Did I get another psychiatric hold…what?
Yes, my county did put an ECO (emergency custody order), a temporary detention on me and I dealt with being locked on a psych unit for the past week.
I realize that even though stating what lead up to the police taking me from my home and into psychiatric custody adds context, I prefer to keep that private, so don’t ask.
I argued against psych hospitalization but the evaluators ruled that it was in my best interests, and so I was held.
In these times of covid and variants still running about, there were some differences in the protocol for patients on the ward. Before my admission, despite being fully vaccinated, I had a covid test. I had to mostly stay masked, wear a hospital gowns and pants, and had to use hospital toiletries, barely any personal items allowed. The reasoning was that these measures might allow less virus into the environment. Luckily the unit had private rooms, not shared. And I was on the premier unit for my area, meaning there was more concern for patient well-being than I usually experience.
That being said, I fought some battles. My biggest concern was that I would be urged, maybe even forced, to get back on psych meds. I’ve been educating myself and gathering my thoughts very coherently around taking meds since five of mine were stopped without taper by the last psychiatrist in the state’s mental health system (called CSB, or Community Services Board). My fine support group of psych survivors on twitter helps me immensely and they were with me the entire time, in spirit. I couldn’t contact them; phones are locked away. I distributed my three sheets of my health info, which includes the whole abrupt stop of meds debacle, plus photos of the horrible vasculitis rashes that certain psych meds caused. With all of my med allergy issues, withdrawal syndromes, damaged health, and absolute unwillingness to take psych drugs ever again, I was a formidable opponent the many times I was told that these meds would help me during the psych stay. Believe me, I held my ground, and I held it well. And I was vocal always about my 40 years of being irresponsibly drugged and harmed and abused in many psych facilities. Happy to report, I did not take a single med while I was locked up this time. (Side note: Discussing my own problems with psych meds did not shame the other patients who continued to take their assigned meds.)
I’m also happy that I wasn’t forced into therapies I don’t want as a qualification of my release. The psychiatrist actually had the nerve to ask if I’d like to restart services with CSB, my abusers! My response was along these lines:
At CSB, I didn’t stop taking my meds, that is not on me, nor was I offered any assistance when they were abruptly discontinued. I fought for myself this past two years, from first being in ICU in severe withdrawal, up to all of the lingering effects still plaguing me. I did it. Alone. Don’t insult me with need for psych meds and outside support like therapies and groups and DBT.
At last, the psychiatrist and his treatment team relented and discharged me.
But there’s more to the story than just those daily fights. My second day in, I met with a psychiatrist who talked to me for three solid hours. He respected everything I had to say about problems in my treatment over the years and how I do recovery now and all of the things that (naturally, normally) have me down lately, like two family deaths last year, all of this isolation from meds withdrawal flowing right into pandemic quarantines, and then my solid companion Iris the cat dying so quickly last month from aggressive cancer. He really grasped the kind of person I am, and the importance of expressing myself through writing and art. When I said I was slow on my motivation to make art lately, he suggested I spend time focusing on getting that restarted. We had a great lengthy talk, but then he said he was going on vacation, so I’d be handed off to a different psychiatrist for the week.
Somehow, in all my bitterness and anger and need to be defensive, I did start sketching in the composition book they gave each patient, using a stubby ink pen that you can’t be stabby with, and this was satisfying and passed the time. I also used markers during the creative therapy time to add some color. This was useful, very useful, and I feel I’m back in my art thing. And being pissy all week released much of my pent-up anger, especially since it’s so much been at the psych establishment, and there they were getting my almost full brunt. Fabulous.
I’m home and I’m fine and really better than ever.
These are my drawings from a week imprisoned in yet another psych hospital:
