A Professional Patient No More

I was 22 when I had my first inpatient admittance to a psychiatric hospitalization. I am now 36 and have not been admitted to a psychiatric hospital in over six years, since I was 30. During the eight year period (from ages 22—30) I was hospitalized a total of 14 times.

“This (the hospital) is where I belong,” is the statement that sums up my feelings about psychiatric hospitals after my first hospitalization. “I am sick and I can’t manage the world like other people can,” was the view I had about myself at the time.

I was just out of college, in therapy for about one year and on psychotropic medications for about two years. My life, which I had managed somehow to hold together for 22 years, was disintegrating. I believe what finally led me to my first hospitalization was that, for the first time I was dealing, or trying to deal with my problems/issues/illness—whatever you want to call them. The things that woke me up at night, that led me to cry and beg to “something” at night to please not let me wake up the next day. The things that made me think it was a good solution to pour containers of hot water over parts of my body so I could just be in my body and in the world. My first admittance to a psychiatric hospital saved me from taking my life. It gave me a chance to breathe, to stop having to protect myself from my problems/issues/illnesses. No longer was I the one responsible for giving myself protection. I needed protection from me, and the hospital gave me that. All I had to do was to wake up, take meds, talk to a few doctors, a few counselors, eat, and then go back to bed. At times, that was barely doable.

My hospital stays always seemed to make things better. I was treated well, especially by the counseling staff and the nurses. They always listened to me when I was able to open up and talk. The psychiatrists I was assigned to while in the hospital always were willing and wanting to work with my therapist and psychiatrist on the outside. I always felt that my care in and out of the hospital was seamless. Along with getting a respite from life and having to deal with it, I also always left the hospital with a plan. The counselors, social workers, nurses and doctors worked closely with me so I would have a plan of action for when I left the hospital. The brilliant part of this was it was actually meant for me to be able to carry it out, to help me have a more successful transition when I left the hospital.

I believe I was very fortunate to be able to be admitted to the same hospital 13 out of the 14 times I was admitted. The system not only knew me, but so did the people, and that made a difference. I didn’t have to start off telling my whole story over and over again. The counselors, social workers, nurses and doctors remembered me and I was able to talk to them without having to rehash everything. They were able to help me see how I had changed for the better since the last time I had been admitted—something that I couldn’t see because all I was focusing on was the fact that I had been admitted to the hospital, again. That I had failed, again. People knew about my strengths and focused on them. They also knew the areas I had problems in and would help me learn new skills that I could add to my toolbox. As the number of hospital stays increased, my length of stay decreased.

“This, the hospital, is not where I belong,” is the statement that sums up my feelings about psychiatric hospitals after my last hospitalization, to date. My view of myself during that time, “I may have some problems/issues/illnesses, but that doesn’t mean I can’t manage the...