During my senior year of high school, I missed two consecutive weeks of school. It was strange for me to miss even one day, so naturally, people had questions. I told everyone I had the flu. That was my story...and I desperately stuck to it. Very few people knew the truth, but even those who knew, didn't talk about it. Now, a year and half later, I'm a new person. And the new, stronger me isn't afraid of being "weird." The truth is, we all have issues. The truth is, even the straight-A model student has issues. Lots of them.
I left home at 18. The term "left home" is used loosely, but that's for another day. I left on a Sunday. I spent the next few days driving back and forth figuring out living arrangements, obtaining my belongings from my parents, and dealing with my life. The Thursday after I left, I had my first panic attack. It was no joke. You can say you've had them, but not many people experience them like this. I was sitting on the couch talking to Jordan (then my girlfriend, now my wife), and all of the sudden, I felt like my body was out of control. I was completely out of control. Panic attacks feel like impending doom...and dying feels like the only way out. Jordan tried to calm me down, but her attempts failed. I don't remember much about that night. I remember Jordan holding me to the ground, until I fell asleep because she was scared of what I would do if I made my way to the kitchen. The next day, she monitored me closely. She wouldn't (well, couldn't) leave me by myself. The day seemed to go okay. I thought it was just a "bad day" for me. Everyone feels low every now and then, right? The next day was Friday. We decided to go to NoDa (Charlotte's art district) that night. Everything was going okay, but then my reasoning got irrational again. That night, Jordan Poole and Carissa Berglund made the decision that I should be taken to a hospital. At 2am, I was hospitalized for the first time for suicidal ideations.
Behavioral Health Units suck. In case you're unfamiliar with the process, it goes a little something like this: once you walk in, you can't leave. You enter the building and are handed a clipboard with paperwork to fill out. Once your paperwork is finished, you're sent through a metal detector and then taken to a small room where you'll speak with an intake nurse. The nurse decides whether or not you need to be evaluated. The evaluation is done by an MD or PA. They will determine if you need to be admitted to the hospital or provided with other care options. If you come in the middle of the night (like I did), you don't see a doctor - the nurse makes the decision on her own. Once admitted, they strip search you. Most of your belongings are taken away. You can't even have conditioner in the psych ward (they're scared you might eat it). Then you're taken to your room. In the Moses Cone BHC, there are three units. The 300 unit, also known as "party hall." This is where you have the most freedom. It's monitored, but not as closely as others. There's the 500 unit, aka "high hall." This is for recovering addicts. A lot of lounging happens here. It's the warmest unit, to accommodate people having withdrawals. There is generally snacks on this unit as well. The 300 and 500 patients can interact with each other as often as they like, as long as the interaction takes place in common areas. Then there's the 400 unit. These are the "crazies." Most of the people on this unit have a serious mental illness and will be transported to a long term facility. I spent my first night on the 400 unit. I didn't actually need to be there. The nurse that placed me wasn't able to tell if I was "competent" or not. Nonetheless, I was there and it was scary. My roommate thought Jesus was her boyfriend. She also insisted on showing me around and providing me with underwear from her drawer (they were kindly rejected). GTCC nursing students came once a day to "interact" with the patients in the 400 unit. I did not want to interact. Finally, around lunch time, I met my psychiatrist who decided that I did not need to be placed in this unit and moved me to the 300 unit.
I spent my first 24 hours being quiet and learning how things worked. Every time Jordan called, I begged her to take me home. The thing is, once you're there, you don't leave. Jordan came every day to visit. We could have 30 minute meals together (during the allotted times) and there was a 2 hour visitation, once a day. She came as much as she could. I was doped up on sleeping medications and anti-anxiety pills. It doesn't take long to learn the rules:
1. Take your medications.
2. Eat, even when you want to vomit.
3. Interact as much as possible.
4. Sleep, even if you have to pretend.
5. Shower as much as possible.
Nurses carry around clipboards and write down everything you do. They check on you every 15 minutes. And each time, they record exactly what you're doing. What and how much you eat is recorded. How much you talked during "group therapy" is written down. If you were taking your meds, eating, interacting, sleeping, and bathing it was signs that you were "healthy" again. The more you did, the sooner you left. I spent 4 days in the hospital. It felt like forever. I probably should have been there longer, but I don't know if I could have handled anymore.
In my 4 days, I learned a lot about myself. I learned that asking for help is one of the hardest things you'll ever do. I learned that what I thought was my biggest weakness, was actually my biggest strength. I also learned to hate the mental health system. The rules that govern it are strict and generally unnecessary. Without insurance, there's no way to obtain any sort of care unless you go directly to the hospital, which is VERY expensive.
I've been hospitalized a total of 5 times and I've been labeled with a million different diagnoses. I've given you details about the first hospitalization. The second was pretty similar. The third, I was referred by my therapist who thought I was acting a little "too apathetic." The forth, I was in an intensive outpatient program that tended to make me more depressed. And the fifth, I overdosed on benzos. It's been a year since my last hospitalization and, this sounds cliche, I really do feel like a whole new person. For a while, I thought Prozac saved my life. Don't get me wrong, medications do help, but what saved my life was the strength that I found within the walls of that hospital and the support that I found outside of the hospital. I wouldn't be here today without a handful of people...and they all know how true that statement is.
So, that's what has brought me here today. My wife is currently obtaining her master's degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling. Based on the events of our past two years, we've felt an overwhelming desire to dive into the mental health world. We really want to help people. There were times when I, as an insured individual, could not obtain my medications because of the lack of resources available in the mental health field. Now, as an uninsured individual, it is still difficult to receive medications and counseling. My therapist and I are constantly coming up with loopholes to make sure I receive the care that keeps me "stable." We've decided even if it takes 10 years and we only help one person, it will be SO worth it. It's something we're passionate about and something we can be proud of. We aren't naive enough to think that this will happen over night and we aren't expecting to be able to save the world. But we are proud to stand up for a community that needs an advocate.
This is how my blog came to be. This is my story. This is my truth.
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