If this is your first time here, you might want to read in reverse order, from the beginning. "Testing Depression" is my true story about being hospitalized for depression.
A quick summary up to this point:
I arrived at the hospital in a police car. I was examined by the entry
nurse, and then by a doctor on the unit. I met two nurses, Meg and Dorothy, and two other patients, Charlie and Louisa. I was on fifteen-minute checks. I struggled to remember the causes of my depression. My only medication at this point was Ortho-Tricyclen (birth control pills).
August 13, 2005
When I got back to my room, I noticed that my bed had been lowered all the way down to its lowest position.
I got into the bed and used the attached remote control to raise it back up to its highest position.
I slid my legs under the blankets, pulled them up over my body, and turned toward the wall. Louisa was not back in the room yet, and I wanted to fall asleep before she arrived.
The other patients each had a turn to speak. I listened, but soon everything that they said became a blur, and I could no longer remember each person’s story.
Time was soon running out for the group therapy session. I noticed that Sheila was glancing at her watch more than she was actually listening. She seemed anxious to go home for the night. I don’t think other patients sensed this, because as each person talked, they continued on and on without a sense for time.
When the last person in the room had spoken, Sheila declared the end of group therapy for the night. She had forgotten to come back to me after letting the last person speak, and I didn’t mind at all.
I hurried back to my room before she could remember her mistake.
August 12, 2005
Group therapy continued around the room. When it was my turn, I gave my name and said that I had no diagnosis as of yet. I also told the group that I had nothing to say, because I felt awful and just didn’t feel like talking.
Sheila and the patients in the group pressured me to say a little more. I felt annoyed by the pressure. I tried to think of something to share with the group, but all of my thoughts were antagonistic, too painful to face, or simply too incomplete in my mind.
To relieve the pressure, I insisted that I really could not think of anything to say. I felt like I was lying, although it wasn’t really a lie.
Sheila offered to go around the rest of the room and come back to me at the end. I agreed.
At exactly eight o’clock, the session began.
A well-dressed woman introduced herself as Sheila and then sat down in a special chair at the front of the room. She said that she was a social worker and would be leading many of the morning and evening group therapy sessions.
Sheila told us to each introduce ourselves and our diagnoses, and then to talk about anything that we wished to share with the group.
One man raised his hand and volunteered to begin. He was a large, pale man with a soft, childlike voice and demeanor. He introduced himself as Antonio and said that his diagnosis was depression, and then he said that he was sad because he had been having a hard day. Strangely, that was all he had to say.
Sheila asked him to explain more about why he had a hard day. He told the group that he had spent the entire day alone in his room and felt depressed as a result.
Other patients in the group told him to come out of his room next time to talk. Some said that they would like to be friends with him.
I felt bad for Antonio but didn’t say anything because I honestly didn’t want to be his friend. I didn’t want to be friends with anyone else in the group, for that matter.
August 11, 2005
Jack came by my room at five to eight, letting me know that group therapy was about to start. He told me to go to the main patient lounge.
I thanked him. I thought about asking whether it was mandatory to attend, but I decided to try it out first. I also didn’t want him to think of me as an uncooperative patient. I knew that he had some control over my patient privileges and the frequency of my patient checks.
I entered the main patient lounge and found it almost full. Almost every chair was taken. I found an empty spot on a couch against the window.
The room was quiet except for a couple of conversations. Most patients, it seemed, preferred to keep to themselves.
I called Paula, a friend who knew about my condition but whom I didn’t know too well. I had no choice because I was terrified to admit to my closer friends that I had ended up in a psychiatric hospital, and because I thought that I had already worried them too much.
Paula immediately agreed to bring me some clothes from my apartment. I was lucky to have left my apartment unlocked. I had left in such a hurry that I thought (wrongly) that I would be back there soon anyway.
She asked if it would be alright for her to come to the hospital with a mutual friend, Glenda. I was hesitant to let others know my secret, but the same time I knew that I was desperate for help. I agreed, and she promised that they would visit the following day.
I went back to my room, embarrassed and depressed.
August 10, 2005
Fortunately, I had a calling card.
It was the kind that automatically billed all charges to a credit card. I had always used it irresponsibly, never keeping track of the charges or even finding out the actual rates. It was a gift from my mother, and all charges went to her credit card.
For the past few months, I had avoided using the card altogether. I had been afraid to use it and wanted to make up for my irresponsible habit.
Now I felt like it was enough of an emergency to use the calling card.
I had memorized all the necessary numbers, so I didn’t need the plastic card itself, which was now out of reach. For once in my life I was grateful for having an unusually clear memory.
After dinner, we had a short break before group therapy. Charlie went to the main patient lounge, and Louisa followed him without being asked. I retreated to my room to close my eyes and relax.
Realizing theat I had no idea how long my stay at the hospital would last, I went out to see if I could call someone to bring me clothes from home.
I went up to the nurses’ office and asked if I could use the phone. The man at the front desk said that I could use the patient phone in the hallway anytime, but that I would have to call collect or use a calling card.
He then introduced himself as Jack and said that he was one of the nurses who worked mostly during the evening shifts. He reached out to shake hands.
August 9, 2005
We ate together, though my mind was lost in thought throughout the meal. It was for the better, I thought, since Louisa seemed intent on capturing Charlie’s complete attention.
Charlie would ask me a question every now and then, and I would answer, and then the conversation would return to Louisa again for awhile, giving me some time to myself.
Neither Louisa nor Charlie asked me why I was in the hospital. It was a relief but also felt awkward. For those moments, the fact that we were all hospitalized together was irrelevant. We could have easily been dining together in a restaurant.
Except that we might not have known each other.
Louisa jumped up. “Let’s go and get some food,” she said, as she took Charlie’s arm.
Charlie shook her off his arm, and the three of us followed the rest of the patients. They had already begun to form a line leading to the table with all the food. It was buffet-style.
I have hardly any memory of the food that was served during my stay at the hospital. I wish I could offer descriptions of it, but I cannot. I tend to forget about negative experiences, so that’s probably why.
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