#17—Life in a psychiatric center
Type-written in-Beginning on The Date Of: 2022/12/16
Prep talk—
It is my understanding that there are two types of extended-stay psychiatric centers: civil and forensic.
In this blog article, I will write about what life has been like during my times in there. I may write about some not-so-good moments but for the most part, I want to write this article highlighting the good stuff about life in these care facilities.
I am thinking right now that I will end with some constructive criticism, like what I believe should be changed as in how it could be better for people. There is never, ever going to be a good reason that people who end up in a civil hospital should suffer death in life: like it's been over two-thousand years since Christ, Jesus, was murdered by a democratic mob for helping others and being helped by others. We need to make life for people who have been cast out of society so much more worth living it shouldn't even be questioned. Only a tyrant King or Queen would want their peasants to suffer indignity, to know there place, and sometimes it felt as if Psychiatrists were ruling over everyone, the staff acting like aristocrats of the monarch, and their clients peasants who were there to make the upper class rich, used as human resources.
Okay, okay, I wrote that I wanted to write about the good that came from my stays, so I'll get to it.
Catholic Civil Mental Health hospitals—
The more you participate in groups, the more you are allowed access to unique groups, like the ones where I was allowed to go on fieldtrips. Participating is something staff like to see out of their clients because they do want us to get back to society.
Twenty years ago, community mental health programs and services weren't even a thing. There were next to nothing in funding, but over the last fifty years or so, there have many social movements around the country working to effect change in disability rights. Much has been gained by consumers, survivors and ex-patients of mental health programs banding together to end mental health program inpatient abuses, not unlike what I personally experienced during my time in and out of the revolving door that is the mental health system. There is still much work to be done, and I may be overzealous in believing this blog will do what I hope it does. That being opening hearts and minds to the struggles a client like me has been through so far. I have felt both singularity and multiplicity in the system. Every experience strengthens my faith in the Living God and the life of Christ, Jesus.
I will digress back to group therapy. The more I participated in group therapy the more areas of the facility became open to me, as was the case for time out and about usually before discharge.
When I was inpatient during summer and autumn months, and I was participating enough to be let out onto the grounds with groups, the psychiatric center had like a miniature softball field on site. There was a playground for the pediatric unit for the children to play on. There was a gazebo with picnic tables under it for events. There was a basketball gym, a weightroom, and a community pool that YMCA members came and used. Clients weren't allowed in the pool.
When a group formed to play some softball, I kind of wondered over and watched at first. Then I moved my way to the outfield. There weren't many balls making it out there, so I tended to end up in the infield. The group I was with was asked if we, the clients, wanted to give a game ago. Personally, the idea of a game wasn't something I wanted to participate in. This was mental health hospital and I believed that when it came down to winners and losers, it would be bad for self-esteem. There were times when we did play a few innings, but I would suggest a simple batting practice session would be best for our health. Just practice swinging. There were tees I suggested be used if people were having trouble hitting a pitch. It all worked out.
Now, when it came around to my turn up for batting practice, I did play baseball my entire k-12 school career. Little league, summer leagues hosted by the American Legion, modified and high-school ball. I was on all-star little league world series teams for my hometown nearly every year I was eligible. When I got up to bat, I moved the tee out of the way and had the group leader throw to me. I started blasting pitches deep in the outfield. Everyone seemed shocked. I was shocked myself that I still had a good swing. My eyesight seemed to be going ever since I was first forced to take pharmacology drugs, and I was overweight from "the hunger meds". The overweight bit was why I suggested batting practice instead of a game. I wouldn't have to run around bases!
A security guard seemed to be watching and gave me ups for being a good hitter. They asked if I would throw some to them, so they could get in on the fun. I didn't mind. The were a lefty swinging. They got under a pitch I had thrown and it was a pop up right to the mound. I made a split second decision to try and catch the ball behind my back. I made the catch and again, everyone - the security guard, clients, and staff looking on as it happened seemed to think I was a professional. I mean, I could ball back in the day. I was surprised I stepped foreward just enough so the ball didn't hit me in the head when it came down after the pop-up. Those trick plays aren't that easy.
I was coming back from an off-grounds exploration one day, and it's protocol to stop into the security guard station to get run over with metal detector, pockets checked, that sort of thing, and a security guard asked me about my baseball skills. I told him "I can swing some lumber". The guard seem to smile, like I gave him some subtle swagger regarding my skills. Yea, softball was fun. Good exercise and I was sort of a celebrity back on unit when staff watching me do the things I was doing let everyone else on the staff know what they witnessed. This one staff member that came out with us to play stood out in right field when I was up for batting practice. I yelled out to them that I would hit some there way. I did off pitches, and back on unit they asked if I could hit it anywhere if I wanted. I was like "yes ma'am", ~wink~! They always looked at me a certain way after that. This subtle smirk of theres. Swag, I'm telling you.
There was a ping pong table on the unit. It was eventually removed from the unit sometime during my second stay inpatient, but I did play a few times. Clients wanted to know if I could play table tennis as well as I could play softball. I was like, let me give it a try! Now, back in my university days, I was the reigning dorm champion on campus, and ended up letting this other guy win from another dorm during the championship match of a campus wide tournament. I felt bad for the guy I was playing, I didn't quite understand how they made it to me, all they did was slap the plastic ball as hard as they could in the direction of the net. No finesse or curve or anything. Just slapped it with all their power. I was undefeated in my dorm on the table tennis table. Games weren't even close, and people stopped wanting to play with me. I felt bad about winning everytime. But, back to the psychiatric center, I didn't like competing in an environment such as that so I just kept the score even. I let them score, then I scored, then let them score. Well, a client challended that psychiatrist I had talked to about my trauma, the one who wanted to hypnotize me. The psychologist seemed to be okay at the game. The client lost and asked if I would play the Psychologist. The doctor taunted me and I accepted the challenge. I beat the breaks off of them, and that might have had something to do with the table-tennis table being removed, but I can't say for sure.
There was a smaller type of billards table on unit in addition to the table-tennis table. I mainly watched others play. I spoke up when a good shot was made, I was something like a cheerleader. I was asked one day, if I wanted to play. Other clients wanted to know if I was good at billiards as much as I was at the other sports. I was like, sure I will play. I started making some tough shots, and other clients wanted me to play staff. I just kept getting hyped to staff and clients because I grew up playing a lot of sports. I was more interested in the mentality aspect of approaching games - how I would control outcomes and the affect it would have on me win or lose. I wanted to try and get other clients to have a good mentality for sports as a whole. It isn't always going to be a win, sometimes there is going to be a loss in life. It's how we take the experience of the loss and move forward living for the next experience life has waiting for us.
There was always a deck of cards we could get from staff to get a card game going. Most people played Rummy. Some played solitaire to pass the time, but I had developed a memory & repetition game while on my down time, so I played that. I made it look like a magic trick. This one day, that psychologist that wanted to hypnotize me, that I had taken on in table-tennis, their niece was a client and came up to me whilst I was getting into my memory game, and said they knew what you are doing. My showmanship of making it look like a magic trick was working! I had a good laugh. It must have been when I would snap the top of the deck after a good shuffle and then laying out two rows of two suits alternating rows drawing from King down to the Ace was why clients and staff started believing it was magic and that there must be a trick to it all. Good stuff.
There were also facility events open to those clients who were given certain priviledges for participating in groups. There were chicken BBQ's, pie eating contests, halloween parties, christmas parties, some fieldtrips were to a bowling alley somewhere out in town. The bowling alley was fun. I ended up in competition somehow with a staff member. We started bowling strikes consecutively at the same time. I rolled 4 strikes in a row and then missed my fifth roll. Their fifth roll after I had missed was a strike. The staff let me know how well they did back on unit, like I lost to them or something. That wasn't how my mind worked as for proper mentalities, so it seemed kind of like an ego that they had developed for getting more consecutive strikes than I. I actually congratulated them on some good rolls! You know, sportsmanship. I wanted to build their self-esteem for such a great outing! Good stuff.
This one day, I felt like being silly. There was a desk with a high shelf separating the staff area and the client area. There was a staff member sitting in a chair behind the desk and could barely see over it. So, I did what the international man of mystery Austin Powers did behind the couch when his partner had been drinking and couldn't see his feet. I 'walked down stairs', 'took the escalator', and 'rowed my canoe'. This was one of the few times I would accept a little playtime as if I was a child again. It was probably marked down as a delusion, but whatever.
Oh, game nights like bingo was a thing. There were also coffee cafe weekends, decaf of course. And I believe it may have been friday nights for karaoke. I sang a couple songs, and I by no means have a singers voice. I did it to help eleviate my issues with public speaking, anxiety and what-not.
Life in this civil psychiatric center was lively at times, the rest of the time we as clients were all drugged up, sleeping in group therapy sessions, sleeping in chairs on down time, just keeping time between meals and snacks.
mormon-jehovah-mennonite-"No-Gregorian-Domini!"-Chanting Forensic Mental-illness Concentration Camps within The State Of New York—
Life in a forensic hospital is something else. When I arrived for a stay that lasted about five weeks, I had to travel through a few rows of fencing that had barbed wire lining the top of the fence around the entire compound. It looked like photographs of the concentration camps found in Europe during the Second World War.
I spent my time in an armchair the first two weeks. Group therapy sessions were in a break session. So, they didn't start up for about a week after I had arrived. They wouldn't force inmates to take drugs if they didn't want to, but if it was an emergency, they would force pharmacology drugs into you. And the drugs they were using were first generation drugs from like the 1950's pharmacology-wise.
For a whole week I was administered like a dozen shots in like five days. There was no legitimate reason for the injections, it was a democratic consensus me sitting an armchair not socializing with other inmates from around the state was a crisis. Strange stuff. I didn't consume pharmacology drugs when asked, but again they didn't require it.
I did get ahold of a magazine that offered commissary items to prisons, so I gave the supplier a call when I was able to get time on the phone. I had a bunch of stuff shipped to the facility. I grabbed a pair of sneakers, undergarments, deodorant, shampoo, and a bunch of snacks. I was assigned a locker on the unit where I could stash the snacks and have access to it after group therapy sessions ended during the day programs.
We had to travel to the mess hall and group therapy sessions in rows of two, like you may see done with war prisoners. The "harder" of the inmates who had been there the longest, who had formed little groups were always at the front of the lines. I was always at the end of the lines. Always last to get a meal. And there was practically nowhere to sit at the tables. Meals were minimal. I shed some pounds while there.
Groups were different from civil hospitals, but because I had been in academia I seemed to want to believe that groups were operating in a way that staff were trying to find inmates that were able to pull from the various groups and piece together information from different groups into a better understanding of our mental health.
I was in a group that talked about a psychological concept that had to do with a 'flow of communication'. The concept has to do with proper communication between two parties starting with passive aggressive statements, followed by passive statements, then becoming assertive, and lastly aggressive communication. While in another group that had to do with music and lyrics may have seemed like just a group to listen to music in and follow along with lyrics for the songs printed out and then handed out to the inmates. It just happened to come to mind that maybe successful songs from years past were successful because they followed the psychological concept of the 'flow of communication' to appeal to the academic field of psychological study. It was a long shot but I tried to go line by line deciding if it may apply here. Applying that concept to the lyrics seemed like it did actually apply. I let my findings known to the group leader, and word seemed to get back to the psychiatrist I was working with at this facility. They seemed to have certain expressions on their face like I had 'uncovered a secret' of the music industry. I mean, the more I thought about it, because the psychological concept seemed to apply to lyrics line by line, music started to feel like psychological warfare propoganda from then on for me. I still have trouble finding good lyric songs on Spotify to listen to because of my discovery. I sort of levitated towards electronic music that had practically no lyrics in them. I was over lyrics in music for a while.
Now, there was a library group that I was lucky enough to get into. I was able to select a book to bring back to the unit and read while everyone else huddled around the television set to listen to MTV. I selected a book of short stories, but this isn't what I wanted to write about. What I wanted to make a point of with the library was the librarian I had met. There were computers available to look up books in a catalogue. That wasn't what I used the PC for, though. I checked out what programs were installed in the Start Menu applications list. I noticed Microsoft Access, a database creation application used for computer programs and web apps. I kind of figured the computers were all being monitored, but what the hay. I opened up the application and designed a database for like thirty minutes. Someone must have been watching because computers became off limits to inmates within a day or two. The look on the psychiatrist's face when I met with them a couple days later. Like, how do I know how to use Microsoft Access kind of face. I ended up learning from another inmate that this place is for establishing competency for court. That was something I didn't know about as to why I was there in the first place.
After learning the part about competency, I was in group therapy one day and noticed some worksheets were spread out on a table. It was a movie group, and a movie about a court case was playing. Some of the worksheets had to do with math like taking fractions and adding them together. I took the worksheet a step further and simplified the fractions to simplest form. I didn't show my work either, I just did it all in my thought processes. The librarian looked over my work with grace. I asked them to grade me like a teacher would. They seemed to be okay with it, and they couldn't find anything wrong with my math. They seemed to report back to the psychiatrist and I got more looks like why am I even trying to go back to jail, it was that kind of look. Staff did seem to care that I was able to get commissary care packages in the mail, because I would get inmates coming up to me asking for some snacks when locker time came around at nighttime.
This one time, I ended up taking a pill at medication pass, first and last time. I don't know what I took but I woke up just after midnight that night having the urgently urinate. I was so sluggish. I finally got in the bathroom after pleading with staff to let me go. After I urinated, I washed my hands, fell to the floor, and I could swear I had died because I was staring at pearly gates. I just rested in the light and feelings of love, a moment of peace, and then it became dim, and then I had the urge to open my eyes. I could barely move my arms or legs, I just laid there on the floor. They told me I had been unconscious for a good fifteen to twenty minutes. Some staff member I remember from the hall was slapping my cheeks to get my attention. I was taken out to the unit away from the bedroom area, was placed in a chair, and I wanted to know what that pill was. I was quite thirsty when I woke up, too. I affirmed to them I would not take another 'med' while I was there. It seemed to be a big emergency. I mean, I did feel like I had passed into the afterlife after collapsing. I called mental hygiene legal services the next morning to tell them what had happened. A week later I was given discharge out. Bunch of malpracticing academic professionals if you ask me.
There was access to the major religions of the world while at this 'concentration camp'. Judaism, Islam, and Christianity services. I was able to get a Holy Roman Catholic father to have a mass for inmates who were baptized or wanted to be baptized. I was able to secure a Holy Father after speaking with a pastor that did Holy Bible readings with inmates. I was elated when I was able to receive Holy Communion whilst in that trauma scene of a 'camp'.
There was a gym for basketball, football, and soccer if I went to, and participated in group therapy sessions, so as to gain the priviledge of access to the gym. I just juggled a soccer ball around during my time there when I was given the priviledge of it for my participation.
Some of those inmates on my unit had been there over a year. I got out after about five weeks. Sometimes I feel I still don't understand how or why people are kept for years in mental health facilities, forced to take pharmacology drugs at times whether they liked it or not, because these academic professionals have ways of getting them in.
All-in-all, the 'flow of communication' concept has really stuck with me, changing the way I listen to lyrical melody. Brushing up on my fractions was exciting when it came to grading time. I enjoyed that, too. And, I was glad to have been able to get some snacks to people who needed some kindness in their lives. A little charity goes a long way.
Observations—
Well, I thought about how I would write my suggestions and concerns, but I decided against writing more in this article. I am both emotionally elated at pleasantries experienced, and the not-so-great experiences I have written down in this article.
I am not even sure I have much else left to write about in terms of experiences in the mental health system. I am, at this time, preparing for a new academic semester in a new academic field of study. I am in a new outpatient program, and have been in this program for over a year. I am pretty much talked out in therapy. I don't want to keep taking pharmacology drugs because of these side-effects that control my life.
I can only control what I can in terms of outcomes of yet-to-be- had life experiences. The rest is "C'est la vie".