I have been hospitalized three times for my Bipolar Disorder. The psych wards I’ve seen are slightly better than Ken Kesey’s version in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, but not always by much. My last hospitalization was five years ago and I not only met a Nurse Ratched, I felt like Jack Nicholson’s character trying to get free.

I was in for a manic episode, but had calmed down significantly by the time I was committed to the hospital. Though I hadn’t slept in more than 34 hours, and basically wanted to go to the hospital as a place to sleep, my “intake” took, four long, gruelling hours. Any mania that I may have had still lingering had dissipated into a state of wariness and a longing for bed.

I was assigned to my room with a woman who had four children and who had been in and out of the psych ward multiple times. I listened to her tale of mixed mania with half an ear open and felt like I was the only friend she had. The hospital was the only place where she had no personal responsibilities, so she attempted to get re-admitted more often than she needed to. This was a common coping strategy among the patients there.

The rules there were strict. Because many people tend to get overly sexual during a mania or pyschosis, physical contact wasn’t allowed at all. I tried to hug and comfort a sobbing girl who was feeling suicidal and another nurse came to pull us apart. It was definitely a cold place and reminded me why people were in there to begin with: to get their medication and to be kept off the streets. 

Every hour, the patients were allowed to go outside and smoke-it was our only time for freedom from the walls. Once, a friendly nurse let me stay outside a little longer with another patient when I was rudely interrupted by the ward’s Nurse Ratched wannabe who quickly forced us inside to “safety” and proceeded to to ask us to rat out the friendly nurse, which we refused to do. Compassion wasn't readily available there.

When it was magical medicine time, all of us patients would line up like Zombies to get little individualized cups of  pills of all shapes and sizes. We all had to wait 24 hours to see a doctor, so many new patients had to wander around, scared, sometimes delusional and without any medication if it was their first admission. I met one 20-year-old who was hearing voices and little understanding of where he was, yet he received little guidance.

The mood of the whole place was freaky partially because of the sad decor and partially because of the nature of the place. The Salt Lake City Olympics were on in the lounge where many people camped out, but I had a hard time following anything. The place wasn’t all meds, tv and cigarettes, though.  We also had art therapy and group therapy. Since I was only there 3 days, neither of them helped me because all I really needed was sleep.

I wanted out. I called everyone I knew who might possibly have some power to get me released.  The next day I was released into the care of my father.  Though I didn’t have to slowly dig a hole in the walls for years with an axe pick, it didn’t make my freedom any less valuable to me.