In the Mental Hospital

This is not going to be easy for me to write, but I need to deal with this. My memories of the very beginning are fuzzy with good reason. I wrote about my suicide attempt in an earlier post. After drinking the vodka and cranberry juice and taking the sleeping pills I got very little sleep. I just remember that I threw up a lot, and every time I started to go to sleep it felt like an electric shock went through my body. The next day I told one of my housemates what I had done. He called 911. I was first taken to the local hospital. Since I did not have any insurance I was taken to a state mental hospital. What no one bothered to tell me was if you were admitted to a hospital after a suicide attempt it was considered an involuntary admission even if you voluntarily went a hospital. When I arrived at the hospital I was taken through a series of doors that were unlocked for us to pass pass through and then locked behind us. I was taken to a ward where I was placed on suicide watch. I was still wearing clothes on which I had regurgitated. People kept asking the same questions, "Who is the president?", "What is the date?" "Do you hear voices?" etc. I don't remember how many times I was asked these questions, but I quickly got tired of it. One of the last time times I was asked if I heard voices, after repeatedly saying no, I said, "Only when someone is speaking to me."
I met with a psychiatrists after a short time in the hospital. We talked about the things that led to my suicide attempt and about my interests and other things. I had been researching the similarities between Dada and the Punk Scene in the hopes of eventually writing a book. (Since then there have been books written on that subject.) I also talked about my interest in languages. I also told him my work history. What he wrote in my files reflect his prejudices. He said that I was trying to make people think I was more intelligent than I was, because an intelligent person would not have had the jobs that I had had. I definitely was not trying to impress him. I was just telling him honestly about myself. He gave me the diagnosis of schizophreniform disorder even though I displayed no symptoms of this. He said he wanted me to start taking Thorazine. I tried to ask him about the medication, because I did not want to take anything without knowing about it. Instead of answering my questions, he said that if I refused to take it I would be forced to take it. Later I met with another psychiatrist who partially answered my questions. As I really did not have a choice I agreed to try it. At first it seemed to be beneficial, but after awhile it just made me sleepy and flattened my personality. After some time on this medication, I was switched to Haldol. That was a nightmare. Once when I was taking it I yawned, and my mouth got stuck open. It was open so far that the biggest cock could have fit in it easily without receiving a decent blow job. (joke) All I could do was point at it. One of the guys working on the ward went to get someone to give me a shot to enable me to close my mouth. Honestly it was pretty scary. While I was taking that I started sleeping about twenty hours a day. I was starting to feel suicidal. I told one of the technicians on the ward that I was starting to feel like hurting myself. I was immediately taken off Haldol and out back on Thorazine. (All patients in the hospital were taking some form of medication.)
In my files the psychiatrist said that I seemed confused when I first arrived at the hospital. What the fuck did he expect? I was still feeling the effects of vodka and sleeping pills, and I had gone into a situation unlike any I had ever been in before. I remember being given the Rorschach test. When I gave my answers as to what I thought the images looked like I just gave a quick impression without giving it much thought. I did not know that they were going to want an explanation for my impressions. (Later I heard Timothy Leary give a lecture. He said that the reason he left the field of psychiatry was that ha had felt that psychiatrists had too much power to change a person's life because of their own prejudiced thoughts. During the question and answer portion of the lecture I told him that it was still going on.)
I was given the opportunity to have a hearing to request to be able to leave the hospital, but, as I stated earlier, I did not know that I was considered to have been involuntarily committed. I thought I would be able to leave the hospital after a reasonable time. I was mistaken.
The hospital was a place where the patients were robbed of human dignity. One of the ways that this happened may seem like a small thing, but it has significance. The only razors we were allowed to use were single-blade Bic disposables. These are the worst razors.It is impossible to shave with them without cutting yourself. You could buy your own disposable razors, but any kind you used could only be used once then discarded. It is hard to feel good about yourself if you are not allowed to take proper care of your own personal hygiene.
I had to take part in Vocational Rehabilitation. We were given menial tasks for which we were pain less than two dollars an hour. The low wages were justified because it was rehabilitation.
When I was in the locked ward meals were brought to us from us on trays from the cafeteria. By the time the food arrived to us it was cold. It was bad enough warm. It was not fit for human consumption cold.
There were activities for the patient, usually things that would have been fun for children but not for adults. After these activities we were given "treats." Usually these were cups of cheap ice cream. Once in a while we did go to see movies.
The building the hospital was in had at one time been army barracks, but it was an old, depressing building. There were people who had been there for years. You could tell who these people were by the size of their bellies and their glazed expressions.
I was in the hospital for about nine months. I was told that I had to apply for disability before I could leave the hospital. I said that I would prefer finding a job and return to a regular life. I was told that I would not be able to handle a full-time job after being in the hospital as long as I had been. Unwillingly I did apply for disability. I could not leave the hospital until a place was found for me to live. The facilities where they tried to place me all said that I was not sick enough to move there. It is ironic that if I had been really mentally ill I would have been able to leave the hospital sooner. I did eventually get a room in a rooming house in Greensboro, North Carolina. I was initially denied disability, but I was soon working at Goodwill Industries. That was much like Vocational Rehabilitation, extremely low pay for menial work. I was sent forms to fill out about my disability application. Since I was working at a rehabilitation facility my disability was approved. I was in the mental health system in that city. Psychiatrists who looked at my files after the initial diagnosis could not understand how the first psychiatrist had reached his diagnosis, but I was continued to be given Thorazine. I had been told that there would be terrible consequences if I stopped taken it. If I did not take it one day I would just feel much better. Once I had run out of medication. I went to see my counselor, and she commented that I was doing so much better. I told her that I had not been taking my meds. She immediately called my psychiatrist, and he had me taken off Thorazine. On my disability papers for diagnosis it said undiagnosed. I was on disability for about eight years before there were any hearings about it. My disability ended after the hearing. The main question that caused the ending of my disability was one they asked what I would do if I found a piece of  stamped mail on the ground that needed to be mailed. I said I would put it in a mail box. I was told that that showed that I was mentally healthy, and my disability checks. That ended up being a very good thing. I soon found a temp job that quickly became a full-time job. This was after eight years of not working, and they thought I would not be able to work a full-time job after not working nine months.They were so wrong.
I do have interesting tales about the rooming house, but those will come later.