Revisiting Old Ghosts: The First Stay

A few foggy memories from forced isolation.

In a dream: juuhanna

Several times I’ve sat down to attempt to expel some of my more painful memories. In part for those who take the time to read my pieces, but maybe more so for myself in the long run. This is one of the reasons I’ve wanted to write a book because there are so many twists and turns it would require being consumed as long-form content. I’m sure even this will be lengthy, so strap in and consider the following one turn in my labyrinth of self-acceptance, discovery, and shining a light on some of the darker corners of my life.

The following is a true and accurate depiction to the best of my memory, and free of embellishment.

1999

I can’t remember exactly what led up to what happened that day or how I ended up in the position that I did. I just remember waking up in the ER with my parents, my grandmother, doctors, and eventually police surrounding my bedside. I remember being surprised at seeing my grandmother there. Though we were close enough, after I fully came to I couldn’t understand the reason for her to be called in. Indeed, much of this lives in a constant fog so I’ll try to describe what I can recall. It took me a bit to realize what had happened and how I’d ended up in the ER. To this day I don’t know how I got there. Was an ambulance called? Did my parents take me? No idea. My parents (and grandmother) are gone now, so there’s no one to ask.

Apparently, there had been an incident at the house where I’d threatened a family member and then turned a knife on myself. Even this I have a difficult time remembering. I’m not sure why this occurred or how it got so serious, so quickly. I do know my mother said I became extremely suicidal and had attempted to lock myself in my room with the knife at some point. I also had a bottle of around 30 Xanex bars behind my bed. I remember taking a handful, but not all, and then waking up in the ER hours later.

I can remember doctors coming in and asking me if I had thoughts of harming myself or others and responding emotionless and indecisive. I was going in and out of consciousness, having brief periods of sleep only to be woken up by nurses taking my vitals. The last time I remember being woken up, there was a paper offered to me by two policemen. One cop explained to me that the paper was an order from a judge to be committed to a semi-local mental ward for observation. He explained my father could take me if he agreed to and it would be put on record as voluntary committal, but if he refused to drive me there I would be involuntarily committed by way of court order and the cops would drive me there.

At this point, nothing was clear but I understood enough to know I was going to this place no matter what. I looked over at my father and asked if he would take me and he agreed. The cops said once I was released from the ER I could only be with my father and that we would have three hours to report at the mental health facility which they would be in contact with for notification purposes.

We checked out of the hospital and my father and I walked out to the car in silence. After being allowed to go by my house and pack a bag for an indefinite amount of time- which, by the way, is hard to pack for, we headed down the highway to drive a few hours to this facility. I don’t recall much discussion, just lots of chain smoking by both myself and my father on the way there. I was numb. I couldn’t feel much of anything anymore both emotionally and physically.

ARRIVAL & CHECK-IN

I’d never been hospitalized for any illness or injury, so this would be my first inpatient experience. Once we arrived my father joined me to check in. It was an older building, with aged wood floors on the main floor and windows that hadn’t been updated in decades. There were steel bars on all of the windows north of the ground floor where the offices were. If I had to guess I’d say there were between 10 and 15 floors at this facility.

This place was infamous. A few close family friends had worked at this facility as nurses for years and I grew up hearing horror stories from them about the patients they interacted with and took care of daily.

After signing a ton of papers, I was taken out into the hallway where my picture was taken on a Polaroid camera and attached to the manilla folder they’d just made for me with a paperclip. I remember looking over and seeing the image and not recognizing myself. I was looking at a ghost.

This was as far as my father was allowed to go. He hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek saying he would be back as soon as it was allowed. This was the moment I realized I would be walking this journey alone with no idea when I’d be allowed to leave or when my family would be able to visit.

Next on the agenda was removing anything dangerous from the bag I brought. I’d packed razors to shave with, those went first. My shoelaces were removed from the high-top Chuck Taylors I had on my feet. Drawstrings to my pajamas were removed, along with anything metal. The nursing staff took my compacts from my makeup bag because they contained mirrors I could smash and cut myself with. I’d packed makeup because in my 18-year-old mind, which was in a state of despair and hopelessness, who wants to die ugly? Whatever this was going to be, I’d been taught never to be caught sans makeup. This was just one thing my mother constantly berated me over growing up. Others included not allowing my thighs to touch one another, and if they did I would need to fast until they didn’t, often called names if I were to get a second helping of anything from dinner. You could say I quickly acquired a bit of a complex all centered around my appearance. More on that in another post. There were some other oddball things that were taken from my bag that I remember thinking how strange- how would I hurt myself with that, but I can’t recall what they were.

What I was allowed to keep I had in my arms as I walked up flights of stairs, flanked on either side by nurses and a caseworker with my newly created file and clipboard in her hand to what would be revealed to be my room for the foreseeable future.

UPSTAIRS

A huge heavy steel door opened up to a dimly lit long hallway. There were doors up and down both sides of the hallway with a tiny desk and two chairs off to the right. I would find out the next day that this was the “nurses’ station” where two nurses would sit and make real-time notes on what the patients were up to hour to hour. Of course, they were also there to ensure everyone was accounted for when it was time to dispense medication. They were on high alert for anyone who may get physical with themselves or others or the occasional pissing on the floor or choking on something that would occur from time to time and did while I was there.

I was escorted to my room on the right side of the hallway, directly across from what was considered “the common area”. There were no TVs, radios, or the like anywhere on the hall. The tiny nurses’ station sat just outside my door to the right, up against the painted cinderblock walls. You could see a set of 15-20 foot bay windows in this section adorned with thick steel bars on their outsides. It was late at night/early morning when I was finally in my room and I remember seeing the moon's light shine through these windows bouncing off a few chairs and couches. My room had a small window that looked out into the hallway, a twin bed, and a small shelf to set my belongings down on. After settling in and changing into my now drawstringless pajamas I sat on the edge of the cold bed and cried.

Westword

This wasn’t what I wanted. This wasn’t escaping. This wasn’t dealing with trauma that I’d already suppressed so deeply, even as a barely 18-year-old woman. Yet, here I was with no way out. One of the two nurses would poke their head in the room or in the window of my room to make sure I was still alive every 30 minutes. This went on for the duration of my stay. I’d been put on 24-hour surveillance.

I don’t know how much I slept that night. I don’t recall there being any clocks around. I don’t know what time it was when I got there or what time we were woken up each day. I remember being called to the med desk which was basically a mobile cart a nurse would roll out early the next morning. I heard my last name called and began the journey down this long, sterile hallway barefoot on the cold tiled ceramic floor as they took all the socks I’d packed on entry. Getting to where I needed to be was a challenge as my eyes were nearly swollen shut from the stress and tears of the previous night, hindering my vision.

I have no idea what was in the small, white paper cups. No clue what I was being given to take, but there was a handful waiting for me along with a small plastic cup of water. I took them into my mouth and chased them down with a swig of room-temperature tap water. I didn’t care what they were. Part of me hoped one of them contained cyanide or something I was allergic to. That would at least be a release from this hell I found myself tortured by on a day-to-day basis. This happened at least twice a day, if not three times a day. I can’t remember fully. I just remember the content of the little paper cups being different almost every time I answered my name at the med desk. Again, who cared what I was ingesting? Certainly not someone who would do anything to escape themselves.

The rest of my stay here is a blur. I would sit and just watch the others. I’d been entered into what was considered a holding ward of sorts where psych docs would evaluate each patient before moving them to the appropriate hall based on their diagnosis. This was a long rectangular fish tank, if you will, for the nurses and doctors to observe our behavior. I quickly realized the only way out of this place was by convincing them I didn’t need to be there to begin with.

THE WARD

Because the ward was used to diagnose each of us before moving us to different hallways, there was a wide range of women admitted whether voluntarily or involuntarily. I met a woman who had just killed her child. Another woman had murdered her mother, father, and brother before being admitted. Yet another woman walked up and down the hall wearing diapers and carrying around her “baby” which was a doll. She required changing and spoke like a toddler. This woman was in her late 40s. One woman mumbled the entire time and talked non-stop. She had horrible teeth that jutted out of her mouth as if they were evicting themselves. I would try to listen to what she was saying and there were times when she was actually talking about some of the things she had observed happening in the facility. She would talk about how the nurses had treated her, how they would get aggravated with her, and how she wasn’t being fed enough. While most of what she said was incoherent, some of it was verifiable, proving that even if she had some mental issues, she was still well aware of her surroundings. Later on that week she visited the dentist who pulled four of her teeth. Walking around the hall, now with gauze packed in the front of her mouth, she continued rambling making understanding her an impossible feat. Those wild teeth trying to escape were now gone.

Patients sit inside Ohio’s Cleveland State Mental Hospital in 1946 | Medium

There was a huge industrial fan at the very end of the hallway. It had to be 10-20 feet tall and equally as wide. I’ll never forget seeing thousands of ladybugs covering the outside of this fan. This particular season there had been an overabundance of ladybugs in the area with some finding their way into the facility by way of this huge fan. The last door on the right is where we would go twice a day to smoke cigarettes, right next to the massive fan that would blow outward. This was usually after breakfast and again right before bed. The nurses would round us up and hand each of us our pack of cigarettes which we were allowed to get two out of at a time. The nurse would then stick the packs into her jacket or scrub pockets. We would all walk down to the smoking room to chain smoke these two cigarettes. The nurse would stand in the doorway and light our cigarette as we entered. We would have to use the first cigarette to light the second. There was no bringing the lighter back out.

On one occasion, the nurse left the lighter on the bench she was sitting on. I quickly grabbed it up on the way out of the smoking room after hotboxing two cigarettes back to back and slid it into the waistband of my pants to walk back to my room. At the time I wasn’t sure what my plan was with this lighter beyond to prove to myself that I could have it in my possession. The next day when we got our two-cigarette ration, I smoked one then tucked the other one again in my waistband, and walked back to my room with it. Now I could smoke when I wanted to, rather than when I was allowed to. Later that evening I walked into the community bathroom and stood on the toilet right underneath a strong vent using a straw from breakfast I’d kept to blow the smoke directly into the vent. I lit the cigarette and stood there smoking this cigarette so fast that I got lightheaded. To a degree I was testing just how safe and secure this ward was. I was also regaining a bit of control over my life which was now being monitored 24/7. No one ever came looking for the missing lighter, which I found odd. I fully expected to be caught with it, knowing that if I had been, my act of rebellion would lead to my extended stay there.

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