Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

Not many people have had therapy of have been admitted to a mental home. Statistics show that all people think about suicide at least once in their lifetime. ******* Hospital is a mental home to which I was admitted to for being “a danger to myself and/or others.” My experience there was very painful and has changed the way I am forever.

Depression is something that runs on my mom’s side of the family and I was unfortunate enough to inherit the trait. Being naturally depressed became something I learned to live with. It was like breathing to me. My depression never, in my opinion, got in the way of my daily-activities or the way I thought. Sure, I hated life, wanted to fall asleep and welcome the sweet, sweet cold embrace of death, but did not everybody think that way sometimes? My life sucks, though others would say that I am lucky. I have two loving parents, a sister, and many pets. But, just because you have people who love you, does not mean that the treat you like an equal, now, does it? Although, this may be getting off topic, I love my pets with all my heart; they listen to me when I need them.

I don’t remember seeing my mother a lot in my childhood, and my father was always working in the garage. Since I was five, maybe younger, I was cleaning the house, folding clothes and taking care of my little sister, though raising seems like a better word. Life was fine then, and I really didn’t mind the work. But when my parents decided to take their role as parent back, I became more depressed, avoiding my family as much as possible.

The first few weeks of my freshmen year were horrible. Although I was in drill and went to practice on the school campus all summer, I didn’t know where any of my classes were at. I was not late to any of them, though, but finding the classes was very frustrating. My feet were sore and swollen by the end of the day. I came from a small private Christian school that had about one-hundred to two-hundred students in total. We stayed in the same class all day, had the same teacher, and a majority of the kids there were kids I grew up with. Nothing was a secret there; you trip in an empty hallway, and the whole school would know within ten minutes. I felt lost at the high school since the transition was huge. I was lonely, knowing only a handful of people. All of this, as you can imagine, was very depressing.

I went to ******* Hospital on the night before picture day. I don’t remember the events that occurred to get me to the hospital, but what I do remember from that night is not very much. I remember showering in my bathroom, then some nurse waking me up, asking for a blood sample. Everything between the shower and the nurse was a darkness and blurs. A siren, me screaming at my parents, faces hovering over me, my dog’s doe-eyes watching me, and being cold. I remember the coldness very clearly. When the nurse woke me up, I realized something was wrong. The pillow was flat, the blankets were thin, the mattress was missing the familiar curve, the windows were covered with a cheap-brown paper and there were two other beds in the room. I questioned where I was at, and she told me. I was devastated, but too tired to worry about it, feeling like I cried a thousand tears, my throat sore. I gave her my arm and went back to sleep.

My first morning was spent in solitude, re-collecting whatever I remembered form the previous night, trying to figure out what happened. I gave up after awhile and decided I did not want to know what happened if it landed me in a gloomy place like this. I did not shower, eat, or participate in any of the activities. Some of the other patients practically jumped me for my uneaten breakfast, but no one else spoke to me otherwise. This suited me just fine, since I wanted to wallow in my grief. That morning was wasted on tears, sorrow, and unanswered questions, but my hunger got the better of me by lunch, and I ended up participating in those dumb social-building things anyway.

To be admitted to a mental home of any kind when you are underage, your parents need to give their consent. After I found this out, my relationship with my parents was never quite the same. I mean, how could they do that to me? Did they really think I belonged there? Is that how they really though of me? I was frustrated, and I wanted some answers, fast. There were pay phones in the dayroom, so I checked myself for change. I realized my necklace was gone, but I would worry about that later. I asked around for some change, finding none on me, and finally got some from one of the other patients, though I can not say I remember which one. I called me mother and asked what was going on. She told me not to worry; everything was going to be fine, she loved me, and they would come to see me that night, during visiting hours. I was not satisfied with what she told me and hung up. I was in tears. I despised my family. I grabbed the phone again and called my friend in Glendale. He does not go to school, so I knew that he would pick up. When he answered, I just poured out everything to him. He listened silently and gave me what little comfort he could, telling me everything would be okay and that he loves me. For some reason, I felt better hearing it come from him. I still appreciate his help to this day.

I made friends with the other patients, but the volunteers at the hospital made us feel inadequate, making cranky babies and old people seem like saints, though. I say this because they were very rude to us and didn’t let us exercise our rights, reminding us constantly we were in a “crazy home,” using the reasons we got in there against us. The patients were extremely nice, though. One of them, a boy that came in soon after me, told us that his dad told him that they were taking him to Disneyland, and he ended up there. We all thought this was funny. I only had a problem with on patient though, a girl. She hated me because the guy she liked had eyes for me. I thought it was highly amusing, not caring for the guys in there. Why would I date someone that I could not keep in contact with once I was discharged from the hospital? I shared a room with a Angelo girl who was a “tweaker” (that was what she called herself) who could not keep still for a second and another girl, an Asian, who heard voices, cut herself and frequently went off the wall. They were both beautiful girls and I could not imagine them being in here if I was them in the street. Does this not mean that ordinary looking people are not what they seem at all? It kind of made me look harder at other people once I got discharged. Both the girls welcomed me, and I felt bad for them because they were in there far longer then what I was staying for. I had my dad bring two stuffed animals, so I could give to the girls. They loved them and would not put them down even for a minute.

There was another boy I met in there, Christopher *****; I will never forget him. He was awesome and we got along great. We both loved fantasy and despised the volunteers. He got in there for almost beating his brother to death for twisting his sprained wrist. I could understand where he came from, since my sister always drives me to the point of breaking-in her face, but “sane” people would not understand. The volunteers got him angry one night, and he smashed a window open, then tried to escape. They put the whole building on lock-down. He almost go tout, but the caught him just as he was climbing the fence. He became a legend to us, sort-of an inspiration; at least, as long as I was there and when I went back two-weeks later after my discharge.

Needless to say, I survived my stay there, and was discharged three days later. I learned a few things from the other patients, a majority of those things I wish not to share with others for they will not appreciate the words or understand them. This experience has made me more wary of people and has made it harder for me to trust adults. My outlook on life has changed drastically, but I am sort-of happy that this even occurred. It showed my parents for whom they truly are and I found out who are my real friends.