2. Inpatient Bound

The second chapter of 'Maura and Me' which tells the story of admitting myself to the psych ward and the complexities held within that decision.

Hello Beloved Human,

The sun is shining this morning in my corner of the world and I hope its warmth finds you too.

Before sharing this next chapter, I want to remind you all of a few very important truths.

1. I am currently absolutely okay. Yes, I might have challenges — like we all do — and in the past as these essays showcase, I was not okay. But today, in the now, I am safe, free and generally quite well so please don’t worry on my behalf.

2. I am here as a mental illness advocate and solidarity storyteller determined to normalize serious mental illness and the power of discomfort. What I share here, I do for the friends I lost, for the human being on this earth who dies on average every 11 minutes from mental illness, and for the humans who live every day fighting these invisible hells without the undeniable blessings and privilege I experience daily: a loving family, two incredible dogs, a roof over my head, the whiteness of my skin, income, wonderful friends, a job that lets me talk this honestly without firing me and this community cheering me on. 

3. Unabashedly sharing here is a true privilege. To be seen in one's truth and accepted safely for it is the highest honor one can ever know. If you can, please hold onto that truth as you read these writings. And as you bear witness — if you choose to — all I ask is that instead of feeling pity or pain on my behalf, you learn and you channel that understanding into empathy towards all of those who do not have the blessings I live with daily.

4. I am so grateful you are here!
   
   Now, onto the next chapter…

2. Inpatient Bound

The bright lights of the emergency room glimmered on the snow. It was quiet, calm, unusually so. Then again, it was 3:00 a.m. But all that mattered was I made it. Alive. All I had to do was go in.

But then I have to pick up a pen to sign the paperwork.

But then I have to go to a room I can’t clean.

But then they’ll take my clothes and my gloves and force me into a gown that a nurse touched with her own bare hands.

My head raced with all the reasons that admitting myself into the psych ward would contaminate my very existence.

Sure, I had lost almost complete control. But in there, in the ward, I had next to none. The doctors were overlords. Whatever they said, went. And if I didn’t play by the rules, by their rules, they’d send me to Concord, the state hospital where I’d actually have no ownership of myself until a lawyer got me out.

I had practically talked myself out of going in but then, there she was — the non-me me. Standing directly in front of the entrance, still wearing those rolled sweatpants and a bob.  She playfully spun a gun in her right hand and stared — with unrelenting intensity before beginning to walk towards me. 

She’s still wearing those sweatpants? How disgusting.

Her pace quickened and in fear — not of the gun — but of the filthy sweatpants, I jumped out of the truck. The decision was made. I was going in. I was admitting myself. Grabbing my survival tupperware, I bee-lined it inside, not brave enough to look back.

I was met with aggressive fluorescent lights and an empty waiting room so it was a quick admit. The process wasn’t usually like that. Ordinarily, I'd wait hours to be seen, but that night the Emergency Department was a ghost town. So, into processing I went — telling my story and symptom description to the receptionist, then the nurse, then another nurse. Then, it was time – I was ushered into the metal room where I was asked to strip and adorn a gown. They took my survival Tupperware and a different nurse kept telling me I was finally safe. She reiterated it countless times — in this room you can’t hurt yourself. We’ve made it safe, just for you — just for people like you.

But that was bullshit. It was the lie they had to keep telling themselves as they slapped on a patient ID hospital bracelet over my safety gloves. It was the lie they had to keep believing as they dehumanized me into a specimen, just like a beagle test subject at a pharmacology lab. The lie, of course, worked for them — it had to — but it couldn’t work for me or anyone like me. 

The problem wasn’t the place. The problem wasn’t the space. It was my mind. My mind was killing me and locking me in a metal room without an object to bludgeon myself with didn’t take my mind out of the equation. Nothing could take my mind out of the equation and the more they contained me within it, the more the madness ate me alive.

Minutes turned to hours and the Russian roulette of repeating my story to the hierarchy of the emergency department team began. Over and over I repeated: 

I am not safe. The non-me me keeps finding me. It's out to get me and I just keep losing time. I don’t know how it happens or exactly why but time is just gone. Time is just gone and the non-me me always finds me. And meanwhile, everything is dirty. Everything is dirty so don’t you dare fucking touch me with that blood pressure cuff.

After six rounds of storytelling and countless hours spent standing, terrified to touch anything in the metal room, a nurse came in with a Dixie cup full of pills and the news that I would be admitted to Psych East as soon as I took all these medications. I tried to ask what they were — what they’d do to me and after raising my voice to the point of a scream, the threat — the one that always got its way arrived.

“If you don’t cooperate and take these medications Katharine Speer, we will have to send you to Concord, to the involuntary unit.”

Her harsh words transformed into saccharine cooing —

“And you don’t want that sweetie, right?”

Fuck.

She was right. I might be losing time. I might be chased by my own imaginary, gun-brandishing demented self. I might live in a world so filthy and contaminated, I would never actually be safe again. But at least that world was my world, to an extent. At least in that world, I had my safety tupperware and my truck parked in the ward’s parking lot to flee in at a moment's notice. At least I had some tiny semblance of choice and I was hell-bent to keep it that way.

So, clutching the Dixie cup in my glove-laden hands, I downed the pills. Haldol, Zyprexa, Clonapin — a cocktail of antipsychotics and benzos that would knock me out for the next three days. And just like that, within mere minutes, I was gone. 

To continue reading, you can follow the link below:

3. My TV Family and The Human they Taught me to Become