Chapter 7: Love gloves and the Lingering Funk

"Tyrone's back," Arnold said, expecting me to know who he was referring to.  I leaned back in my chair and saw Tyrone Biggums being wheeled in on a stretcher.  He lasted a full day on the outside before ending up back in here.  Amazing.

Turns out Tyrone's return was not the most shocking thing to happen that weekend, or even later that afternoon.

"Daaaaang, mayan!" screamed Duke, stomping into the day room in his size 13 Reeboks. "Ol' girl lay up in da bed wit' dude's kicks on!"

I'll translate:  Duke, a heroin addicted, 6'5" former "escort service coordinator" with a Southern drawl and a love of Affliction t-shirts, came bounding into the day room.  His remark, when clarified, meant that Mattie, the runner, had just been discovered in his roommate, Tyrone's, clothes, asleep in his bed.

Tyrone came into the room sucking his teeth as usual, but with the furrowed brow of a black man who just witnessed two white people doing something unnatural.  Apparently, Mattie was going at it with Bobcat Bravo (Shout) on Tyrone's bed when he barged in on them.  She then put on Tyrone's clothes and crawled in his bed for a little post-nookie nap time.

Duke asked Bobcat how he could do that without protection - he replied that he "used a glove".  Not like a "love glove", an actual latex glove.  Riiiiight.

Despite the fact that all rooms are supposed to be checked every 15 minutes, no nurses or orderlies seemed to be aware/concerned as to the witnessed events.  We were all certain they'd be moved to ESU, but nope - both stayed, making the rest of the women very uncomfortable as we felt Bobcat had taken advantage of someone in a severely disturbed mental state.  Bobcat swaggered around like an un-neutered peacock the rest of the weekend, but because no one who worked there witnessed it, it didn't happen.  Lovely. 

Apparently a shower was not in the cards after the lovebirds freak session, because Mattie was asked (by other mental patients) to leave the day room until she had bathed.  It was as though she absorbed Bobcat's funk along with her own funk, and rolled around in their joint funk on a bed of funk. 

My roommate and I later discovered this for ourselves, when Mattie again wandered into our room seeking....? A bed? Clothes? A humping partner?  I have no idea.  Natalia had been taken to the hospital for an ear infection, so Mattie walked in, investigated the things on her nightstand, sat down on her bed, picked up her cup and began drinking (we later tossed it for fear of whatever contagious funk she had picked up from Bobcat - not even alcoholic Russians need to catch the crab clap from a water bottle...)

Roomie:    Hey, I think you're in the room down the hall.
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)
Roomie:    Want me to help you find it?
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)

Roomie:    Do you need something?
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)

I didn't want to leave my other roommate alone, but I also wanted crazy out of our room asap.  I left and found a nurse in the hallway, who rolled her eyes and said "oh, lord" when I told her Mattie was - again - in our room.  Lacking any febreeze or perfume, my roommate and I had to vacate the room until Mattie-funk dissipated - she was there for less than two minutes but her presence lingered for nearly an hour.

She was escorted to her own room, where I hear the fun continued as she railed against her roommate and showered/pissed in the dark because "maintenance doesn't come out on the weekend".  I'm surprised more people don't come out worse than when they went in.

Chapter 6: Weekend Visitors

I grew tired of correcting all the doctors and therapists when they insisted I told the ER doctor I was "going to crash my car."  Instead, I began to talk - and talk and talk and talk.  I felt like I'd been silent for so long, just carrying all that pain and dark around inside of me, not wanting to "burden" anyone else with it.  So I let it out - to my shrink, my assigned therapist, even bits and pieces to my fellow inmates and during group sessions.  I talked about my feelings of shame and guilt and anger and devastation and hopelessness, and how often they all occurred at once.  I realized I may as well make the best of my time there, focus on what I needed to in the first place - getting better for me.

I got to speak with my son by phone, but was adamant that he not come to the facility.  He didn't need to see that.  He tried to put the dog on the phone to say hi.  *sigh* 

Friday was relatively uneventful, aside from stomping the guys in a few rousing games of Scrabble and being allowed to shave my legs (with a female nurse watching). 

Amy:  Can we shave our bikini line?
Nurse:  I'd rather you didn't.

But I called it on Friday evening - "Watch," I told Arnold. "Watch the freaks come out this weekend - everyone is crazy, but on the weekend people lose their goddamn minds."  And my prediction blessedly came true - we began to see more insanity in the next two days than we had all week.

Saturday:

One creeptastic new guy in a nuthouse tuxedo asked everyone to call him "Shout".  Shout, like the verb or the stain remover or the Isley Brothers song.  Shout.  He looked like Bobcat Goldthwait and swaggered around like Johnny Bravo - chest and arms puffed out, neck pulled way back, chin to his throat.  Shout.  Okay then (I promise this is relevant later on).

To get to the cafeteria (where I was now allowed to go eat, huzzah) we had to walk through the courtyard and be escorted across the campus.  The techs began calling role call before we left the ward to make things easier.  One girl in a nuthouse tuxedo who just got there (like 30 minutes prior) decided she wanted to go to dinner with everyone and shoved her way past the door.  The nurse informed her that she'd have to get cleared by the doctor before going to dinner, and her reaction was less than pleasant.  Ignoring her, she walked out into the courtyard, circling the gazebo, fists clenched and lips pursed so tightly I thought she was going to vomit diamonds.  Everyone groaned as the line came to a halt while the techs tried to coax her back inside, like a feral cat.

They re-routed us on the other side of the gazebo so we could avoid running into the tiny temper tantrum, but "Mattie" was still pacing furiously, and now started twitching her fingers back and forth like she was doing air-calculations for NASA or some shit.  We're all standing around baking in the sun, waiting to go to dinner, but they can't open the gate because of the potential escapee.  And then the PA system informed us we'd probably be eating cold pasta: "Attention.  Attention.  Code Gray, North Wing - Code Gray, North Wing."

Many pairs of eyes rolled and many a "here we go" was uttered.  A larger male nurse appeared in an attempt to corral the wild stallion, who was on the verge of a full-fledged fit at this point.  She kept trying to rejoin the line patiently waiting and cleared for cafeteria, and after a solid 10-15 minutes of being really nice about it, force was deemed necessary.  She was snatched up by two techs and physically dragged back into the building, her paper scrubs sliding down around her knees as they did so.

We returned from dinner and I chatted with my other roommate about our kids and anime, because why not.  When in walks - you guessed it - Mattie, looking just as pissed off as ever.  It's like having a bear wander into your campsite, or a T-Rex.  We stayed absolutely still and silent, watching her with only our eyes.  Now, patients aren't allowed in other patients rooms, except for, like, the leg-shaving thing which was monitored and done out of convenience.  So we're already a little wary, and her erratic behavior at dinner didn't put us at ease at all.  She asked us when meds were, we said later that night, she kind of nodded and we held our breath as she ever so slowly made her own way out, like a bug that gets trapped in the car until you roll down the window.  It wouldn't be my final encounter with her that day...

Strangely enough, this was not the person we referred to as Running Man.  That was Mary.  She'd get so amped up that her knees would start bouncing up and down and she'd run in place.  John would stand next to her and race her in place.  I still don't know who won, but he loved to mess with her since she was such a PITA and took about 20 minutes at the med window every night, arguing with the techs about the meds she would/wouldn't take because of the conspiracies against her and the HIPAA-violating medical students.  It was so mean, but some of us started talking about what classes we were taking. 

Chapter 5: Rule 48 and Unwanted Attention

I began writing.  I was at least allowed pen and paper, and my amazing, supportive, don't-know-what-I'd-do-without-him husband brought me two large legal pads.  I used one to write what they asked me to - about Coraline and how her death affected me - and the other to write what you've been reading here.  It kept me busy and gave me something to focus on.  I've always been able to release emotions through writing, so it was a great tool in working through some of my issues.  The meds kicked in quickly and I began to see solutions to my perceived problems, in place of the bottomless pit I previously envisioned.  Things were improving, aside from my continued stay in the "facility."

In addition to all the new “friends” I was making in the doctors and nurses, I gradually grew to know my fellow bunk buddies. There was Natalia, my alcoholic Russian roommate who had zero filter, referred to medication as "cuckoo pills" and whose drink of choice was hand sanitizer.  We had a community meeting one evening going over items not permitted in rooms when she decided to speak up – “and no electronic battery operated devices!”  (imagine Natasha from Rocky & Bullwinkle saying that, that’s exactly what it sounded like).  When the orderly confirmed her statement, she elaborated.

Natalia:   Is just like prison.  Rule 48.

(Several blank stares.)

Orderly:    What is rule 48?

Natalia:   Rule 48?  Is masturbation.

Cue hysterical laughter from most of the room.  But she was totally 100% serious.  Did I mention she was my ROOMMATE!?!

I met several other characters, some of whom became friends.  One guy shared an incident in which he freaked out a dealer riding in his car giving them directions, so they made the guy walk beside the car while they drove 2 mph in the snow.  There was Jaime, there to detox with the explanation “I took one thing to come down off another thing and it just snowballed – I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.”  She was actually very sweet.  They didn’t want her getting out of her bed at the hospital, but she slipped out of the restraints so they put a buzzer on her bed to notify the nurses when she got up.  After that, she bounced up and down on the bed trying to break it.

Arnold had a hearing aid and went on a 24-hour dope bender because of financial stress and his girlfriend’s medical issues.  His roommate John was in a funk because of a family death and his possible expulsion from the military upon a new bipolar diagnosis.  Turns out Tyrone Biggums has 4 kids and THIRTEEN grandkids.  Whoa.  There was a leftover hippie (like a real one) wearing crocs, Lennon glasses, a bandana, board shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt and both his head hair and facial hair in a ponytail.  I called him Chong – at least he kept the coffee (decaf only) flowing.  Gonzo (his self-given nickname) was a lumbering mass of narcissism, with the utterly obnoxious habit of looking at everyone trying to see if they had heard what he just said.  He wandered the hall slump-shouldered, like a hunchback Mystic.  So for reference:

A rather large black man (think MJD size) kept telling me I had a pretty smile.  Actually it was more like “Ay... ay, girl – I like dat smile.”  He also told me he’d like to “suck the teeth out of my head” which I think was a compliment. 

There were characters enough during the day, but at night I was completely alone with my thoughts.  And if I didn't relent to the effects of the sleepy-time trazodone, I found myself stark awake, unable to cry because roommates, and unable to do much of anything because lights out at 10 pm (and rule 48, not that I'd go there anyway).  I spent a lot of time looking up from my bed out the un-frosted portion of our room's completely sealed window, waiting to see the first signs of dawn creep over the crape myrtles, hoping to catch a glimpse of a dragonfly maybe.

It was the third day when Juno began having what I can only describe as a middle-school tantrum.  Pouting because she wasn't getting her way.  She wanted to leave (join the freaking club) and was determined to do so by any (legal) means necessary.  Which meant signing paperwork and going AMA.  Rumors floated about as to the repercussions of such a thing, that insurance wouldn't cover your stay and you'd be stuck with a massive bill.  (My entire stay here cost over eight grand for a week, FMSF2013 was a bonus upgrade apparently)  But she got her paperwork, crookedly signed it and, to the envy of the rest of us waiting for the next smoke break, skipped out the door when her pimply-faced boyfriend appeared.  It was like the strangest summer camp goodbye scene - you're happy for someone else to go, but crushed that you're still there.  I kept telling Matt on the phone "I'm going AMA, I don't care, I need to be out of here by Thursday... Friday... the weekend..."  Reluctantly, I stayed.  

Continued next chapter.

Chapter 4: Shit Starts to Get Real In A Way That's Not Fun For Anyone

"No one listened to me!!!"

"Mary... Mary, calm down.  Mary!"

"No one listened to me when I told them I'd been followed for SIX MONTHS!!!"

These were the dulcid tones I was treated to while waiting for lunch to begin.  I had not been given "cafeteria privileges" yet, despite having eaten in one since 4th grade, so - take-out in the day room.  A large orderly came into the room and was like "uhhhh... we're just gonna wait here until... until things settle down."  I shot him a thumbs up and returned to my copy of American Gods.  Mary continued her tirade against the poor pharmacist just trying to distribute mid-day meds through the window.

"No one listened to me!  My psychiatrist was having me followed for 6 months!  And the medication irritates me!  I'm going to report all of you!  And all the medical students are violating HIPAA!!!"

Now since I didn't have cafeteria privileges, I also couldn't leave to go to the on campus gym.  That kinda bummed me out, since I was then assigned to the alternative activity group which consisted mainly of old farts and people so conked out on meds they wore blankets and brought pillows with them everywhere.  The instructor popped in a video - a VHS, not a DVD - and we were all treated to the delights of.... chair yoga.

The instant I saw it pop up in all its pastel, early 90's aerobics glory, I thought "wow- you guys are just really throwing in the towel here, huh?"  It looked like it had been thrown together in the basement of a church by an overly enthusiastic instructor who probably eventually got tired of trying and just went into porn.  Anyway - chair yoga is just that - yoga while sitting in a chair.  If you're prone to falling or 107 years old.  Everyone else slept through the class except for me and an 86-year-old ex-attorney with hairbrows (eyebrows so long they're growing past his forehead and providing a convincing toupee at this point).

Waiting (again, because all we did was hurry up and wait) in the other day room, a young man in a Guy Harvey shirt, John Deere camo hat, Sperrys and more tribal tattoos than I'm sure I could see or count comes in - a walking Parrothead/redneck/preppy conundrum by the name of Bubba.  Because of course his name was Bubba.  And most of the people in there had attended enough "Hi, my name is (blank) and I'm addicted to (blank)" meetings that the awkward social interactions melted away.  It was a very frank "Hi, what's your name" and moving on with the typically intrusive conversation or questions.

Bubba:  You in for CD?

I had learned a few of the acronyms - ECT was electro-convulsive therapy, PHP was partial hospitalization program, AMA was discharging against medical advice and CD meant chemical dependency.  I shook my head in the negative.

Bubba:   (in a drawl that could have been Middleburg or North Carolina for all I know) My mom says I gotta stay here another 5 days!  And I just paid $500 in rent, ain't that some shit?
Me:   Bummer.
Bubba:   My doctor gave me suboxone, you know what that is? (I shook my head no)  It helps with withdrawals... anyway, he done gimme this stuff, but now he won't give it to me no more.
Me:   Why's that?
Bubba:   (sighs)  I was sellin' em. I mean, he gave me a few chances.  He gave it to me the first time, and I sold 'em.  And then he gave me another chance, and I did it again.  Then he gave me another chance... and I did it again.  He gave me another chance, and I did it again...
Me:   Well, you can't expect him to keep giving it to you then.
Bubba:    Yeah, but this is bullshit - I can sit at home and detox for free, I don't need to be here...

I beg to differ, sir.

I learned many things in my time here, including  how to avoid the cafeteria food and its subsequent gastric side-effects, or what I like to call Fiery Midnight Shit-Fest 2013.  The med-room gestapo won't hand out Imodium unless your shrink prescribes it, so I stopped eating a majority of the cafeteria food after the 3rd day.  Stuck to the prepackaged snacks, bottled water and any fresh fruit they brought in (which did NOT help with Fiery Midnight Shit-Fest 2013).

So now I'm tired from being woken up every 15 minutes at night for "checks", hungry, probably dehydrated from FMSF2013, forced to co-habitate with about 40 straight-off-the-magic-carpet crazies and a handful of "we the jury find the defendant" whackos, cut off from my family and friends and the outside world, and expected to concentrate on my already extremely fragile mental health. And have to do a convincing, creative song-and-dance to try and limit my stay. 

*cracks knuckles*  Good thing I went to theater camp - let's do this.

Chapter 3: In Which Joy Encounters A LEGIT Schizo...

I was woken up before dawn, around 6 am, so a nurse could take my blood pressure and temperature.  I lay in bed for a good hour, unable to go back to sleep but unwilling to get up, until the sun came up.  My roommates never stirred from their drug-aided slumber.  I grabbed a quick shower in the 2 ft x 2 ft stall with the perma-fixed nozzle and surprisingly hot water.  A scratchy washcloth and what I swear was a cat-sized towel were my companions, along with combination shampoo/body wash because state mental health care.  Even though I knew my hair would hate me for reverting to old habits (off the "no-poo" hair cleanse) I did, cause I at least wanted to feel clean.  Oh, and no hair dryers or flat irons meant everyone was treated to my signature caught-in-a-wind-tunnel hairstyle.

I still wasn't allowed to take meals off the ward, so I resigned myself to another Styrofoam container of eggs, toast and sausage.  I'm not the type to venture out in my pajamas, so I dressed completely, but some people stayed in sleepy pants and slippers the entire day. After breakfast, a nurse gathered me from my room, explaining I would need to be evaluated by the medical doctor.  She grabbed the desk chair and told me to wait in the hall outside my door. I could see clear into the dayroom, while meds were being distributed down the hall.  Shaky Hippie was in the day room, tapping her foot off-rhythm and huddled up in a blue blanket, with a look on her face like someone was perpetually about to slap her, kinda like this:

And that was totally inaccurate - only about 67% of the people on the ward wanted to perpetually slap her.

She zeroed in and targeted me:

Shaky Hippie:   You can't be in the hallway during meds!

Me:    They told me to sit here.

Shaky Hippie:   That's a HIPAA violation!  You can't be there!

Me:    They. Told. Me. To. Sit. Here.

Shaky Hippie:   Oh, so you just do everything your told?!?

Me:    Generally, yes. (I wasn't in the mood for bitches bein' all crazy at 9 am)

Shaky Hippie:   Well, aren't you a medical student?

Me:    Ummm... no.

Shaky Hippie:     If you're a medical student, then you should know better!  That's a HIPAA violation!

Me:    Um, I'm not.  Soooo.... yeah.

I was wrong - she wasn't a nice Hippie - she was a rigid and uptight bitch suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, hereinafter referred to as Mary.  A few more people went in and out of the day room, but it wasn't long before she started up again...

Mary:    Don't you have any respect for anyone but yourself???

Me:     (just ignore her, say nothing)
Mary:    You have to be told like a child?!?  You should know better - you're a medical student!

I continued to ignore her, thinking that maybe "medical student" was her own terminology for her fellow "inmates".  Thankfully I was called to the doctor and escaped her line of sight/wrath for the moment.

The medical doc looked at me a bit incredulously as he ran down the list of physical ailments I replied "nay" to.  Apparently, if I'm in perfectly healthy physical condition, mentally I should be fine as well. Because science or something.

My shrink wasn't much better:

Doc:  I think we're going to keep you here for a few days, just to see how you're feeling.
Me:  Do I have a choice?
Doc:  (Double-speak peppered with medical terminology that doesn't answer the question).
Me:  Thanks, you've been helpful.  Bt-dubs, can I eat in the cafeteria?
Doc:  Oh, uh... we'll see.
Me:  Again, super helpful. I'm gonna go now.

Everyone was forced to attend "group" therapy sessions, in which most of those conducting didn't care if you showed up and participated, or slept through the entire damn thing.  During this time, the "dorms" were locked, with one exception for bathroom purposes.  I'll dive into those sessions in the next few chapters.

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.

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!!!!!