Real Life - The mental hospital

My stay at a mental hospital.

I saw a contest and started to wonder, "Could I ever really put into words one of the most troubling times in my life and then put it out there for other people to read and critique?"
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I kept thinking to myself, "How did I end up HERE? I'm not crazy, am I?" I looked around the padded room and realized that they must think I am. All I wanted to do is tell my mom and dad goodbye. These people had just told me I wouldn't see them for at least a week and then they wouldn't even let me say goodbye! So I ran, or tried to at least. I got all the way to the door before 3 big guys stopped me and then picked me up kicking and screaming. They took me to that room and dropped me on a mat in the corner and then left.

There I was in a padded room in a mental hospital, and all because I was stupid enough to tell my shrink that I wanted to kill myself. That wouldn't have done it alone if I hadn't also told her my plans for doing away with myself. I tried everything to get them to let me out of the room, all of it wrong of course and finally, my anger took over and I really did start to go crazy. I started spitting on the little globe that held the camera they used to look at me like I was a germ under a microscope. Then I moved to the only window in the room and I was yelling and screaming and crying. Finally, I guess they had enough and they came in and held me down, it took four of them because I was thrashing, and they injected something in me to "calm me down". Then they left me with a pillow and a sheet and that silly little mat to sleep on. I was in for the night. Eventually, I gave up my screaming and spitting and laid down. Before I fell asleep I came to the conclusion that if I was going to get through being in that place, I was going to have to play by their rules. At least, I would have to make them think I was playing by their rules.

The next morning, I was allowed out of the room and back with the other patients. Every day they would ask us if we had had any suicidal thoughts. I would answer no and go on to my classes and group therapies. The truth was, I wanted to die even more. As miserable as I was, the group therapies actually helped. I realized how much worse off I could be and that if I worked, I could get better. I was never honest in any of my therapies and that seemed to work because within 3 weeks I was an outpatient and 3 weeks after that I was back at school and a "normal" life.

Soon after, I started *really* talking to my psychologist. I started telling her the things that really bothered me and what had really happened to me in my life. I told her of the emotional abuse endured at school. I told her about the way my biological father had rejected me and how it made me feel. I finally even told her about the sexual abuse and rapes I had gone through. I also told her about how much I hated the medications they had put me on and how they made me feel and she told me I could go off of them. Eventually, I started working on my anger and it started to dissipate. I no longer hated everyone and everything, especially myself.

I have since come to realize that no matter how traumatic my experience in that hospital had been, it had changed me. It helped shape me. It is probably the reason I am still alive today and although a lot of people have contributed to that, that hospital was the beginning of a new life for me.