This is a repost from blog.bg,
originally uploaded on 08.11.2024.
At the beginning of last month, I had an..."incident," and after my visit to the ER, they dumped me in the psych ward. It was so much fun... (sarcasm).
Let me tell you right now—I wouldn’t wish for anyone to end up in such a place. And to top it all off, they put me there over something utterly trivial (I self-harmed). When I arrived, I was completely calm and coherent, but during my stay there, I totally lost my mind—especially during the first two days.
When you arrive, they put you in a cell. I’m serious. At the end of the hallway, there's a cell with three rooms—one with a metal door that locks and two normal ones. In the locked room, there was a woman isolated because of COVID, which was a bit sad, because she was actually very calm and didn’t cause trouble—unlike...some other people in the cell. There were two old ladies who were full-blown nutcases, screaming and banging on the walls all day and night, begging to be let out. I had to endure that FOR TWO DAYS STRAIGHT. While I was there, I was completely isolated from the others who were in the open ward, and I was going insane. I didn’t understand why they put me, a calm person who just showed some self-harm tendencies, in a cell with two grannies who were a total nightmare. It was unbearable. One of them was so bad that they tied her to the bed with thick leather straps and locked the door, and somehow she tore them off and broke down the door. I was literally scared for my life. When they came to restrain her again and inject her, I BEGGED the doctors to move me to the open ward, and every time they said, “No.” I cried several times because I was losing my mind with those old women, and overall being isolated like that from the more normal people in the ward was absolute torture. While you’re in the cell, you're not allowed anything except water and toilet paper. I barely managed to convince them to give me a book (which I later stole because I don't give a fuck about that institution), but even if I wanted to, I couldn’t read it because of all the screaming and banging.
On the second day in the cell, when the doctor came for check-ups, I asked her when the earliest I could be discharged was, and she seriously told me, “Well, in at least 10–12 days,” and I burst into tears instantly. It felt like they were mocking me. Why was I here?? Because I gave myself a few superficial cuts with a razor blade???
Luckily, on the third day, they let me out of the cell, but I still wasn’t allowed outside. There was a closed courtyard where they let you out twice a day to smoke and get coffee from the vending machine. Oh yeah, also—the nurses kept your money, and every morning before the first outing, you had to beg them to give you some. The most you could get was about 2 leva. Good thing I had lots of coins in my wallet so at least I could get a coffee and a wafer from the machine. But this only started happening from the fourth day onward. That was also the first time I got my phone—once a day for 30 minutes. The first thing I did was call my mom and cry my heart out on the phone. “They said they’ll keep me at least 10 days!! They’re mocking me!! I haven’t done anything!!” And my mom replied coldly, “You did this to yourself. Let it be a lesson.” It was horrible. While I was in the cell, I had begged through tears to be allowed to call my mom, and now I felt awful because of her reaction. I texted my friends and my boyfriend to tell them what had happened, and before I knew it, phone time was over.
On the fourth day, I also thought…where and how was I going to bathe? I had no soap, no towel, no clothes. My mom eventually brought me a few things, one of which was wet wipes, and I resigned myself to “bathing” with those. There was a shower, but it was disgusting, so even if I had the necessary items, I wouldn’t have used it. That same day, FOR SOME REASON, they released the two grannies from the cell into the open ward—and worse, they put the one who broke down the door in the same room as me. The same woman who scared me and made me cry a hundred times was now sharing a room with me. I wanted to shoot myself.
The other old lady… well, she didn’t speak Bulgarian. The only thing you could understand was her constantly shouting “Come on!!!”... I don’t know why. She was Turkish and always talked to herself in Turkish. Everyone hated her, including me—and we had our reasons. Even though her relatives had brought her clean clothes, she didn’t change once the entire time I was there. She smelled like a corpse. She peed on the floor in the bathroom. She constantly peeked into people’s rooms (including mine), even while they were sleeping, sometimes even entered their rooms. A few times she tried to enter my room while I was asleep, and every time I got up to shove her out. I couldn’t hold back—I yelled at her a few times too. Normally I was super calm and kind to everyone, but that woman and the other one I shared a room with pushed me over the edge more than once.
On the evening of the fifth day, a really cool doctor was on duty. Up to that point, I had begged every day and every night—PLEADED—for the nurses to give me my sketchbook and a felt-tip pen from my case. You’re not allowed pens or pencils because they’re sharp and you might harm yourself or someone else—but a marker has a soft tip. And every time they shut me down and said I wasn’t allowed to have any of my personal belongings. Then, when this doctor came, I decided to try again—AND IT WORKED!!! He let me take my sketchbook and marker, and suddenly I felt SO much better. I finally had something to do! Many of the patients watched me draw, and I felt a little uncomfortable because I don’t like being watched while drawing, but everyone was really sweet and gave me compliments. Some even drew or wrote something for me, which was super cute.
I even got “inspired” and started writing a poem about the smelly granny (it's unfinished and will stay that way):
Ahem!
When Milka opens my door
And peeks her head inside,
She starts talking nonsense,
“What the hell is this?” I cried.
“Come on, come on!!” she screams at me
It’s the only thing I understand
“Come on what?” I yell right back,
This all just seems so bland.
The awful stench breaks in,
I quickly jump from bed
Put on my Vans real fast
And smack my aching head.
“Get out, get out, I said!”
I wave my hand to shoo
She wags a finger right at me
If only I had a stick too.
Yeah, I know—real nonsense. I’m not a poet.
On the fourth day I also spoke again with my attending doctor to ask when I’d be discharged, since I was clearly totally adequate and there was no reason for me to stay there any longer. She said, “We might discharge you over the weekend.” It was Friday. Suddenly I was filled with so much hope.
Saturday came—no news about my discharge. I was pissed. The days in the psych ward were super repetitive. We just talked and played chess and Ludo all day. Occasionally new patients came in, often brought in by the police, screaming and thrashing. What infuriated me the most was that most of these unstable people were thrown in the cell, and then the very next day they were discharged. What the hell? Why were they released the next day, while I, calm and adequate, was still stuck there on day five? That evening I found out that the doctor would be off duty on Sunday... which meant no discharge again.
On Sunday, a different doctor came for the check-up. He was actually very kind and took me more seriously than the other doctor, who always looked at me with mockery and seemed to pull reasons out of her ass to keep me here as long as possible. I told him my medication dosage had been increased without reason, and he AGREED, whereas the other doctor would just say “That’s what we decided.” The issue was I was given way too much at night, and every morning I felt like a zombie and nearly fell asleep standing up. The doctor totally understood. “Yeah, your Zipwell dose is really high, I don’t know why they decided that. The next day you feel like a rag, right?” YES. THANK YOU FOR GETTING IT!!
That night, guess who was on night duty? The attending doctor. She was on call for the whole psych ward and only came to our ward for 10 minutes. I caught her (not literally) just as she was leaving. She was in a huge hurry to get away from me. I asked what happened with my discharge—wasn’t I supposed to be let go over the weekend? And she looked at me with this stupid grinning face and said, “I specifically said not to discharge you over the weekend.” Excuse me??? I was so furious, but I didn’t say anything and went back to flipping through the same two Avon catalogues for the thousandth time, which were left on the table because one of the nurses was a distributor. I literally had nothing else to do except talk, draw, and look at those catalogues.
Seventh day. Monday. The kind doctor was back on duty, but during morning check-ups he said he couldn’t discharge me while my attending doctor was absent. I cried again. This was just total mockery now. And to top it all off, yet again they discharged some junkie who had been brought in by the police the day before, screaming and moaning so loudly the whole hospital must’ve heard her. I lost it. I knocked on the nurses office's door and asked bluntly, “Why am I still here? Technically you can’t keep me here against my will—I have no court order.” And they replied, “That’s what we’ve decided.” For the first time since I came in, I raised my voice. “If you don’t discharge me tomorrow, I’ll make a huge problem for you.” I guess they finally realized I couldn’t take this crap anymore.
And suddenly, what? Magic! The night-shift nurse tells me, “You’re being discharged tomorrow morning!” Wow! So the whole time I just needed to stand up for myself and remind them they had no real reason to keep me here and it would work? My face lit up instantly. I really hoped this wasn’t another lie, like “You’ll be discharged,” and then the next day—“Actually, you’ll stay a bit longer…”
Eighth day. The doctor came for the morning check-up with the nurse and told me, “You’re being discharged today, pack your stuff.” I couldn’t believe it—this time it was for real. I smiled so wide I must have looked insane, but I was just so happy!!! I wanted to go home as soon as possible! I wanted to shower! To see my mom and my cats! To get my phone! To see my friends!
“Discharge will be no earlier than 1:00 PM.” Fine by me! What mattered was I was going home! I counted down the hours, and around 1:30 PM, my mom showed up. They gave me my stuff, and I left! I said goodbye to the few kind people I’d met there and I LEFT!!!! I COULDN’T BELIEVE THEY FINALLY LET ME GO!!!
When I got home, the first thing I did was hug my cats and take a shower.
Life had meaning again.
