K, going back now to the E.R. where I had to falsely admit I was suicidal with a plan in order to be seen in the psychiatric ward at Southern California Hospital At Culver City, after a severe episode of disassociation (Google it again if you forgot what dat means).
I admitted myself at 9am on that Monday morning, my dog was at a kennel, my “heads up, I’m sick” email was sent to my bosses at FOX Studios. Phew, now I could get some help.
After the first 30 mins of intake, I was then left alone on an E.R. bed from 9:30am – 3:30pm. Six hours alone. For someone who was “suicidal with a plan”, I don’t have to be a doctor or a mental health professional to gather that this was pretty shitty. They had already taken my phone away, so I couldn’t even call my therapist or my parents or a friend. I walked out into the main E.R. area in my sexy green hospital gown 2 or 3 times, asking for a nurse, just making sure they didn’t forget about me. I felt completely invisible. Truly. No one acknowledged my existence. Honest to God, for a moment I thought I actually died while I was in there and was now some invisible angel walking about this leftover planet. That was the level of non-existence that I felt. I think at around noon, after being left alone for almost 3 hours, I bugged a nurse for my phone. It didn’t come quickly or easily, I gave it some time, and then asked a 2nd then 3rd time and was finally given my phone.
I called my therapist, realizing I probably made a mistake in coming here, and told her I didn’t feel safe, and I felt very alone and that I wasn’t sure how she could get ahold of me because they will take my phone away when I am sent upstairs to the psych ward.
I called my mom. As someone who has actually “gone crazy” before, it is a good feeling to call someone and talk and to just keep asking “Do I sound lucid? I sound lucid, right?” My mom was a good one for that. She said I sounded lucid, I told her goodbye. I put on my favorite podcast Alison Rosen Is Your New Best Friend to keep me company as I tried to finally get some sleep, which I never did gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhkhkjhgfkhh… I just wanted to sleep. At 3:30pm, after 6 hours in the E.R. alone (good thing I asked and asked and asked for my phone, or I would have had nothing to help me cope), I was wheeled in a wheelchair up to the psych unit with a nurse and a security guard. I made a joke to the nurse that the aesthetics up here were GRIM, and my god were they grim. Think of the most stereotypically grim psych ward you can imagine, the saddest tones of beige and dirty white walls… a hallway lined with abandoned beds. Yikes. I did like this nurse, her name was Emily, and I told her I couldn’t believe what they had to put up with everyday. (The part I skipped past was about an hour where I was kept in the wheelchair in the main E.R. area. I heard people wretching, saw a homeless woman in a comatose state with her bags n belongings in her lap, by sight alone I couldn’t tell if she was dead or still alive. I saw all these nurses unphased, focused, tending to all of this mess of humanity that fell into their laps this morning. Of course, my being left alone for 6 hours was not in my best interest, but holy fuck. I had to muster a sense of appreciation for these men and women who were there, even though I felt like a neglected invisible animal a mere 5 minutes earlier…. but I could see that they were committed and focused on servicing this community, Every. Single. Day.) When I told the nurse thanks for doing her work, she said “Even on the worst days, we love to do it.” I remembered that. There are good ones, who just want to help.
When I arrived at the “intake” for the psych ward, they ask you a buncha questions and take inventory of your stuff…again (Even though my nice dude Felix already checked for any contraband downstairs in the E.R., but whatever). The intake occurs in the main hallway of the facility, right next to the nurses station. The security guards, nurses, and patients can walk right by, could pat you on the head if they wanted. I wouldn’t have hated a pat on the head in that moment, tbh. Bottom line though, you’re wide out in the open, no privacy.
The intake nurse started taking my stuff out of my backpack, my clothes and my underwear, and put them in my lap. My black Hanes, my plaid Hanes, my navy blue-striped Me Undies (because I’m loyal to my fave podcast sponsors…[inside podcast fan joke, haha]). In my green hospital gown, I had a heap of my unmentionables on my lap, she asked me questions that I could tell she wasn’t really listening to the answers to, she was just checking some boxes. She reached over and pulled down the left shoulder of my nightgown and put her finger under my sports bra. “And one sports bra”, she said. Itemizing my belongings. I told her she might not want to do that…just tugging at me and itemizing me like I was hers. She reacted, but it wasn’t an apology. More like an “Oh ya…”
My pants were on the floor, and I started to put them back on. She told me I might as well keep my pants off because I would be taking a shower. I put my fucking pants back on.
In these psych wards, they hang posters that list MENTAL HEALTH PATIENTS RIGHTS. I read it as I waited for them to get my room ready. I’ll cherry pick a few for you, but it reads:
YOU HAVE THE RIGHT:
- To dignity, privacy, and humane care
- To be free from harm including unnecessary or excessive physical
restraint, medication, isolation, abuse and neglect - To prompt medical care and treatment
- To have reasonable access to telephones—both to make and to receive confidential calls or have such calls made for you
I read these while I was waiting for my room, and said aloud “This is a joke.” The security guard behind me gave me an “Mmmm hmmm”. He and I knew were on the same page in that moment, a sad, ironic, but welcomed sense of camaraderie between him and I.
That’s enough for tonight.
Meghan E. Parkansky 
💕
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