc:  Like... take a bunch of pills?  (I shake my head no)  Shoot yourself?  (I shake my head no).
Me:   No... like, I'll be in my car and-
Doc:  Oh, you think about crashing it?
Me:   (thinking "no jackass, I was GOING to say I start thinking and dwelling on stuff and then I feel upset and hopeless but....") Um. Not really. I guess?  Maybe?  Probably not. I dunno...

Doc:  Well, we'll have someone take care of you.

So, everyone I talked to so far knew why I was there - because of the depression compounded with the grief of losing Coraline.  After I talked to the doc, a large male nurse sat with me for a while until a "sitter" got there.  The sitter walks in, visibly about 8 months pregnant, and flips on the television to A Baby Story.  AYFKM.  I'm like "hey, can we watch anything but this?" and she graciously complied.

So, I sit there watching Pawn Stars for 3 hours (want to know the maximum amount of time you can watch Pawn Stars without dropping IQ points is? About 2 minutes)  and I ask the sitter to find out wtf is going on.  They took blood & urine & I expected they were waiting on a psych consult.  Oh, if only I had gone to a hospital that had an actual psych ward (this one, apparently, did not).

Me:  What's going on?  It's been 3 hours and I don't know what the deal is.

Nurse:  Oh, they're waiting on a bed for you.

Me:   A bed? Like upstairs?
Nurse:  No, in a facility.
Me:  What?  For what? What do you mean?

Nurse:  For the Baker Act.

Me:  WHAT?!?

Cue complete epic meltdown.  The fact that I drove myself to the hospital, checked myself in and asked for help meant nothing.  That day I learned if you say (or agree to) certain things to an ER doctor, they are legally obligated to send you to a mental health facility for an evaluation.  There's some confusion over whether its for 24 or 72 hours - it depends on the psychiatrist's evaluation and subsequent secondary evaluation, and whether you are deemed competent enough to consent to voluntary treatment.  So, I was Baker Acted, aka - the Amanda Bynes Driveway Fire Special.

I call Matt, he comes to the hospital, and the ER doc explains there's really no backing out of it once its initiated.  Unless he rescinded the order which, since I was crying hysterically, he was disinclined to do.  And I was somewhat inclined to agree with him. My corporate insurance positioned me to be transferred same day, unlike three other patients in the same room with no insurance who were just being held in there riding out their 72 hour mandated stay.  Transportation method was non-negotiable, and I was whisked away in all the comfort and glory of a yellow gurney, transported via stretch ambulance to the "facility". Traumatizing and not at all helpful to my present stress/depression/anxiety.

One paramedic sat in the back with me.  I don't know where he thought I was going, but - protocol.  He tried to put me at ease, told me about the facility, but I was in no way mentally or emotionally prepared for what I encountered when they wheeled me through the front door of the "facility."  A door to the left was marked "DO NOT OPEN: ELOPEMENT RISK."  I was dismayed to find out what was behind curtain number one, as the paramedics wheeled me towards that door.

There were people everywhere.  Walking all over the hallways, in and out of rooms, some with flat, mashed-down slippers, more in papery scrubs I later referred to as a nuthouse tuxedo.  They wheeled me all the way down to the nurses' station, past patient rooms so of course everyone gawks at the incoming whacko.  It's a while before I see the doc, so I go to one of the day rooms where the TV is on at volume level 60+ and I can't change it. Oprah yelled at me, that was fun.  There's a few "normal" looking people chilling in their pj's watching TV, so I sit for a while. 

A young, young girl (18, 19 tops) goes skipping - literally skipping - by the door.  I'm still in a state of shock and anxiety and I can't imagine anyone having a grand ole time in this place, when she skips in and sits next to me.  She's got a mouth full of braces, mismatched eyeliner (like, one eye had it and one didn't a la Clockwork Orange) a red sparkly headband with a bow, and is wearing a skirt over her jeans a la an un-pregnant Juno, which I'll call her for the purpose of the story. (I came up with nicknames for everyone, since I couldn't keep em all straight)

Juno:   Are you here on a Baker Act?
Me:     (nod yes)
Juno:   Me too.  Why, if you don't mind me asking?
Me:     Depression.  My daughter died.
Juno:   (genuine sympathy) Oh, I'm sorry.  (pause)  I'm here because I cussed out a nurse.  And went like this (puts her middle finger up like the "loser" sign in the middle of her forehead)
Me:     I'm guessing she didn't like that.
Juno:   Nope.  She put me here out of SPITE. (gets up and skips happily away) 

This was the first of many times to follow that I wanted to scream I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!!!!!