I’ve Been In A Psychiatric Hospital For Three Weeks. Do You Want To Know About It?
Between notes and reflections. The path isn’t complete, but something has changed…
This is difficult. Even with the whole atmospheric vibe going on in the background as I start to write (twilight, crickets’ sounds, soft indoor light). It should be easy to write, but aside from pushing “publish” on an old draft, I haven’t written anything in weeks, or months. I haven’t been well.
Asunder…unfeeling…
By the fourth day in the clinic I had grown doubtful of my motivations, the motivations of the government. Why do I want to feel ‘better’? Why would the public system pay for a private stay so that I can feel ‘better’? I won’t lie, my writing had something to do with it… and, there it was again, atmosphere. I sat in an armchair facing the window as the sky turned lilac around the big public housing complex.
I kept myself busy reading magazines and newspapers, and then read something about homelessness, but — selfish me — I could only think about how the article could be translated into a discussion centred around mental health.
I wanted to write about it, but instead saw myself in a room exactly like the one I was sitting in, in a chair facing a window, in fifty, sixty years, wasting time until time runs out.
How was what I was doing, or anything else I could have been doing, different? How is anything not wasting time?
This is not madness, but it isn’t something better.
I was reminded of a documentary I watched on Outsider art; a name given to art made by mentally ill people. Or mentally ill artists who never rise to fame. Now, this is not the place for me to expand on the ins and outs of Outsider art, but one thing did solidify in my mind: art is one of the most therapeutic things there is in this life. I did take as many art group classes as I could. It shouldn’t surprise any of my long-term readers, I love art. And doing it with the mindful intention of healing has had the power of keeping me away from my intrusive thoughts, even if only for half an hour, or an hour, a day.
“I am unable to describe exactly what is the matter with me. Now and then, there are horrible fits of anxiety, apparently without cause, or otherwise a feeling of emptiness and fatigue in the head… at times I have attacks of melancholy and of atrocious remorse.” — Vincent Van Gogh
History has labelled creative automatism and hallucinations as unreal. But, just take a look at Kusama’s art, or Van Gogh’s, or Munch’s. Frequently, the artwork created by mentally ill persons depicts severe mental states, unusual concepts, or complex dream worlds.
Now, my experience with art therapy was nothing life changing. I am not the next Yayoi Kusama, but in it I did find calmness, and a way to express what was going on in my mind.
The mind is everything.
All I know from the past is in my memories. All I see in the future is from my imagination, my capacity to make more or less accurate predictions.
Both my General Practitioner (GP) and Occupational Therapist (OT) seem to think that logic can break the cycle of panic. I suppose I know what they mean. It also is researchable, studied. On the other hand, my imaginative, more emotional brain can carry out and worse sustain a panic attack. By imagining that my death is imminent, or similar scenarios.
However, what about the fact that logic and rationality are also at the basis of my illness. That the very logical things I think make me depressed and scared.
Being in the hospital/clinic helped. Especially when it all seemed to be getting worse, right smack in the middle of my admission process. Yet, sometimes, some nights, it felt like a waste. A waste of time, a waste of money, a waste of hope.
Mine isn’t the kind of ‘madness’ that makes you portray cats as electricity in paintings. It’s the madness of a Nietzschean nihilist who has no courage to stand on her own two feet as she sees the rest of the world collapsing into oblivion. When everything fundamental has been shaken. I am weak, and I am strong, but in the end… I feel it doesn’t even matter.
Survival. What a difficult concept to accept, especially when you find life meaningless.
The most therapeutic thing I have experienced during my three week stay? It has been meeting people who shared — in some small ways — my life experiences. People who experienced trauma, depression, anxiety, panic. People from all walks of life that could, at the very least, find kinship with one another.
We talked, we had meals together, and walks (those of us who were low risk enough to be able to get out of the clinic for some hours every day). We shared survival skills. Not those you need to survive out in nature, but those you need in the jungle that is your own head.
Someone told me to try to write — amongst my dark toned journaling — about gratitude. Thus, one night, awake under the dimmed reading light of my room I considered changing my mindset, even just a little bit. I kid you not, I have even considered finding out about Spirituality as a way of healing…but let’s talk about gratitude instead.
That night I wrote:
‘For what am I grateful today? For the power of language, and words such as ‘hope’. For having an open mind, for having known love. Love…Xing. My family; the kids; the cats. Even if at times I wonder if all this love will have meaning at the end, I am grateful. For love is comfort and adventure, and those are two of the strongest drivers in my life.’
As the days went by, I took more art classes, and psycho-education classes. On ACT, CBT, DBT, and self-compassion. Until, suddenly, I felt the need for poetry.
Alas, it was still difficult to write. Difficult to put together my feelings in a poem, difficult even to just journal; but for days I had accumulated a little list of words that I could use, call it a writer’s survival instinct…
Asunder.
Unfeeling.
Affection.
Calmness.
Connection.
Exploration.
Harmony.
Restfulness.
…Solitude…
Understanding.
Warmth.
With the weeks passing, participating in group therapy classes, and tweaking and increasing medications, the frequency of my panic attacks started going down. Even so, my mood was still unstable, and what’s more, home-sickness was making its way into my mind. Still, I kept at it.
Now, gratitude prompts are great, but part of me still wasn’t ready for good feelings. After all, I had just started descending from the height of panic and anxiety… Getting — ever so slightly — away from the dark pit of depression and intrusive thoughts.
I recognise now, there truly is no hierarchy in suffering. Even though there are things like ‘escalation of care needed’, these things are deceiving. It’s just impossible to tell when one person is worse off than someone else is, especially when the sickness is invisible. With me, the pain was always more in my thoughts than in the shakiness of my body, or the speed of my heartbeats.
I’m now home. Well, my grandma’s home, and I spent the last half hour trying to put together the mumble-jumble of my experience in a couple of sentences to conclude this piece of writing. Again, not easy.
What does come easily though, is the knowledge that a big part of the healing process can be attributed to people.
The other patients with whom I shared the short path to the start of recovery (it’s still a long dirty road ahead of us), the people I created connections with; but also the ever-so-helpful nurses of my unit, my psychiatrist and even the kitchen staff.
Yes, the food was good. And that helps.
What should be remarked on also is my own work. I got up every fucking horrible day and went for group walks, and group therapy sessions. I took all the meds, and I asked for help when I needed it.
Would I recommend a private psychiatric hospital stay to those who could have one? Yes. Especially if you’re deeply suffering.
And if that’s not available to you, please, find out what is. Call your GP, search online for community support in your local area, call an hotline and ask for information. Just please, don’t isolate yourself… if you’re like me, life already feels shitty enough as it is.
For more on mental health:
On Humans and Applications | Curated by Jess the Avocado | Medium