At twenty-three, I experienced life in a psychiatric hospital. Part of me was angry, part of me was sad, but most of me was tired. I was as apathetic as an old cat and moving as slow as a sloth. I just didn’t care about putting any effort into living life, and after disclosing an attempt at hanging to my parents, they got me into the hospital right away.

We arrived early in the morning at a hospital in west Georgia. I was wearing a delightful ensemble of sweatpants and a sweatshirt; also known as depression couture. The admissions process is pretty straightforward. Everyone meets with an admitting psychiatrist. Minor’s parents sit in on that meeting and can provide additional information. As an adult, my parents had to sit in the waiting room while I spoke with the doctor. I could have lied, said I wasn’t suicidal or that I didn’t try to hang myself. Had I done that, I would have been wished a nice day. Due to my apathy and low energy levels, I didn’t have the moxie to try lying.

The doctor made the correct decision to admit me, and then my parents waited anxiously to see if my insurance was going to cover the stay. Fortunately, we got good news from the insurance company. The next step was saying goodbye to my family, giving them my phone (definitely not permitted). Then I was directed down to the actual ward where I was met by the morning nursing staff. They gave me a brief tour of the facility:

• Lounge area - TV, books, comfy chairs. Where most patients hung out between groups.

• Group rooms - Where patients attended different classes.

• Seclusion room - Not as scary as movies make it out to be. Just a room with a mattress on the floor.

• Nurses station - Set in the center of the ward, this was where we met with nurses and received our daily medications.

Before showing me to my room, it was time to search my things and my person. This was not an invasive search. I did not have to squat and cough. I stood in a room while a male nurse went through the few belongings I had brought with me. Then he made me take off my shoes and he removed the shoelaces (lest I attempt to hang myself). Then I was asked to strip down to my briefs. My belt was taken away from me (same reason as the shoelaces), and he searched my other clothes. Before getting dressed again, the last thing to do was run my fingers along the lining of my briefs. Honestly, not that bad, and only slightly less invasive than a TSA screening.

Then I was shown to my room. From way too many books and movies, I thought my room would look like the image on top. Barren, bars on the windows, and some nasty bed with sheets that had never been washed.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the only preconception of mine that was true were the bars across the windows. The beds were clean, the sheets freshly laundered, and even the bathroom was clean. One of my living requirements is being in a clean space, so it was gratifying to see that I wasn’t going to be living in mandatory squalor.

That said, I did have a roommate, which did not inspire happy feelings. Not the case at all hospitals, but generally two patients are roomed together at a time. If you’re really lucky, you enter the hospital just as two roommates are leaving, and you have your own space for a while.

I sat on the bed, put the books that I brought on a small counter, and put away my approved clothing in the dresser. My world had been reduced from being able to drive anywhere I wanted, to a room with a door I couldn’t lock. My rented possessions consisted of a bed, a counter, and a dresser. All I had to wear was what I brought with me.

Exhausted from all the human interaction I had, I decided to check out the bathroom — it was strange.

First, there was no door to the bathroom. There was a small curtain attached to breakaway fasteners on some track in the ceiling. It was impossible to harm yourself with that curtain, and it allowed staff easy access into the bathroom should a patient have some manic episode or psychotic break. The rest of the bathroom needs some explaining. Look at the last image, I’ve numbered each area to make what you’ll read more digestible:

1. No shower curtain. Just a semi-padded divider velcroed to the wall.

2. A mirror made of some reflective metal.

3. Balance supporters by the toilet did not have any space between the bar and the wall.

All designed to prevent someone in crisis from having any opportunity to harm themselves while away from the eyes of staff.

The entire ward, from what you’re not allowed to have, to the locked doors, and even the rooms themselves are all designed to reduce the opportunity for impulsive self-harm behavior. It also provides an extremely neutral environment. The walls are painted a pleasant taupe, and the only entertainment permitted on the TV is sports, cartoons, and movies with little to no violence.

Really, it’s not that bad. The worst part is the perspective one has while on the ward. For me, not being permitted to leave until I had proved my stability was extremely grating.

The objective of this post, and a few future posts in this series, is to shed light on what is a scary proposition for most people and their families. Many battle with whether a hospital is the right level of care for themselves or their child. I say this firmly:

If you are asking yourself that question — go to the hospital.

Yes, it is tough for life to go on without you, and you or your child needs help. As the old adage goes: “better safe than sorry”. It is okay to go to the hospital. According to Mental Health First Aid: “In the United States, only 41 percent of the people who had a mental disorder in the past year received professional health care or other services.” Imagine if 41 percent of people with an autoimmune disease didn’t receive treatment — we’d have a lot of unnecessarily dead people. Still, the stigma is strong, which is why I’m ending this post with an infographic on warning signs from the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). If you notice these in yourself, a close friend, or a loved one, please consider speaking to them about treatment options.