Hospitalization

I think it’s time I tell you something about myself: I’ve been hospitalized in a neuropsychiatric hospital. This isn’t easy to say because I know there will be some who will

judge me for this, but I feel that some may benefit from my experience. So, I take a stand, asking in the meantime for your understanding and compassion, and maybe even empathy. This experience was fairly recent for me. Hospitalization requires a lot out of a person, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you get out of it what you put into it.

So, let me tell you the story. Back in May of 2013, I was beginning to question whether or not my medications were working, or whether I needed a dose adjustment. Up until this point, I was just using a family practitioner to find my bipolar medications. We had just moved 2 months earlier, and I needed to find a new doctor. My husband had visited a family practitioner in the area and really like her, so I resolved to go to her.

I was in her office and she asked what was going on. I told her the usual run-down, that I’m bipolar, I’ve been really tired, and feel that my medication is not doing as well as I would like, and could she please give me another prescription. Then, as an afterthought, I told her of some thoughts that I had been having. As I was saying them out loud, it became apparent how not okay these thoughts were, and that maybe I needed more help than I thought. I watched as my new doctor’s jaw sort of dropped to the floor. She explained to me that there was 1 of 3 categories I fell into. There were suicidal thoughts, suicidal plans, and suicidal intentions. Apparently, without realizing it, I was making suicidal plans. I honestly didn’t realize the seriousness of these thoughts until I was saying them out loud.

With much love and understanding, the doctor explained to me that in order to get me stabilized the quickest, I should probably go to UNI (University of Utah Neuropsychiatric Institute); and be hospitalized there. They would keep a close eye on me to assure that I stayed safe as they messed with my medications and found the right balance for me.

I immediately felt guilty for the thoughts that I was having, since they meant I was to leave my family for a while to become stable. I apologized countless times to my husband as I made arrangements to go. He also assured me I was doing the right thing- especially as this was the first he had heard of my thought processes- and though it meant a little extra work for him, he was glad to do it, as long as I worked to become well. I packed a small bag, that didn’t have anything sharp or long drawstrings, or anything else that could be used to hurt myself.

Going to a Neuropsychiatric Institute felt strange. It was a new experience for me, and I was scared. Mostly, I was scared about being judged. People made sure I knew it was a choice for me- that I would benefit from staying there, but that I didn’t have to. Ultimately, I chose to stay. I wanted to get better. I wanted to be the best mom I could be… and I couldn’t do that if I was wondering what it would feel like to overdose, or pass out from car fumes in the closed garage. Yes, these thoughts felt completely normal… and that’s what makes them dangerous.

They took my bag, and told me I could check certain items out for short periods of time. I really felt odd- like I really wasn’t bad enough to be there, but resolved to make the most of it, and work through my feelings of deep embarrassment.

The workers there were great. Everyone was really understanding- and even told us, the patients, that they admired us for the steps we were trying to take in becoming well. At first, I felt it was all an act- that it was something they had to do, but as I interacted with them, I saw the love in their faces. I was able to work on myself without feeling quite as embarrassed on top of everything else. Their compassion made the stay bearable, and even enjoyable at times.

There were units throughout the building. We were placed in units according to our needs. Our unit would get together every day to discuss daily goals, personal successes, and highlights of our day. We had schedules to work from. There were lots of different group therapy sessions going on throughout the day: art, music, pet, talk therapy, etc.

Each one of us would meet with our own team of professionals: Psychiatrist, psycologist, social worker, and sometimes students to work on goals to get us well. Though I didn’t meet any other team, I’m told I had the best psychiatrist- and I believe it. It was my psychiatrist who pinpointed what was really going on. Not only did she verify my diagnosis of having bipolar (my original diagnosis was by a family practitioner, not a psychiatrist), but she acknowledged my recent giving birth to twins. She said having bipolar can make you more susceptible to having other mental breakdowns, like post-partum depression, and that’s exactly what I was experiencing. She put me on the Lithium, explaining the long-standing success of Lithium on Bipolar, and started taking me slowly off the other medications I was using.

I was feeling a little better one day while I was there, and decided to do a cartwheel outside of the cafeteria. Bad idea. I landed wrong, and completely twisted my wrist. By the time I got back up to our unit, it was swollen and hurt pretty bad. The first question people started asking me was- “are you manic?” they really knew their stuff there at the hospital. They gave me a leave of absence to go get it x-rayed. It turns out it was just a sprain.

I worked every day to understand what I was going through, and to let the experience be a good one. This is another time in my life that I believe attitude changes everything. If I wasn’t willing to work, and looked down on the experience, I very much doubt I would have gotten better. It’s not all about the medication.

My team also started putting a plan into place for when I left the hospital. My social worker found me a psychiatrist and psychologist that I could visit after I left the hospital. My husband and I had requested she find a psychologist who was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints- that I may share that basic belief system- and she did.

And all the time while I was at the hospital, my local Relief Society president took care of my family. She knew what was going on, but no one else did… and she kept it that way. I thank her for keeping it a secret. And I thank the members who brought dinners, and otherwise cared for my family for doing so without question. The world has some decent human beings in it- and many of them live in my ward.

I recognize that not everyone will share my experience. But, I believe that much of it has to do with your outlook. If you try to get something good out of a bad experience, you will. If you’re questioning whether or not to be hospitalized, I say give it a try. You never know what kinds of angels might be there to help rescue you, as there were for me. Good luck.