A Little Night Music Please by Jeff Gifford

A Little Night Music Please

By Jeff Gifford

My Life Comes Full Circle in a Psych Ward

Caught a little depression with some anxiety on the side, is what I thought when I got diagnosed. It can’t be too bad. They make medicine for that. Yes, my grandmother had horror stories of ECT treatments, crying bouts, and long hospital stays. Sometimes getting out of bed was a struggle with her depression, she claimed. I always thought of my grandmother as a true drama queen.

My physical health took a nose dive in my late 40’s. I was diagnosed with a form of liver disease. I missed a lot of work due to numerous hospitalizations. When I was 50, I was told I no longer had any sick time left, and I would lose my job.

I had worked twenty-five years as a librarian. I earned my bachelor’s degree in biology and my master’s degree in library science. It was all I knew. It was my whole life. Now I would need to face foreclosure, move in with my father, and even go bankrupt.

These are days of uncertainty, and uncertainty is not good for people with major depressive disorder. It did not take long for it to begin its ugly course. Countless days were spent on the couch unable to move. The sound of the television annoyed me. I craved silence while I remained paralyzed. “Did I bathe?” I wondered. I couldn’t remember the last time I bathed.

I had turned into a lifeless vegetable, and had it not been for some good friends and family, I probably would have starved myself to death. My energy was depleted.

The feelings started to come back. It was like every neuron woke up and fired at one time. This was the worst part. I felt everything. Everything I had been repressing, the fear, the anger, my job, my life, everything—went into high gear.

I had never suffered agoraphobia before, but it was starting to settle in. I just did not want to leave the couch. I did not want to go anywhere, or even see anyone. Feelings just raced through my head, most of all fear. I craved the former numbness. It was safer there. This was eating at me, bit by bit, hitting me in heavy waves.

I do not remember the entire ride to the hospital. I do remember the police and the ambulance driver arousing me. My father said he called. The police found the empty bottle of pills. The next thing I remember was being escorted into a room where I was processed.

Processing occurs to match the correct group of patients together for effective therapy. I am told I will go to the fifth floor in the morning when there is an opening. The social worker assures me this is good news and not to be frightened.

That night was like no other I can recall, or care to repeat. It was a night of howls and moans and screeches that slowly waned past the midnight hour. Eventually, all that would be left was the laughing, street talk of the hospital workers.

I stare at the wall long enough to begin hearing the howls and moans growing in volume again. Soon it will be breakfast time. I am escorted to the dining area. I am touched to see a mentally disabled man in a wheel chair being taken care of by some residents. They make sure he gets his nourishment. I do not know his name. He is unable to talk. He needs special care. His clothes and hair are dirty.

Visiting hours are announced on the loudspeaker. Typically this is the time when hospital patients receive guests or talk to members of their clergy. Not here. Visiting hours go unnoticed in the television room or talking on a communal telephone. Credibility and cognition are wrongly assumed lost by those on the outside of these walls.

I am told to get my belongings, because I am going to the fifth floor. This is the area of the hospital designated for high-functioning mentally ill patients. I can even shave, provided I have a hospital employee onlooker. I still cannot wear a belt, however. Not until I have gained a certain degree of trust. That would take more time.

Days are filled with group sessions and games. Yes, believe it or not, “Pictionary” and “Jeopardy” are very therapeutic for this soiree of madness. It teaches us to be people, not illnesses. We aren’t two schizophrenics, three bipolars and the suicidal librarian. We are just ourselves, playing games, watching television, talking, interacting. Nothing much.

While I am waiting for my ride back home, the nurse smiles at me and hands me my belt. I put it on with newfound respect. Respect for a powerful disease and respect for my grandmother who got through it.

I wonder what has become of those I had the privilege to meet in the hospital. One of the hospital rules was not to share contacts. Still I think of their names and their faces. I say prayers. I hope they do so for me as well.

The Trouble With Dimps, the Vulcan, and the Hypersexuals

The Trouble With Dimps, the Vulcan, and the Hypersexuals
By Joe
One Man’s Journey With Mental Illness
In 2006, my wife accidentally found out about my 70k credit card debts. She feared she would be made homeless if I stuck around so she asked me to leave. It was October and I was on a manic high at the time. I was living in a cartoon world, disappearing for days without even mentioning where I was going. One day, I received a phone call from my psychiatrist. He was concerned about my behavior and wanted to see me. I didn’t want to see him, and said I was fine. But he insisted.
At the hospital, I was met by the senior house officer (who resembled a Star Trek Vulcan), and led me to a room. The door shut behind me with a thud. There was no handle on the inside, just another door that led to another world. She asked me some questions to evaluate me.
Did I hear voices ? “No.” When I read a book, did I think it was written just for me? “NO.” When I watch TV, were there hidden messages for me? “No.” She asked me what year it was: “2006.” The month: “October.” The day: “The 15th.”
I was doing pretty well, but then came the killer: Spell the word “WORLD” backwards. I tried “D-R-L-O-W.”  WRONG ANSWER! So she decided I wasn’t fit to be at large and I could admit myself for observation as a voluntary patient, or they could get a doctor and section me. That’s a minimum six-week stay. So, I chose the voluntary option.
I was shown to my room, the windows of which did not open. There was a bed, chair and wardrobe. A member of the staff came in. John with keys around his belt (that type) said, “Come on, I’ll show you around.” There was a game room with a three-legged pool table and about six billiard balls, a kitchen, a laundry room, and a lounge where the other patients sat watching daytime TV drivel. John said, “Make yourself a drink and join the others.”
A few residents were wearing dressing gowns. One girl had bandages on her wrists. Mike was talking on a cell to a girl he was waving at through the window. She was in another ward. Upstairs he turned to me and said she wants to know your name. This was Lorraine, who I became good friends with; we even had a fling in the laundry room. All the manic patients are hypersexual.
A new patient discovers quite soon that a ward has its own rules. I was having a cigarette in the smoke room chatting to ‘Jesus of Stockport’—an Asian with long hair and a beard. Jesus tells me he has a haulage firm and can get me cheap trainers. He also tells me he is undercover, working for the NHS. His job is to assess which patients are suitable for jobs in the outside world and in his haulage firm. The strange thing is with all this money you would expect he could afford a pack of cigarettes .He watches me as I put my dimp out in the ash tray. There is still a full centimeter left on it, and in the Arden ward that’s a lot of dimp. Gerry is keeping an eye on that dimp as well. Then Tony comes in and says, “Don’t leave your dimp in the ashtray, the Paki will get it.”
Lorraine used to pretend she was my doctor during family visits. She asked Tom who was visiting me to help put up the Christmas tree even though it was only October. It was a plastic one kept in the toy cupboard. When the tree was up, all the patients in the ward applauded. This attracted the attention of the staff, who quickly removed the tree. But an idea had been planted, and it had made everyone happy. So, every night for the next two months, when the staff had been reduced, we would put that tree up and decorate it.
I was in demand for interviews with visiting doctors and students. I was a textbook bipolar guy. They could not take notes fast enough. If they needed help, I could prompt them or lead them to the next question. I could tell the truth or lie, mix it up, do anything they wanted. I remember a Chinese student practically wetting herself when I got going. She could not believe her luck. I was released just before Christmas, after the kitchen was closed down by the health and safety inspectors.
Note: Joe's story takes place in the United Kingdom.