My Trip To The Mental Hosptial

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*Warning: This article contains acts of violence, attempts against one’s life, and sexual assault.*

My trip to the mental hospital

I had once decided to never talk about my middle school career or freshman year ever again. But I feel the need to now, in case someone else could be going through a similar thing I did. Just know you’re not alone.

Back in middle school, I was severely depressed. I had poor hygiene and grades. It was like I was dropped in a vat of mental disorder stew and no one would believe me until they took their first bite. For me, the first bite was in sixth grade. I allowed everything to hit me at once and then try to repress it again in unhealthy ways.

I began to cut myself and cry each night since I couldn’t sleep. I had these voices in my head, telling me to end my life. So I tried. Over and over again until I got sick of it. All throughout middle school, I was in an awful headspace. I felt I had no one to turn to. It felt like my own mother didn’t care. When she first found out she thought I was doing it for attention. Eventually she realized it wasn’t, it took multiple arguments through text and in person. Tears were shed and I wanted to just disappear.

Home didn’t feel like home anymore.

Fast forward to my freshman year of high school. I had a super toxic friend group and we were all traumatized by something in our lives. The majority of us had a few things going down the list, but I digress.

One day I got sick of it all. I felt like nothing. Useless. So I tried to end it. I grabbed a belt and tried to hang myself. I thought about it all while I choked. The times I’d been raped, when I had been molested all by people I trusted. When I was profusely antagonized in a violent way as a child by a family member. I had lost the strength to deal with it anymore.

On that day…

I waited, texting my (at the time) friend. I felt my ears popping and blood rushing in my head. It felt like it was going to explode. My neck chaffed and I could feel my eyes bulging out. A few minutes in, after my face had turned a weird shade of pink and purple, my sister walked in.

She took off my make-shift noose and I spoke to my family later that night about what transpired. Sometime the next day, I decided to have them take me to a mental hospital, despite their protests. We ended up going to three different hospitals total that night, including the one for mental patients.

They weighed me and took my blood, normal doctor stuff. Afterward, they showed me to my room. I put all my things in contraband and took a fat nap, only waking once more for my vitals to be checked. I went back to sleep not long after.

It was a long day the next day. We all had “group therapy.” There as a bright side though. Everyone seemed to like me. I was like the cinnamon roll of the group, and the group introducd themselves. I made two frinds right off the bat and evryone else agreed to stay calm for me.

I remember an instance where people were fighting and. started to cry. Once they realized they all stopped What they were doing and checked to see if I was alright. It warmed my heart. You took my line my blood to the cafe and began to eat whatever was on the menu. I was eating with stability for the first time in years. I had (and still do have) an issue with starvation. When I was there though, at the hospital, I was able to eat normally.

Making the right choice

I felt healthy and happy. Happier than I had been in a long time. I didn’t want to go back home. In the middle of my stay I had a non-epileptic seizure and they gave me three different shots in order to calm me down and transfer me to another hospital. One of the nurses from the mental hospital came with. I was so grateful. Mom and dad rushed to come see me too. I was scared. I was hurting. I was so tired. My seizure had lasted at least half an hour. But I can’t remember much of that night.

Chunks of my life are missing because of all the drugs they pumped me with. I was still loopy the next day. On the bright side, I woke up back at the mental hospital.

There are people who are going to tell you that mental hospitals are horrid places that you never want to go to. But you know what? I’m glad I chose to go there. I met great people, I was taken from the stress in everyday life, and they had good food. It all depends on which you go to but I think that it’s worth it, especially if you really feel you need the help.

The one I went to was old and kinda falling apart, there were leaks in the ceiling, and the roofing tiles were drooping and had stains. But they still had the gym, an art class, and the yard outside. They still had things to keep you safe. It was a bit strict, but I really didn’t mind it.

Everything depends on which hospital you go to. I believe I’m the lucky one from what I’ve heard. But even so, if you really need the help you should go somewhere that will allow you to get that help. Places like these are here to do just that; help.

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