This is an account of what happened to me on January of 1996. I am still suffering the consequences of this ordeal.
All my life I have suffered with Obsessive Compulsive
Disorder (OCD), anxiety and panic. What I write about occurred when I was
hospitalized for a week and a half around the time of my 18th birthday.
I
had no idea what was wrong with me. All I knew is that I had intrusive and
morbid thoughts that caused me great anxiety. I was speaking heavily to my
school counselor every day concerning these thoughts. She labeled me as likely
being bipolar (i'm not) and suggested that I should get a blood test to find out
whether or not I was (of course such a test doesn't exist, but what did I know?)
I should have known right then and there that the medical community was nothing
but people that made assumptions. Still, I was hurting and knew I needed help.
I'm not sure when it was decided, but it was decided that I was to go to
Franklin Squares mental ward for evaluation and medication treatment the
following week. Why there was a delay I have no idea as it makes little sense to
me today.
It may seem odd, but I was beyond happy to finally be getting
some help and was highly optimistic that my problems were to be treated starting
that day. Unfortunately, my father was more than against me getting treatment.
In his mind, my problem was behavioral and I was nothing but a bratty child,
which he firmly addressed to the staff.
Sure enough, the hospital staff
fell for his lies and treated me worse then most would treat a caged animal.
Even after I stated that my father was abusive and was a huge source of my
anxiety, they still behaved as if I was nothing more then a spoiled brat that
needed to be scared straight.
I remember first being shown around the
premises. To the left was a gathering room which consisted of a pool table that
was badly slanted, a ping pong table with no paddles, and board games that
missed pieces. There were also crayons as people drew like toddlers. To the
right was two padded rooms with nothing but an exercise mat. I didn't know it at
the time, but this is where I was to spend nearly my entire stay. There were
also rooms that consisted of two to a room. Most of the residents were either
delusional and screaming or fighting with someone. There was a single shower
which sprayed scalding hot water which was shared by everyone and a closed room
where I was to later learn was where they gave patients Electroshock.
I
was quite uneasy about what I saw, but I still was feeling optimistic and filled
with hope for getting better. I was told to give up my possessions and even my
shoelaces, but being that my OCD centered around self harm I did not blame them
and obliged.
Later in the day, I was told to swallow two pills. Being as
I had no idea what they were, I asked what they were. I was told that if I did
not take them, that I would be held against my will for as long as the hospital
wanted. That was when my optimism turned to severe panic.
I remember
during my entire stay that there was a victim of sexual abuse who was, on a
daily basis, tied up in straps, given a shot, and then stuck inside one of the
padded rooms to scream all day. I can not remember if this coincided with the
time I was given this first dose of medicine, but I remember thinking that I
could not trust them to give me something safe. Maybe I was afraid what they
were giving me was the same thing that was in those syringes. Maybe I just was
unwilling to take something I didn't know anything about. All I know is that if
I didn't take it, I was to become a prisoner. And yet, I already was one.
The first night or two, I was consigned to a room with another patient. I
did not sleep well due to the screaming of others in distress, but I was able to
get a little bit of shut eye. I remember people coming by every 15 minutes with
a flashlight to check if anyone was harming themselves. It was a morbid thing to
think about let alone having a light shown on you as you tried to sleep.
I'm not sure why the nonstop panic kicked in, but it shortly did around day 2 or
3. Was it the fear or being locked up indefinably that was threatened at me? Was
it the schizophrenics that were fighting, the rape victim screaming, or the
bipolar woman who was receiving Electroshock just to go into a rage after each
treatment? Or, was it the drugs from before that they gave me?
It turned
out that these two drugs were Prozac and Mellaril, which I later learned could
have been a fatal combination. It is hard to say whether it was the drugs or the
fear of knowing this alone that caused me to go into a never ending panic for
the next week or so. What I DID know is that I was PETRIFIED of anything they
gave me and was convinced that they were going to kill me. I swore to myself
that if I closed my eyes I would never wake up again although sleep was the one
thing I wanted more than anything else. I could not bring myself to eat and I
lost a ridiculous amount of weight in a few days to the point of being anorexic.
The rest of my stay consisted of me being given a different drug every
day. The only thing they kept me on steadily was Ativan for my nerves and
sleeping pills they gave me every night to calm down. At one point, they gave me
a drug that seemed to work (Wellbutrin). When I told them I was finally starting
to feel well, they stopped giving me the Wellbutrin and instead gave me other
drugs. In my time there, I was also given Nortrypteline, Risperidal, and
Trazodone. There were posters on the walls speaking of all the different drugs I
was taking and I could not stop reading them thinking I would get every symptom.
The never ending panic that I witnessed this entire time i'm sure was due to
the cocktail of medications they were giving me. Yet, if I were to deny them,
they could have kept me there for as long as they wished. I remember pacing
nonstop crying at the nurses that I could not calm down and to please give me
something that would knock me out so I would no longer be in pain. I also told
them that I was suicidal and wanted nothing but to end the panic I was feeling.
This is what caused me to be stuck in a padded room every night. Nothing was
given but a mat. No blanket and I don't even recall if there was a pillow. The
rape survivor was screaming and being abused in the second padded room next to
me. Sleep was impossible, as was eating. Some may not believe it, but I can
honestly say that I did not sleep for at least 9 days as much as a minute, nor
did I hardly eat or drink. I was starving, dehydrated, and sleep deprived while
simultaneously petrified and forced to witness people being tied down and shot
up with drugs, constant screaming and horror coming from the Electroshock room.
There was almost always nurses rushing during some distress call of someone
trying to kill themselves or attacking another person.
For an entire
week, the doctor that was assigned to me was on vacation. I was told that this
was why I was not allowed out of the quiet room or allowed to be released. I
often wonder if my doctor ever knew what I was subjected to or if he even was
the one to assign such torture. If anything he was negligent.
When I was
finally released, I remember getting my first nap in the car on the way home. I
still had a lot of anxiety, but the terror was finally gone. I shortly after
found a therapist that diagnosed me with textbook OCD. My case was so severe and
obvious that she had no idea how anyone could have looked past it. I was
overwhelmed with joy to finally know what was wrong with me as when I expressed
my problems in the hospital, I was looked at funny and told that I was sick. The
nurse/therapist said those exact three words to me at Franklin Square. You. Are.
Sick.
Growing up, my panic disorder had built into something completely
out of control. I am almost certain that it is PTSD caused by the fear of
hopelessness and complete dread that the hospital caused me to feel. To this
day, I still know the name of my doctor that basically did nothing but throw me
into a pen of lions. He is still a doctor at the same hospital with a record of
abuse.
Last modified 3/19/2015