Even now, some twenty years since my last psychiatric hospitalization, I hesitate, slightly shudder and debate whether I will be able to find the right words to convey a very troublesome time in my life.
You see, I used to come to points, in my life, where I felt mired in quicksand, completely immobilized and unable to formulate a way out. I had nowhere to run...so I would breakdown and get admitted, voluntarily or involuntarily to a psychiatric hospital.
The first time this happened, I was 25. My three year marriage had run its course. My then husband who was twice my age and a Vitenam vet with post traumatic stress along with poor mental and physical health, had helped propel us into pure financial ruin. I was forced into the role of bread winner. My stress level had peaked and my brain and body shutdown. I stopped speaking, eating and being anything resembling functional.
At first, the idea of becoming an inpatient was terribly frightening as my only experience with psych hospitals was the movie, "One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest", which did not paint a flattering picture on the mental ward. But really, seriously, I had no choice. I was pert near catatonic.
The psych ward at Sparrow Hospital was just plain strange, foreign and inviting. I wasn't forced to do anything. People, therapists actually wanted to talk to me and they kind of listened. I met other people there. Regular looking sorts of people. I recall the depressed young man who got his then girlfriend pregnant in he back of his camaro because he used a Baggie instead of a condom. He felt trapped in his marriage.
There was the young man who worked for a state senator who was questioning the morality of his job. Then there was the adolescent who ran around, jumping on furniture saying, "Shazam" and juggling imaginary balls. The only woman, I recall, was a delicate twentish pregnant woman who was battling depression and trying to remain medication free. She had the privelage of having her own room. I'd interact with these peoples for group therapies and outings. We'd sit around, drink coffee, tell stories and cry.
Mostly, I remember the forest green carpet that flowed into every corner. It looked so soft and inviting. It felt like a very strange vacation and temporary, surreal removal from all that was real. It was a respite from reality. I stayed for two weeks and figured out that I wanted out of my marriage. I called my Gramma. She offered that I could come and live with her and Gramps. She even voluntarily paid for my divorce.
My first hospitalization helped me to find my next step. I proceeded to go to the psych ward about once every year or two, whenever I found myself stuck.
Before my disability payments started, I lived with whomever would take me in. After many months, I felt I was taking advantage of Grammas kind nature. I moved on and lived with one of my sisters. Then we moved in with an aunt. Oh my, there were a couple very brief stints of living with complete strangers...scary to even think about now. I lived in one woman's basement, because she needed the rent money. Another time, my therapist suggested I live with this Christian couple and another mentally ailing roommate.
Wow, it never ceases to amaze my how much insight and clarity emerges from the simple act of writing. For all intents and purposes, I truly was homeless for about two years. I had zero stability, no one to hold onto, no place to call my own and zero self-worth. I felt completely and utterly lost onto the world. There was no security, no one to talk to, just pure dumb luck survivalism.
I remember the feeling, the lostness and unworthiness. I felt so very scare and all alone. There was no one to hear my tears. I buried my fear and just did whatever people told me to do.
I slept in strange beds and associated with even stranger people.
I had nothing.
I was nothing.
I was the beggar on the street, except with nicer clothes. I kept my hands in my pocket and just prayed that someone would throw me a bone...or a warn, foreign bed, or a leaky roof.
Low self-esteem or downright aspieirritation and nonconformity, would force me to move frequently, usually every two to three weeks. I know what it's like to be a nobody, a castoff and castaway. I know the empty, hollow feeling of being completely unwanted and unneeded. For years, I have been on my broken, bleeding knees, with both hands outstretched.
No one wanted me...not even me.
My days were spent either trying to figure out the current house rules or searching for escape. Where would I sleep tomorrow? I was a speck of dust in a chaotic wind. I was an annoying burr waiting to adhere to the next living thing that strode by. I was the gum on the sidewalk, that someone spit out last Tuesday. I spent my days dumpster diving and my nights lying awake in fear.
My social ineptness and constant moving prevented my from attempting friendships. Seems like this was the time in my life that my only "friends", the only peoples I spoke with were psychologists, social workers and therapists.
I can't count how many times, how many hours, I simply sat in my car because I had no place to go. I was just an empty shell. I was a nobody.
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