Dazed and Confused

In 1987 the mental health floor of a dilapidated hospital was exactly what you would expect. The 5^th floor of Puget Sound Hospital was gray, neglected, probably clean enough to pass an inspection but also maybe not and…basically forgotten. Stepping out of the elevator into this other realm was surreal. To the right of me were a set of double doors clearly marked for personnel only and through the windows I saw patients milling about. In front of me was what resembled a nurse’s station, but it was enclosed with thick glass and locked doors. The glass was dirty and scratched and the staff inside the fishbowl looked bored as fuck. To the left, strangers with sad eyes were staring at me and my parents but unable to acknowledge our existence. This was the moment my mother realized she had made a huge mistake. This was the moment my father said he was going to call his lawyer to work on getting me out. This was the moment Dr. Mike reminded them for the next five days I belonged to the State of Washington and there wasn’t anything they could do about it. This was the moment that would haunt me for the rest of my fucking life. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel safe.

Dr. Mike provided a quick tour. Through the double doors were people with serious mental illnesses, some criminals, all waiting for a bed at Western State Hospital. He told me it was in my best interest to stay away from those doors and not make eye contact with anyone on the other side. What in the actual fuck? He said the staff in the fishbowl were there to help with anything I might need. That was not even close to being true. Those folks were babysitters for the crazies and barely phoning it in. Next to them was a dining hall, which smelled like vomit. Dinner was going to be served soon. From there just a long grimy hallway with doors lining either side. Doors to patient rooms. Doors to small conference rooms. Doors to bathrooms. Not a single door with a lock. Not a single door without a small window. At the end of the hallway was a lounge area. Dirty carpet, beat up furniture, bars on the windows, an old television, overflowing ashtrays, and a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke and sadness. This depressing shithole was exactly the type of environment that would make someone want to kill themselves.

I was shown to my room and introduced to my roommate, Laurie. No private rooms in this healthcare facility. Also, no private bathrooms. Very few rooms even had bathrooms and mine was not one of them. I could use one of the bathrooms in the hall. Remember…no locks…small windows. My dad was losing his mind. He was pissed and worried and went into full fix-it mode, which would prove helpful later. My mom was freaked the fuck out. I think the only thing that made her feel slightly better was my roommate. Laurie was a self-check in with moderate depression. She was harmless enough. After the tour, my parents were told to leave. They could come back in the morning. My mom was a rule follower, so she didn’t push back. My dad was a gentle man but did not like not getting his way and made it very clear should anything happen to me there would be hell to pay. Dr. Mike didn’t give a fuck. He would soon be going home for the day.

I was brought a new outfit. Scrubs and a pair of socks. I could only keep my underwear. All the rest had to be turned over to staff. At an even five feet tall and weighing in at 87 pounds the scrubs were ridiculously huge on me. If I had wanted to hurt myself, I could’ve easily hung myself with one of the pantlegs. Oh no…this ensemble was not going to fly. This was the moment I learned only once a doctor determined a patient to be of minimal risk were they allowed to wear street clothes. I told Dr. Mike I would not leave my room until I got my clothes back. I might be under a 72-hour mandatory observation, but I wasn’t about to let anyone see me dressed in those scrubs. I thought I was taking a stand but in reality, I was acting like a brat. Dr. Mike shrugged and walked out of the room. And just like that I was alone…until I wasn’t.

It wasn’t long before, Carl, a fellow patient, came to visit. He didn’t enter the room. Apparently, that wasn’t allowed but he did stand in the doorway, staring at me. Carl was wearing scrubs. He was not a minimal risk patient. I didn’t make eye contact. I was terrified. Eventually a staff member came by and told Carl to leave. He did without a word. I was pretty sure I was going to die in that psych ward.

As promised, I didn’t leave my room that night, but I also didn’t sleep.

During the day, the doors to patient rooms had to be kept open but at night the doors were closed. The lights in the hall remained on. Patients often roamed the hallway at night. Carl was one of those patients. That first night he stood outside my room, staring through the window. Admitting me to the hospital was for my own safety, but I had never felt more unsafe in my entire life. Morning could not come fast enough.

Around 8am my bladder forced me to leave my room. The bathrooms reminded me of a rest stop. A single stall, a sink, and an aluminum mirror. There was a shower area with a curtain, which allowed for some privacy. Once the lights turned on a small sign on the door changed to ‘occupied’ and although there was a small window, someone on the outside couldn’t really see in. It didn’t matter. There was no fucking way I would be showering in that bathroom. I vowed to limit my need to use that dirty tiled hell hole by eating and drinking only enough to keep me alive. I came out of the bathroom to find Carl leaning against the wall directly across from me. He smiled and walked away.

I went back to my room, sat on my bed, and cried. Rapid fire thoughts pounded my brain, swirling together into a big ball of uncontrolled anxiety. ‘Carl was going to kill me.’ ‘I was going to miss my best friend’s graduation.’ ‘None of my friends knew where I was.’ ‘What in the fuck is that smell?’ ‘How do I get my clothes back?’ ‘My yearbook would go unsigned.’ ‘Who was going to feed Dave (my fish)?’ Pretty quickly, I was consumed with panic. My heart raced, my ears started ringing, the tunnel vision set in, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I couldn’t breathe. Panic attacks and I were already old friends so I knew how to ride out the wave without causing a scene. I didn’t tell anyone about the panic attack…being overcome by anxiety was not going to help me get released from a psych ward.

I immediately found an open conference room and called my mom. I needed to know when she was coming to visit and ask her to bring me books. Any book from my room would do. I didn’t care. I only wanted to bury my nose in books for the next several days and avoid all contact with any other patient. My next call was to my dad. He was the problem solver. I told him about Carl.

With my head down, I made my way back to my room. No Laurie. I was alone. Again. So, I waited. Waited for my parents. Waited for Carl to murder me, or worse. I was way too scared to even think. Everything about the situation, environment, and level of fear was new to me. My brain could not make sense of this reality.

Only when I heard my mother’s voice did I snap back. That familiar sound brought me into focus. My dad arrived shortly after, and he wasn’t alone. He brought his lawyer. I doubt there was much any lawyer could do but his presence let the hospital staff and Dr. Mike know my parents weren’t fucking around. As I sat on an itchy old couch in one of the conference rooms, I told my parents, the attorney, Dr. Mike, and a staff member about Carl. The adults in the room had words and threats of legal action were made, which led to negotiations. Releasing me into the custody of my parents was not an option. I know because I asked. An agreement was made that I would be moved to a double room, instead of the quad I was currently residing in, with a bathroom. The hospital agreed no one else would be assigned to share my room for the length of my stay and as long as one of my parents was with me the door could be closed during the day. In addition, the staff would pay closer attention to Carl and make sure he stayed away from me. With that settled, Dr. Mike asked if I was now ready to eat something. I replied, “Not until I get my clothes back.” Dr. Mike, clearly annoyed, replied, “Sure. Why not?” And that was the end of that.

By the time breakfast was over, my new room was set up. I was exhausted so my mom stayed with me, door closed, and I finally slept. My mom stayed until visiting hours were over. I didn’t want to be left alone again in a mental hospital but I did feel slightly safer than the night before. I had just settled in to read when Carl slowed in front of my room, pausing just long enough to look me dead in the eyes and call me a cunt. Yep…He was for sure going to kill me.

Two days down, three to go.

Weekends in a psych ward are not at all like weekdays in a psych ward. During the week doctors run the show and the energy is erratic and chaotic but on the weekends the patients somehow escaped whatever cloud previously hung over them and the place is almost normal. Almost.

At breakfast, Laurie introduced me to a boy named Ben. Ben was two years younger than me and was very much at risk of hurting himself. He was admitted because he tried to jump from the roof of his school. Ben never shared specific details, but I did learn he had spent most of his life moving from one abusive foster home to the next. The scars on his wrists were self-inflicted but the scars from cigarette burns on his arms were not. Ben had been hurt by many people and in many different ways and at just 15 years old he was completely alone. Over the weekend I had friends visit, my mom stand guard outside the bathroom door so I could feel safe while taking a shower, and my dad bring me Frisco Freeze but Ben had no one.

Nevertheless, Ben was sweet and kind and knew his way around a mental institution. He taught me the rules of the psych ward and told me what I needed to do to get released. Not only would I have to engage but more importantly, the staff needed to witness me participating in all things therapeutic. You know how in movies and on TV patients are always doing arts and crafts, putting together puzzles, and sharing feelings in group sessions? Well…that shit is real. Apparently, in the United States, popsicle stick art is the cure for mental illness…at least it was in 1987. So, I built a popsicle stick boat and shared my feelings about my boat. I ate in the dining room and hung out in the lounge. It was all bullshit and it worked.

The weirdest part…Carl no longer seemed intent on killing me. I can still picture him though and when I think about those five days, I can very much feel that fear. If I am being completely honest, that fear I felt when Carl first stood in my doorway has never left me. Everyday, to some degree, I have felt unsafe. I live in fear…not specifically of Carl but still always afraid. The fact that I was admitted into the hospital for my own safety is an irony that is not lost on me.

On Monday Dr. Mike was quite satisfied with all the progress I made over the weekend. Looking back, I am certain he knew I was completely full of shit, but after dealing with my parents and my many group sessions, he also recognized I was not a danger to myself. I was just a teenager. Tuesday morning I would be released to my parents under the condition I see a State appointed therapist once a week for three months, at my parents’ expense, of course. At the end of the three months, Dr. Mike would evaluate my mental state and decide whether or not I needed to be readmitted to the hospital.

I had exactly four appointments with that State appointed therapist.

The first appointment was a review of why I was there, the therapist’s expectations regarding my participation, and a reminder that my attendance was mandatory. I also had to sign a document acknowledging these sessions were not confidential. Dr. Mike would receive updates.

The second appointment I didn’t say much. I wasn’t being resistant it was just that the therapist did most of the talking. He seemed very concerned with the way I dressed. He said I dressed like a boy. (Guess acid-washed jeans, the ones with the little zipper at the ankle, a t-shirt, and white Keds…like every high school girl in America in 1987.) And, according to him, I dressed like a boy because I was afraid of my own sexuality, which was, of course, the root of all my problems.

Ugh…so cliché. And so off the mark.

He told me I needed to embrace my femininity and I would start by wearing a dress or skirt to my next session.

I didn’t. I wore overalls and red high-top Chuck Taylor’s with the names of my favorite punk bands written all over them. He didn’t love ‘The 4-Skins’ written boldly over the toe of my Chuck’s.

That third session was a rough one. He reminded me he was obligated to report my progress to Dr. Mike and that he could easily have me readmitted to Puget Sound. The rest of hour he asked me questions about my sexual history, and my feelings about sex and intimacy. I was uncomfortable as fuck. Obviously. At 17 I didn’t know anything about intimacy so I’m sure my thoughts were less than insightful but I was a kid and he had the power to make my life hell so I answered his questions. Having to tell him about the first time I had sex was even more awkward than the first time I had sex. And the man wanted details.

The fourth session, my last, I wore a skirt. He seemed very satisfied with himself and spent the entire appointment talking about a book he was trying to get published. He didn’t ask me a single question about sex. He didn’t want to talk about me at all. He treated me like a peer…asking for my opinion about his writing and whether or not I thought his book was interesting.

At the time, I was relieved he wasn’t interested in talking about me. In retrospect, and with the help of Captain Olivia Benson, I am pretty sure today his behavior would be categorized as grooming.

Due to scheduling, my mom dropped me off for my fourth appointment and my dad picked me up. When I got in the car, my dad asked, “Why are you dressed up?” (I frequently forget how well my dad knew me.) I told him. My dad simply said, “We won’t be doing this anymore.” And we didn’t. I never went back to that therapist or any other. I never heard from Dr. Mike again. I don’t know how it happened, but my psych ward/pervy therapist saga had come to an end.

Of course, there is no way to be sure, but I am fairly certain my dad saved me from some serious trauma.

But I was a teenager in the 80’s so I undoubtedly would find myself in more trouble. And that trouble almost always involved a boy.