In October 2022, I voluntarily admitted myself into a psychiatric ward. If you read my last blog, you'll know how I ended up at this point.
My insomnia was out of control and wreaking havoc on my life. I needed to safely get off all of my medications to try to solve the problem.
It had been a month now of little to no sleep. No sleep and bipolar do not mix well. My psychiatrist referred me to an adult behavioral unit after seeing her for an emergency session. It was my last option to find some relief.
I was scared to go but knew it was the best thing for me. I went home and packed a bag. This was not my first hospitalization. I knew not to bring anything with drawstrings or shoes with shoelaces. I had no idea how long I would be in there. My guess was the standard 72-hour hold.
My mom drove me to the hospital and waited with me until I was called back to a room in the ER. They stripped me of all my belongings and gave me a gown and the standard grippy socks to wear. I watched as the security staff combed through my belongings. I felt like a criminal when they waved me down with a wand, searching for any weapons.
It was getting late, and my mom had to leave to go get my kids. She didn't want to leave me alone, but my children needed to get ready for bed. I reassured her that I would be fine.
After many hours, a caseworker finally came into my room. She discussed all of the paperwork with me and asked about my situation. I had to do a urine test and give blood when I first got admitted. This caseworker preceded to ask me why I tested positive for amphetamines. I was in shock. What was she talking about? Did she not hear that I was there for insomnia; why would I be taking uppers?? It sounded like she didn't believe me when I denied taking anything like that. I was really confused but was too tired, and let it go for now.
After the caseworker concluded her interview with me, I still waited hours to get a bed in the unit. No on checked on me. I laid there for hours, not able to sleep, super anxious, and annoyed.
Finally, someone came down with a wheelchair and told me it was time to go. It must have been around midnight or later. I was wheeled to the unit, the doors locking promptly behind me. I was told to sit in a chair in the common room until the nurse was ready for me.
I felt like I was just some lost soul, waiting for impending doom.
A nurse eventually came out of the closed-off station and escorted me to my private room. I was so grateful I didn't have a roommate. I made my bed and tried to relax. Obviously, I was too wired to sleep. I kept wondering if I had done the right thing, signing my rights away.
Eventually morning came and I was greeted by a nurse who drew my blood. I covered my eyes with the bed sheets as the lights were so bright and I was exhausted. After this procedure, she left and didn't come back until it was time for breakfast.
It was time for me to make my appearance on the unit. I could barely keep my eyes open. I was still so dizzy and lightheaded. It was hard to walk down the hall to the dining room.
I was given a breakfast tray and found a spot to sit down in. The people at my table introduced themselves to me. They seemed kind enough. I tried really hard to remember their names. Everyone was so kind to me. I really appreciate the people I met during my stay.
From being in another unit in the past to hearing other people’s experiences, I think I was in a really good hospital. We actually had “group”, where we did various things like give the day a rating, discuss mental health via games, make a list of positive coping skills, etc. Although there was a lot of down time. I would start to get anxious when I had nothing to do.
I met with the doctor daily; he would always ask the same questions. Are you suicidal? Are you homicidal? Are you hearing voices? I always said no. He put me on Depakote and Seroquel right away.
Everyone in the unit had a different story. Some were getting discharged, a lot were upset with the fact that they were not allowed to leave yet, and others were new like me. I really interacted with everyone instead of keeping to myself.
I ended up spending 8 long days there. It took awhile for the Seroquel to start working. I still wasn't sleeping. The dose kept getting higher and higher.
Someone from my family visited me every day. It was such a comfort to see them for that hour. I missed my kids so much. I would often get really upset and cry that I wanted to go home because I missed them.
On the eighth day, I went about my morning, saw the psychiatrist, and was told I could go home! My sleep had improved slightly, but the medicine needed more time in my system.
I was so happy to be going home!
The day I got home from the hospital, I broke down. I was petrified to be left alone in my own house. My anxiety was off the scale. So I went to my mom's house. I couldn't stop crying. My kids we're due to be getting off the bus soon from school...
Until next time!
Megan
