On March 19th,
2012, it was highly recommended that I go to the psychiatric hospital. Later
that day, I was self-admitted (meaning I chose to go in…I wasn’t forcefully
admitted) into the psychiatric hospital in Sylvania, Ohio. I desperately needed
help, and I didn’t trust myself to be alone (as I had seriously contemplated
suicide the previous day).
* * *
My roommate was there
because she tried to kill herself—her anxious, quick breathing, twitches, and
darting eyes triggering my own anxiety—her husband wouldn’t even talk to her
when she called from the hospital. He didn’t care.
There was the young woman
who had been in the ward for a while, who showed me the ropes (and the secret
stash of ice cream). This place had become her home.
Another woman had been there
for four days, depression crippling her so that her boyfriend recommended she
go to the hospital even though she didn’t want to. She told me during my first
day there to be careful about Day 3, because you will literally start to feel
crazy. She was realistic and firm, stating ways she would still be able to
commit suicide in this place that took extra precautions to remove any possible
weapons. She wasn’t implying that she would take action; she was simply stating
the way it was.
On the other half of the
hallway were the older folks, many whose minds were deteriorating. There was
Helen, who I loved dearly, who always smiled and offered me a job at her gift
shop. I listened as she told me about her plans.
There was the older women
who talked about Jesus all the time—proselytizing to the nurses, the front desk
workers, everybody.
We had one older man who
came to the younger people’s side of the ward because “you about damn lose your
mind over there,” referring to the side with the older people. He opened up to
us about his struggle with alcoholism as we all did a puzzle together.
There was the woman with a
developmental disability who was in a room all by herself, screaming constantly.
None of us knew what she was experiencing in her mind; she couldn’t communicate
it to the nurses. We were thankful when she was moved. Our hearts ached for
her, but our minds couldn’t handle the trigger of her distressed screaming.
There was the husband who
came in during visiting hours every day to walk up and down the hallway
hand-in-hand with his wife. (She had to do crosswords all the time to calm her
anxious mind.) All of us loved watching them, so encouraged by the love he
showed her. He gave us hope that the stigma of being in the ward wouldn’t
follow us out; he gave us hope that we could be seen as “normal” to the outside
world. (Although no one ever stated this out loud—it was unspoken.)
On my third day there a
woman stumbled in laughing, bitter, and feisty. It was her third time here for drug
rehab. Her eyes told a deeper story.
I was there in the psych
ward, a straight A, perfectionistic college student, because my entire
worldview was being turned upside down and inside out and I was falling. I
didn’t know this in the ward, though. All I knew is that I couldn’t function
due to severe anxiety, severe depression and hopelessness, that I was thinking
of killing myself, and that I needed help.
During my five days in the
ward, I met the strangest hodge-podge of people with different labels. Drug
addicts, divorcees, singles, college students, professionals, alcoholics, men,
women, old, young, grandparents, people who clearly weren’t all mentally there,
people who were mentally there, people who needed a little lift, people who had
hopes and desires once they left this place.
And we were all struggling
on our individual journeys. Together.
It was raw interdependence
like I had never experienced before. We trusted and bonded with one another in
our varying experiences. We shared vulnerable stories with one another because
maybe we could encourage each other in this journey and help each other out.
People in labels that I had never interacted with in my entire life became my
friends. My “me” worldview was slowly (and so painfully) shifting.
We may have been labeled
“crazy” by the outside world, but I knew that my ward mates had my back, and I
knew that I had theirs (even as I was so fragile, I still knew this). After
all, we were struggling with things together—we understood. But the psych ward
was definitely not all roses and daises. Every time someone left, the unspoken
thoughts followed them out. How would they be perceived now by others in the
world? Would people treat them like people? Are we damaged goods because we’ve
been in the psych ward? Are we crazy? The unspoken thoughts and fears were
always there. The fear of being misunderstood by society. Of being outcast in
social groups and by everyone we know. Of being alone because it’s thought that
we’re “crazy.”
But isn’t this fear of
isolation a fear of us all?
* * *
The people I met in the psych
ward taught me incredible lessons.
The drug addict was
struggling alongside the college-educated professional.
The perfectionistic student
was struggling alongside the pregnant mother who talked to herself.
The recovering alcoholic was
talking to the suicidal man, and the retiree to the wife and mother.
And aside from talking to
one another, these pairs were also listening to one another. Stories and
experiences were being shared, and bridges built between people.
And all were struggling,
interdependent—together.
In the psych ward, I was
beautifully humbled. I learned that everyone in this world is on the same
playing field—we’re all human and working through this thing called life. I
learned that there’s no room thinking I’m better than ANY other human being—it
took being stripped raw to the core and being surrounded by addicts,
professionals, and other ward-mates to teach me that. I learned that I cannot
assume people’s stories or motivations, and that listening is a powerful tool
to love. I learned that empathy is a catalyst for change.
I got a taste of the Kingdom
of God in the psych ward.
And two years later, I still
want more.
“People
like Tiffany, or Danny, or me, maybe we know something that you guys don't
know, okay? Did you ever think about that? Maybe we understand something
because we're...”
-From Silver Linings
Playbook
