I was admitted here Tuesday after spending a night at the ER Monday night. I will explain the whole story when I get an opportunity to copy over the papers I wrote while in the hospital here. I have many papers to copy over, including many of the McLean papers and the papers from my last hospitalization.
Unlike the night staff at McLean, who were like police, the night staff here are very kind. I am mentioning this because of the marked difference. The night staff at McLean deprived me of my human rights, and it got to the point that I had to report them for not allowing me water when I was thirsty. Here, they even allow me to take a shower before 6am. They let me get tea before 6am as well, when I feel that I need caffeine (I store “real” teabags in my room for such occasions).
They are secretly monitoring my food. I found this out today, when I saw them spot my tray on the cart. I have written a sign that I am going to place on my plate, which will be covered by a cover. They will discover the sign when they lift the cover upon “inspecting” my tray to see how much I have eaten. I plan to place the sign on my tray tonight. The sign reads, “___ STAFF YOU’VE BEEN MONITORING MY FOOD YOU MOTHERFUCKERS.” So this will be a big surprise to them.
The hospitalization has been no help to me. I am no better than when I came in. This is a “group” program and they insist of putting me in the “low functioning” groups where there are no meaningful discussions. This is fine with me, sort of, because most of the time I am unable to go to groups at all because of It anyway. There are no individual check-ins. Most of the staff do not know what It is, and they don’t care, anyway. Many of the staff think that I am faking It or that I turn It on and off at convenient times at will. There is no chance to discuss suicidality, my sadness and grief, or It with anyone except one nurse who goes out of her way to speak with me individually. There is no opportunity to talk about It or any or my problems in groups. They do not give me any useful copeing skills because the groups are so basic. The groups are at a 5th grade level. Most of the time, I just sit in my room and–yes–write.
My writing is a lifesaver for me. When It strikes, writing is all I can do. The staff are no help for the most part. I have tried telling them that I have had trouble with It, and they say, “What is the problem?” and I say, “I am having trouble in my head.” And they say, “Oh, a headache, right?” They are so clueless. One person I was working with said, “This is my first time working with her. I don’t know what her problem is,” and literally turned his back on me.
The best thing is that my T is coming! Truly, she is going out of her way to come here. She is meeting with me and the social worker–tomorrow. I am really, really, really looking forward to this meeting. I hope that the meeting is helpful. Actually, I know that it will be more than helpful. It will be the thing that makes or breaks this hospitalization. I should tell them this.
My biggest fear is that I will end up in the state hospital. This almost happened to me in 1997. I cam e very, very close to ending up in Westboro State Hospital. I avoided it by a hair. In fact, I was in this very same hospital when the threat was presented to me. I’m not sure how long I spent here. Maybe insurance would only keep me here a week or two before they’d send me away to the dreaded Westboro. For those of you unfamiliar with the State Hospital systems in most states, the general status quo is that they are very bad. Patients can get beat up by staff. Patients commit suicide in the wards. Patients stay in the wards for years, not seeing daylight. They have gang showers. When I was in the state hospital in 1986 (see my chapter, “Pro Re Nata”–Metropolitan State Hospital in Waltham, Ma) a worker poured an entire bottle of shampoo over my head. They literally watched me shower. You wouldn’t believe how bad the food was. At any rate, I fear the state hospital right now. I feared it then and I came very, very close.
Today the doctor told me to think up some sort of alternative to hospitalization. Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Where can I go? What am I supposed to suggest? I guess I’ll just go home. I guess that’s what I’ll suggest. If they think I’m not safe to go home, if they think that I am too suicidal, then they should transfer me to a hospital that is more suited to me, where I can really get the “treatment” I need, where I can talk about my problems and not get railroaded into “groups” that will not help me. Period.
I will continue to write. I will continue to be vigilant. I will continue to be honest. But I am at the breaking point. I have getting more and more hopeless. I am getting more and more irritated by this place. I wishing that they would send me home, and let me resume everything, and let me live or die, just let whatever happens, happen.