The first thing I asked her was: will I have to wear a creepy white nightgown? For the record, the answer is no.
We all think that the psych yard is a creepy place, and I did too.
After all, in all the movies they make it seem so...
After my evaluation, I waited for the nurse who had to take me and my little suitcase upstairs.
When I got up there, another nurse had to go through all of my stuff and keep all the dangerous stuff so it could be kept in a little supervised locker in the nurses office.
Note than when I say dangerous stuff, I mean earphones, shoe laces, belts, makeup, cell phone and jewelery.
They even took the beautiful flowers my parents had bought me to cheer me up.
Since I was only 18 years old, the nurses took me and my parents in a private room to discuss the rules and the routine of the hospital.
As I walked out of the tiny room to go back to the door to say goodbye to my parents, a bunch of patients were staring at me, and it honestly scared me.
What was I gonna do? With who was I gonna spend my days in this horribly boring place? Even my mother asked the nurses if it was safe for me to stay here, with all these men with beards and tattoos.
When my family left, I went in my room to meet my roommate, and then I sat on my bed and stared out the window wondering what the hell I was supposed to be doing.
I decided to go see what was going on in the kitchen.
I took an ice cream from the fridge and sat down to one of the multiple tables, and within 5 minutes I had made five new friends.
They all sat down with me, introduced themselves and casually asked me why I was here and what was my diagnostic.
At the time, the psychiatrist had diagnosed me with major depression, because the voices in my head were telling me to stay quiet when she asked if I was hearing voices.
It might sound weird, but I instantly felt like I connected with these people.
We were all so different, some were old, young, calm, hyper, shy, etc.
, but we all had one thing in common: we were stuck in that hospital and treated like criminals for something we had no control over.
My nurse gave me my night medications and I was falling asleep before even getting under the one blanket my bed had.
Every morning a nurse woke me up at 6:30 am to take my pulse and my blood pressure.
I always woke up in a daze, almost like a live zombie, because the medication I was given at night was too strong.
Breakfast was only served a few hours later.
Half of the patients, the ones who were on the kind of medications that makes you hungry all day everyday, ate all of their meal and were begging to have the rest of our breakfasts.
I personally didn't eat the meals of the hospitals because I thought it was poison, so I survived on ice cream and popsicles for the two weeks I was there.
My psychiatrist came to talk to me once a day to see how I was doing and to make a treatment plan.
During the day we either slept, played numerous card and board games, watched TV or complained.
At 1 pm we had ergotherapy, which was my favorite part of the day.
They took us in an art studio, and we had to pick a project to work on like a bird house, jewelery, painting, leather belts, etc.
At 5 pm I was allowed to be out of the hospital for 2 hours, accompanied by a family member.
In the evening we always had ice cream and board games parties.
Yay! And then repeat for the next 13 days.
Overall, I'd say that I needed to be put in the hospital because I was in danger for myself.
But after I was put on medications, I felt it was no longer necessary for me to be controlled by mean nurses and no exercise or fresh air.
After the patient is no longer a danger to his self or the people around him, the hospital is probably worst than anything else.