Consequences

I ended up staying in the psychiatric unit for six days, most of that time against my will. Even thinking about it sends a rush of anger and fear through me like a deadly firestorm.

Though I had been traumatized by a fire, not one professional in the unit ever troubled to treat me for the physical or emotional consequences. Instead, they viewed me as a patient needing help for mania, depression, psychoses and alcoholism. I was put in lock-down, unable to venture out of the facility without permission. I found myself to be living with twenty other patients, many of whom were also there involuntarily, who were suffering from anything from schizophrenia to attempted suicide. Living with them made me feel even more depressed, filling me with worry that perhaps I was without any hope at all.

Having stripped me of my Lexipro anti-depressants, they had substituted these with a medication that the doctors refused to name, though I told them that I would refuse to take the pills without a thorough knowledge of what was going into my body. A nurse, perhaps believing that I was within my rights to know, finally gave me some information: the drug turned out to be an anti-psychotic. One of the possible side affects was suicide. I point-blank refused to take the new drug. But the duty nurses decided not to re-issue me with the Lexipro. Consequently, I began to suffer from withdrawal symptoms. I should explain that when ending treatment for anti-depressants, users should gradually step-down the intake over a period of a month or more. In my case, and as stated, I was not given the opportunity such an opportunity. And due to the quick withdrawal, I began to experience standard side-effects: depression, shaking hands, and a general feeling of unwellness and instability.

At this time I was also seen by the house Psychiatrist. The young man, we'll call him Dr Joe, looked to be no more than 25 years old and probably fresh out of med school. With little real experience, I suspect that he had some sort of rule book that he followed; a question and answer sheet of some kind. He treated me like a child and idiot savant. Our 'sessions' lasted only minutes. He never questioned me about the after affects of the fire. He never asked how I really felt, or what I wanted. Instead, he plowed along his own path, confident, it seems, that our conversations would eventually lead to my 'cure'.

During this stay, I felt increasingly frightened, increasingly angry, increasingly filled with hopelessness and insecurity. At all times I protested my 'innocence' to staff, and demanded firmly to be released. I made certain that I acted with compelling normalcy: I dressed as well as I could, considering that I had few clothes with me; I always presented myself well; I did my best to keep to myself, but made certain that I did not isolate myself from the other patients. I worked hard to keep to the rules of the unit. However, within that tense and confusing environment I found that I could sleep and eat little. I felt constant anxiousness, and a shaking of my hands - and heart - that was even more frightening than the Unit that I had been forced into.

I was finally able to get through to a lawyer. He met and convinced the house Psych that I was being held against my will. He discovered that they could find no real proof of alcoholism, depression, mania, psychoses, or any other psychological problem (which in some ways astounds me, considering that I knew that I had suffered through a breakdown and fire). Finally, and realizing that I was not going to harm myself or others, they agreed to release me. But the damage had already been done.

Over a two week period I had experienced: the initial breakdown at my daughter's wedding; the fire in which I had almost died of smoke inhalation and for which I was not given any treatment; days of sleeplessness and lack of food; the high-end stress of family separation and isolation; and now the humiliation and confusion of being detained in a Psychiatric Unit without my consent.

I was released at 11:30 PM a few days following my lawyer's intervention. I was released without proper medication (that is, renewal of my anti-depressants). I was released still suffering from the trauma of the fire simply because no one had ever bothered to ask me about it.

I went out into the world a half-man. On the outside I was confident and smiling. On the inside, I was terrified. The pressure cooker of my emotional being had suffered complete and absolute breakdown. It would get worse over the coming months and even now I continue to suffer from symptoms due to the lack of treatment during those early, important, days.

I look back at this entire period of my life with horror. I am convinced that following the wedding or following the fire, if I had been given a little Tender Loving Care; if someone, anyone, had offered real help and hope; if I had been given an opportunity to rest and recover in a place of safety, my life today would be very different from what it is today. I suspect that the nightmare that I had faced then would have ended. Instead, the nightmare continues, even to this day.