The trouble truly began about two weeks ago when, after a six-month interlude of perfect mental health (beautiful!), I began to feel depressed again. Much like before: episodes of pitch blackness, suicidal, for maybe an hour or two, then suddenly gone and intervals of calm. Rapidly these instances began increasing until I was getting them every day, sometimes twice a day. I was mindful of my mental health and wished to feel well again, so I went to see my family doctor, Dr. Easley. He's a decent man, a good doctor and knows me well. I told him what was going on and requested 50 mg of Zoloft, which I'd had before and which had worked well. Dr. Easley was quite concerned. He mentioned the possibility of this depression developing into bipolar disorder (thinking of the sudden mood swings from light to black to light again) and said if I got any worse, I had better seek help immediately. I promised him and took the Zoloft.

Almost immediately my sleeping got all out of whack. I started waking up after three hours, unable to sleep again, then being very tired at work, coming home, crashing, then sleeping for only three hours... After a few days of this, I called Dr. Easley's office and requested a sleeping pill. He prescribed two weeks' worth of Ambien and suggested I take the Zoloft earlier in the day. What I was concerned about, but did not say to him, was that in a case of severe depression, waking up too early is a sign of imminent breakdown and suicide. But I thought this sleep problem might just as easily be a side effect of the Zoloft, and in any case I had been feeling more cheerful and hoped the medication would do its work.

I took the Ambien but it did no good. Even when I took it at much larger doses than the label said (three or four pills when it said to take one), I still kept waking up. Other than a bit of nausea and shakiness in the first day, I had no other side effects.

On Sunday, July 6, I went to visit my mother and father at their lake house on the island, accessible only by boat. I had a perfectly normal morning, preparing for the visit, wrapping the book I'd got my mother for her July 15 birthday. But on the hour-long drive to the lake, about halfway through, I burst into tears. I felt as if I'd fallen into the deepest, darkest pit you could conceive of. I could not stop crying. When I met my parents at the dock, I was sobbing and said I didn't want to live anymore. Mom said, "I think you'd better spend the night with us." They took me to their house and I tried to stop crying. Mom had some pills she takes for her headaches, capsules containing a number of drugs including a mood elevator. She gave me two of them, and also something else that dissolved on my tongue. Nothing did any good.

Mom said she would call Dr. Easley in the morning. She and Dad took me out on the boat for a cruise. It was a beautiful day, hot, the sun shining hard. I was wearing a short, skimpy dress and got sunburned. They pointed out the flora and fauna. I was unmoved. I had half a mind to dive off the boat and try to drown myself, but I resisted the impulse. After we returned to the house, they put in a funny movie, The Gods Must Be Crazy. It is very funny; I've seen it a few times before. But I couldn't even smile at it this time. I was very tired from a sleep-deprived week. I had some Nyquil in my purse. At evening I took two capsules. I did not take my Zoloft. I fell asleep and slept through the night.

The next morning, as soon as the doctor's office was open, Mom called and demanded an appointment for that very day. They said 3:20 p.m. I felt no better than I had yesterday and was very suicidal. I asked her, "You will take care of my rats, won't you?" She told me not to be ridiculous. She called her job and said she couldn't come in. I felt guilty because at her job, every absence counts against you in the performance review. Mid-morning I asked if we could go out, maybe shopping, just to take my mind off of things. I was extremely agitated. I couldn't even concentrate on the books I'd brought with me. Mom took me on the boat to shore and drove me to Bellefontaine, where she had heard tell of a shopping center. There was one there. We wandered through stores. I couldn't interest myself in much. At one point I lost her for a few minutes and panicked. I just leaned against a counter, dizzy, gasping for breath. I felt a godawful tightness in my chest.

I was worried that Dr. Easley would send me to the hospital; it seemed a virtual certainty. At this point I was willing to try anything to relieve my pain. I have a box cutter which I use at my job and keep in my purse. I removed the blade when I was alone for a few minutes and hid it under the insole of my shoe. I thought: if I have to go to the hospital, they might search my clothes but there's a good chance they would miss this, and if things get too bad I can end it. Around the same time--I'm not sure if it was before, or after--I called my friend John and we talked some. I was very upset and told him how bad I felt and how I had to see the doctor and might end up in the hospital. We also spoke of other things. At times our conversation seemed almost normal to me, but John was very concerned for me.

Mom took me to the doctor and went in with me. Dr. Easley asked me what the matter was and at first I was unable to tell him, at a loss for words. Mom told him what she had seen of my behavior and then I jumped in. I was very agitated, talking fast, unable to stay on one topic for more than a sentence or two. Dr. Easley was very good to me. He spoke to me respectfully. He suggested I go to the hospital. He mentioned St. Rita's, and a place over in Decatur. St. Rita's was closer and therefore more convenient. I agreed to go. I said I had to try everything before I gave up. He said he would call ahead to let them know I was coming, just to go to ER and explain myself. A nurse gave me a shot before I left, of a tranquilizer to calm me down. It helped a little.

Mom took me to our house in Venedocia before we went to St. Rita's. I packed a suitcase of clothes. I had a self-preserving thought and left my brown Doc Martens, with the blade inside. I changed into a pair of gray shoes like slippers, that have no laces, thinking at the hospital they would take my laces anyway. I posted a notice on my website saying I was sick and would be unable to update for several days, perhaps longer. Then Mom and I left. On the ride there I lapsed into a kind of stupor, hardly speaking, and when I did speak it was in a barely audible tone of voice.

Things went badly wrong when we arrived at St. Rita's ER.

It turns out the hospital has a mental health crisis center attached, and we should have gone there. We didn't know any better and neither did Dr. Easley. He wasn't to blame for what happened, but the ER staff should have known better. Mom did the talking for me, explaining that I was here for a psych admission and Dr. Easley had called ahead. They triaged me. Stuck me in a room, made me remove my clothes and put on a hospital gown, and began treating me like any other person, taking blood pressure, etc. Dr. Easley had done all that at his office. It was completely unnecessary. Eventually the ER doctor came in. Mom was still talking for me. I was able to answer questions, but not very fully, and mostly I just lay on my back staring at the ceiling. I told him I wanted to die. He left and a few minutes later a nurse came in and said the ER doctor had involuntarily committed me and there were police outside the door to escort me to the psych ward.

That was completely unnecessary. I was ready and willing to go to the psych ward and had told them as such. It was absolutely humiliating to have the cops there, guarding the door, as if I was a criminal. The humiliation had only just begun.

All in all it took four hours to get me admitted. They did my vitals as I said, and many people asked me questions, including a social worker from the crisis center. I told them about the blade I had left behind. A volunteer came in at some point, and Mom demanded they feed me, pointing out that it was past eight p.m. and I hadn't eaten since lunch. The volunteer didn't know the nature of my illness. I told her I was dying. It felt like I was. I suppose she thought I had cancer or something. She seemed very sad to hear me say that.

Mom was very upset at the way I was treated, and rightly so. She pointed out, at some time during this process, that I had been there for hours and nobody had done anything for me, that I was hurting badly and needed proper treatment.

Finally Mom, a nurse, the police and me went up to the psych ward. They had said downstairs that Mom could take me to my room, but at the door to the unit they refused to let her in. She exploded then, yelling at the nurse. I can't stand her yelling, even when it's for me instead of at me. I curled up in a ball on the floor and started crying. The nurse suggested perhaps I just needed a good night's sleep, which prompted another outburst from my mother. They gave her my purse and told her to go away. They let me inside.

Once inside, they took away my suitcase and the bag of library books I'd brought with me. They gave me scrubs to change into. I became very upset that my possessions were taken, especially the books. The clothes was not such a surprise, but how could I hurt myself with books? I begged for my books. Another nurse did an assessment, asking many of the same questions I'd heard before. I was holding onto myself, rocking back and forth. I barely remember what I said to her. Then the doctor asked me more questions. His name is Dr. Bruno. I think he might be from Africa or somewhere--he's black anyway, and has a foreign accent. I begged for my clothes. "I'm a human being," I reminded him, thinking I was being treated as an animal.

"But human beings sometimes kill themselves," he answered.

I begged for my books. I told him how much reading meant to me and emphasized that it helped me feel better, since I could distract myself in a book and not think black thoughts. He said I could have one book at a time. I thought this was silly. It seemed to me that he was just trying to control me by taking away what meant the most to me. He was very interested in my being asexual and was clearly quite ignorant about it, which is common. He didn't seem to get the difference between asexuality and celibacy. I suggested he look on the Internet. When we were done he said he would speak with me tomorrow. I told the nurse I wanted a book. She said she would have to look at them, to see if they were appropriate, which upset me some more. She came out with one, but I asked for another, one I had been reading before my admission. She gave me that one.

They took me to my room. I had to share it with another woman, but she left the morning after I arrived and I barely saw her. I felt very angry and humiliated by what had happened to me and began plotting how to escape and/or end my life, but escape seemed very impractical and the few methods of suicide I could think of in this place were both gruesome and unlikely to succeed. I was very tired. I finally fell asleep crying. It was very late.

They woke me the next morning and said the doctor wanted to see me. I didn't have time to take a shower or change into a fresh set of scrubs or anything. I had nothing to fix my hair with. I didn't like this, because I wanted to look presentable and put my best foot forward. I went in to see Dr. Bruno. He said he was putting me on Lexapro and asked if I'd had more suicidal thoughts. I said, "I should not have come here. This was a mistake. Please let me go home so I can die." Of course he refused. I asked again for my clothes and the rest of my books. No clothes, still only one book. I only spent about ten minutes with him. I was still very agitated. He said he would see me in the next morning.

They gave me my Lexapro around breakfast time, and also another tranquilizer, more of the same Dr. Easley had given me. I felt very bad and just wanted to die. I regretted leaving my blade behind and wished I had put it in my sock--they had let me keep my socks. They had a Goal Group in the morning where you wrote down your goal for the day. I said my goal was to stay alive. They gave me a Journey Book which was full of advice on things like medications, the symptoms of mental illness, and coping skills. They gave me a short stubby pencil to write with. I wrote a few lines on the back cover of what had happened to me, and what I was thinking. I wanted to ask for a proper blank notebook to record my thoughts but I didn't think I could take another "no." Throughout the day I kept adding bits.

This is what I wrote:


As a writer I am obliged to record this for posterity. This has been one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. I should not have come. They took like 5 hours to admit me. They took my clothes AND books! I got one book, socks, undergarments and toiletries for my begging efforts. I feel like an animal or worse, a child. I am dying. I plot how to escape from here and/or end this useless life, but they are smart too.

I will take lesson from Korczak, Levi, Frankl etc. [All of them victims of the Holocaust. Janusz Korczak died at Treblinka, leaving behind a diary. Primo Levi and Victor Frankl survived to write about their experiences.]

Why am I alive?

Later. I stole a sharper pencil. Breakfast--food not too bad. I feel much better. I don't know if it was the happy pills or talking to the other patients who are an ok bunch. One even knew my dad.

Later. Group therapy. This is pointless. I'm so tired--sleepy. Dying. It is so hard to live and so easy to die.

Later. I missed 2nd meeting. Too sleepy. Spirituality and I am an atheist. Mom and Dad came. Meeting with social worker and much complaints about the way I was brought in. Mood swings discussed--he will tell Dr. Bruno.

Later. Agitation. I told the nurse about Korczak and Christian Ross. She gave me another tranquilizer.


I did not keep the journal after the first day.

The tranquilizers, combined with the fact that I'm a night worker and not used to staying up in the day, worked on me. I slept periodically throughout the day. A patient advocate woman came to see me in response to Mom's complaining to various hospital officials about the circumstances of my admission. She paid attention to what I said and wrote down some things. I mentioned not being able to put myself together before I saw the doctor, and feeling humiliated and dehumanized. I was dubious as to what she could actually do for me, though, or do to change policy so what happened to me wouldn't happen to anyone else.

At four p.m. Rodney, the social worker whom my parents and I met with to complain about my admission (he said it was a bad thing and unfortunately happened a lot, which is why the crisis center opened), roused me and asked me to come with him. He took me to his office and we had what might be called a therapy session. I was very sleepy and it was so difficult for me to talk--I'd gotten stuporous again. I was able to convey some of my life to him though. I liked Rodney. He was very honest, which seemed a rarity, and he explained things. He told me he thought my life sucked, that I'd been trying to hard to stay alive that I'd forgot about living. After my meeting with him I went back to my room, slept and could not be awakened for anything.

I have hypoglycemia. Most times it is not a problem, provided I eat regularly. But I barely had any lunch and I missed supper altogether. I woke up at two a.m. with a splitting headache from hunger. I know from experience that if I ignore the headache, I get cranky and stupid, then hysterical. My period had started. I got up and went to the nurse's station and asked the woman there for food and pads. She gave me the pads but refused to give me any food, claiming it was all locked up. I asked for soda pop, thinking I just needed to get some calories into me. She said that was locked up as well.

But this is ridiculous, I thought, this is a hospital, they must have food in other wards if not this one.

"I have hypoglycemia," I said.

"You'll have to wait till breakfast," she said.

She gave me a sleeping pill. Defeated, I went back to bed, my head pounding. The pill made me sleepy but I didn't fall asleep. Having slept all those hours I felt wide awake. I got up again.

"Can I have another book?"

"We're busy right now," she said. "You can have one later. You need to go back to bed."

I went back to bed. My head hurt very much. I felt very black. Wide awake, rebuffed by the nurse, in physical pain and with no new book to distract me from my blackness, I lay thinking of ways to die. The bed had metal parts on its underside, but nothing sharp and nothing I could break off. I tried the overhead light but it was made of a very thick safety type plastic, hard to break. Nothing to hang myself from, nothing to hang myself with. I wished I had my blade. Experimentally, I tied my pillowcase around my neck but was unable to strangle myself. Night passed slowly. They never brought me another book. I don't see what made them so busy they were unable to take three minutes to go to the closet, take out my sack of books and hand me one.

As soon as day shift came on I bounded out of bed, ran to the nurse's station and said, "Ineedsomefoodrightnow." Mary Jane, the nurse in charge, asked me if I wanted another tranquilizer. I explained about the headache (it was worse now), the hypoglycemia and being refused food the previous night. Breakfast wasn't ready yet, but Mary Jane found me some crackers and cheese. I wolfed them down and felt better, but the headache remained--it becomes fixed for a day or more, even after you've eaten, if you don't eat something right away when you feel pain. I took a shower. They had given me a comb for my hair but it was a small pitiful thing and my hair is very thick. I did the best I could. I had asked Mom and Dad to bring my hairbrush when they came to visit me.

I saw Dr. Bruno. He reprimanded me for not going to the afternoon groups. I explained about being tired, night shift, etc. He told me I must go to the groups and maybe then he would think about giving me my books. I told him what had happened the night before with being refused food and he said he would write an order that I be given a snack at night if I needed it. I was very upset about the way that nurse had treated me. He asked if I felt suicidal and I told him none this morning, but last night had been very bad. I asked again for my clothes and he said no. He said he was increasing my Lexapro and he'd see me tomorrow. I didn't feel as if the interview had gone at all well. I had had a lot of things I wanted to say, things about being an adult and not needing to be treated as a child, but when I saw him I clammed up and couldn't say the right things.

I attended the morning groups. Goals, and symptom management. They had given me another tranquilizer with my Lexapro and I felt sleepy from it and very down. I tried to participate, as that seemed to be what everyone wanted. Mary Jane got me another book, without even asking for my old one back. In between meals and groups, I mostly read and slept.

I almost missed supper but they got me up. Mom and Dad came to see me again. I told them about being hungry and being refused food. Mom was furious. She pointed out that if I had had a more serious condition like diabetes, I could have gone into shock and died. She said she was complaining to everyone she could think of. She said she had a meeting with the ER doctor and was trying to set up a meeting with Dr. Bruno, and would make inquiries about the food at night thing. I appreciated her efforts, and Dad's (he had gone to my job to pick up my check and deposited it for me), but it was hard to think good things about anything.

The people from work had sent me a bouquet of flowers. The nurses said I wasn't allowed to have them in my room. I didn't much care, but Mom pitched a fit and they got scared of her and changed their minds. I put the flowers on the windowsill. Some of the nurses admired their beauty. They were pretty, I guess. I'm not much one for frills.

My goal that day was to stay awake and go to all the groups. I did stay awake longer. I missed Current Events but went to all the other groups. Rodney's actually seemed useful to me. The others not as much. I think if you really didn't know what was going on the groups would be educational, but I've read so many books on psychology and psychiatry that I already knew most of it. That evening, Mom called me on the phone. She said she had found out the night nurse lied to me: the food was not locked up, and they could have given me some. She said she was seeing Dr. Bruno in the morning and would talk to him about her concerns and mine, and also try to figure out what I had to do to get out of there. She was very dissatisfied with my situation and so was I, though I no longer thought the place was completely useless. Most of the staff, especially Rodney and Mary Jane, seemed nice. I wasn't too sure about Dr. Bruno. I still did not see the logic behind his withholding my books. I had talked to other patients and they had books.

I felt a little better in the afternoon, but I was asleep when the second shift nurse came to introduce herself to me, and ask how I was. She left under the impression that I felt as bad as before. Later on when I was awake I tracked her down and told her I felt better and the reason I had responded as I had was that I had been sleepy and confused when she came in and asked me questions--indeed I could barely remember what she had asked.

I fell asleep early that night and woke up early, around four. I didn't feel so bad anymore. I lay in the dark thinking, just generally, about life and stuff and what I'd do once I got out. I thought of funny emails my friends had sent me and smiled a little. That morning for the first time I said I didn't need a tranquilizer.

I saw Dr. Bruno later that morning than before, because he was meeting with my mother. She was in the room when I came in. I told Dr. Bruno I felt better and had not had any suicidal thoughts, which was true. I was more open than I had been before, something he commented on. I was still not looking at him much when I spoke to him. He asked Mom, Did I always do that? She said yes, mostly, especially with people I didn't know well, and that I wasn't a very social person. Dr. Bruno said I could have my clothes back and maybe tomorrow he'd think about letting me go. He said I could visit with my mother awhile. When I was alone with her I asked her what had been accomplished. She said that to be released, I had to be no longer suicidal. She said Dr. Bruno didn't want me to have a lot of books because he thought I might just sit in my room and read and miss the groups. (If he had only explained that to me, I could have persuaded him otherwise, or at least understood his reasoning, but no...)

It felt great to have my clothes again. I felt more like a human being. Mary Jane the nurse caught me smiling. She said she couldn't believe the difference between me now, and me on the day I was admitted, and the day after.

I went to all the groups. Some of them were kind of silly, but some of them were helpful. In between times I lay in my bed and read, or simply rested, sleeping sometimes, awake and inactive other times, just thinking. I felt much better than I had before, and was hopeful I would be released.

Another patient, David, interested me. David had been there for only a day or two. He was often extremely obnoxious, interrupting our groups and saying things like "I'm tired of living" and "I'm going to blow my fucking head off." At breakfast I tried to give him some advice.

"They'll never let you out if you keep talking that way," I said.

"I've got rights," he said. "They can't keep me here forever."

"They can," I said, "if you keep talking like that."

He calmed down a bit and went to groups and was not disruptive. At Goal Group he said he wanted his anti-anxiety medication and had been taking it for years and did just wonderfully on it, but they wouldn't let him have it here. "You can't have done so wonderfully, if you're in here," I said.

He told me his story as to how he got committed. He had gone to Safeway to get a money order and a cop was there and saw him swaying, assumed he was drunk, and somehow, through no fault of his own, he ended up in the loony bin.

"There's more to the story than that," said Mary Jane, who was overseeing our group. "Didn't you say something to the cop? Didn't you threaten to kill yourself?"

"I might have," David said.

To all of us she said, "That's something you should know. If you threaten to commit suicide in front of a cop, you WILL end up here."

David was fairly calm during some of the groups, and told us he was a champion skydiver with records. He told me I seemed like a nice person. But then he went absolutely out of control again. He'd been doing that a lot. The night he arrived they had to give him Thorazine to knock him flat, because he was raving and shouting. I think he'll be on the ward for awhile.

I woke up early again the next morning, around five. The black nurse who had refused to give me food, I guess they must have given her a talking-to because she came in, very solicitous, asking if I felt well and was my sugar okay and did I need anything. I said I felt okay. Actually, I still had a headache from before, but I knew nothing would help that but time and regular meals.

When I saw Dr. Bruno that morning, I smiled at him and said, "I look better in proper clothes, don't I?" He smiled back and agreed with me. I told him I felt much better, like my old self, which was true. I told him I was bored in the hospital with so little to do. He asked if I would do follow-up, see him at his office and stay on my medication. I said I would and added, "I would do just about anything to get out of here."

"It's not what you do," he said, "you must feel better." I assured him I did, no suicidal thoughts anymore. He asked about the second shift nurse's report that I felt awful. I explained how I had been too sleepy to articulate myself and had made the wrong impression, and how I'd corrected myself to her later. He asked about the blade in my shoe, which I'd told him about. I explained it was a tool from work. He told me to tell my mother to take it. I told him I felt this was ridiculous. He said, Nevertheless. I said I knew he was just trying to do his job, but... He said, "Yes, I am trying to do my job. Let me do my job. Please don't argue with me about this." So I said okay. And he said he was discharging me and my parents could pick me up and take me home.

It was hard to wait. I was very happy and excited to be going home. I went to the morning groups though it seemed irrelevant. Mom and Dad wanted me to spend the next few days on the island with them, because they were nervous and wanted to watch me. I didn't really want to but I felt so grateful for their support (Dad's even paying my hospital bill, which is good, because it will be large) that I agreed. The staff had me sign papers for my discharge. David was out of control still and I heard the charge nurse arguing with him, accusing him of drug seeking behavior.

Mom picked me up at noon. They gave me back all my things and I put on my shoes (shoes are not allowed in the ward, so much for my under-the-insole blade idea) and I walked out and was free. We picked up my prescriptions at the pharmacy on the ground floor, and she took me to the island. I called my sister and one of my brothers to tell them what had happened. I hadn't wanted them to know, but through a mistake they'd found out I was in the hospital, and Mom and Dad didn't tell them why, and I thought their imaginations would concoct something bad. They were more sympathetic than I would have thought.

I see Dr. Bruno on August 7. I can't get refills for my medicine unless I see him.

I don't think the hospital experience was completely useless. Mainly they kept me from hurting myself when I really wanted to. But it could have been much better. I filled out a survey when I left and I wrote in that they should explain things to people and not be so arbitrary about it (like with my books). I told the nurse that too.

I am at my parents' island house now, feeling good and glad to be alive.