I arrived at the psychiatric hospital’s evaluation center by ambulance, strapped to a stretcher, for all the people to gawk at as I was wheeled in. I felt like I was wearing a sign that spelled out “C-R-A-Z-Y.” After I assured them that I was not suicidal at that moment I was allowed to step down from the stretcher and take a seat. They took their time before interviewing me when I had to repeat my entire story again.
“I was very depressed.”
“Nothing was working.”
“I felt desperate.”
Finally satisfied they informed me that Dr. Adena, my psychiatrist (not her real name) had pronounced that she wanted me on 5 North, the unit that treated personality disorders, the unit for patients with suicidal tendencies and those that self-harm. I had no choice but to acquiesce for if I had any hope of continuing to work with her, I had to agree to her terms.
The last time I had been in that hospital, in 2012, I had been on the eating disorders unit which was decorated with nature photographs and matching serene colors. It had been occupied by all women. When the staff member who escorted me up to 5 North opened the double set of locked doors that led to the unit, I recoiled. The noise hit me like a bullet through the center of my forehead. As I walked slowly and reluctantly up the corridor, small groups of men and women were huddled together talking and laughing, gesticulating wildly with their hands. Some women were sitting alone crying softly. The walls were puke green and scuffed with furniture and pencil marks. I trembled with fear as I did not know what would happen to me.
A nurse greeted me kindly and introduced herself. She suggested we go and talk in an interview room. Again I had to reassure her that I was not suicidal at that moment. After we finished talking I was shown my room (a single, thank God), but I had nothing to unpack as I had come straight from the emergency room. I was now free to roam the unit. Still shaking from the volume and the chaotic energy that seemed brutal, I stepped foot out of my room.
As I was walking aimlessly with trepidation a mental health worker informed me that a group was starting in the living room. I decided to attend because it would be something to focus on other than my fear and I figured that I would be safe there. I didn’t pay much attention to the topic at hand, but instead spent the time surreptitiously studying the other patients and wondering what they were there for and if there was anyone I could talk to with the purpose of feeling less lonely and afraid.
Almost one by one, the other patients introduced themselves to me and I began to put names to their faces. People invited me to sit with them at mealtimes and I began to see individuals rather than a threatening mass of craziness. I also began to be able to separate the staff and know who I could talk to and whom to ask for help when I needed it.
Early each morning I met for about fifteen minutes with my psychiatrist, Dr. Rubin (not his real name) who also happened to be the chief psychiatrist on the unit and also a resident. The hospital was a teaching hospital. I liked him immediately — I sensed that he cared, he liked what he did and he was extremely intelligent. I was able to be honest with him and over the time I spent in the hospital, he helped me start to figure out why I had attempted to kil myself and set me on the path to discharge.
Unknown to me Dr. Adena had requested a consultation with an outside consulting psychiatrist for me after several days on the unit. This psychiatrist was a well-known and respected authority on borderline personality disorder and I considered it an incredible opportunity and privilege to be able to have his opinion on my situation. I was extremely anxious and nervous for the two days leading up to the meeting and fretted about what he might think and say.
He asked a lot of difficult questions and he was quite direct and blunt. I answered them honestly, to the best of my ability and although I tried not to cry, the tears fell early in the interview and did not stop until the end. His recommendations were that I continue in transference focused psychotherapy, that he didn’t think medication (at that time) would be helpful because he felt my issue was more character-based than biological, and to return to work and not go on disability. I gathered myself together and thanked him profusely for this chance to meet with him.
It was difficult to call my supervisor at work and ask to return — they were aware of the details of what had happened. Displaying poor judgment, the first Monday after my suicide attempt,I had called them and told them everything, a decision I later regretted. My supervisor was angry that I had not been in touch with her over the week-plus I had been in the hospital and that I had left her in the dark. She was also questioning my ability to perform my responsibilities and especially my clinical judgment. Whether I could return to work was uncertain.
Finally, after speaking to the staff at the hospital, the supervisory staff at my job allowed me to return part-time to start. I was relieved, but very anxious about going back. I was unsure about my ability to resume my job and about the stability of my emotional state. The hospital had become a safe place to be and now I had to go back home — to the place where my last act had been to swallow a bottle of pills — and be alone with my thoughts again.
I was also unsure whether I would be able to return to therapy with Dr. Adena. When we had started working together almost nine years earlier we set up a contract, one of the tenets being that if I ever attempted suicide she would end the treatment. I was in limbo for much of the time I was in the hospital not knowing if she would take me back. Finally the day before I was due to be discharged, the doctor who was the resident and had been in touch with her confirmed that she would meet with me. I thought that meant she had decided to continue to work with me, but as I later discovered, she had yet to make a determination.
I arrived home on a Wednesday afternoon. I walked in my apartment and looked for Zoe who was under the bed, no doubt angry at me. She crawled out slowly, tentatively looking at me and I picked her up, apologizing to her, crying as I buried my face in her fur. She meowed and leapt from my arms. I let her go, telling myself that she needed time to forgive me.
I needed time to forgive me. I regretted what I had done, the consequences that had followed, the chaos that I had left in my wake. Hurting my brother and almost losing my job and perhaps my therapist. I would need a lot of time.