June 3, 2014

I guess I should begin by telling you where I am, but first let me just say how ridiculous it is that I have to ask permission to have a Q-tip to clean the water out of my ears after a shower. They’ll give me this pen and leave me alone for an hour to journal my thoughts, but heaven forbid I should be left alone with a dangerous cotton swab. Between you and me, I’m guessing I could do way more damage to myself with a pen, but I’m just the patient. What do I know.

I’m in a loony bin.

Okay, okay, I know that’s not fair. The accommodations are far from a cuckoo’s nest. Not quite hotel-like, but more of an upscale college dorm. The rooms are clean, with wall-to-wall low-nap blue carpeting. The beds are comfortable enough. Everyone has the exact same simple pine furniture – a nightstand, bed, small bureau, and a desk with a chair. For a minute there, I thought I wasn’t allowed to have a trash can, either, but when I saw that my roommate had a trash can, I asked for one, too, figuring the person who empties them must have forgotten to put it back. There’s a bathroom with a shower in every two-person bedroom. I am thankful for that. Some dorms make you walk down the hall in a robe to shared showers. I was surprised to find that the shower is pretty roomy with a nicer shower head than what I have at home. At least I only have to share it with one other person.

All the rooms come off a long, carpeted hallway that has attractive pictures on the wall of simple scenes with flowers or fishing boats. It smells nice, here. There are scent-diffusers placed around some of the public areas. They told me it was some kind of aromatherapy. Pleasant. A light mix of eucalyptus and lavender.

The public places include a game room with a long table on one side that could seat eight, and some soft armchairs with small tables on the other. There were a couple bookshelves filled with games and books, and a flat screen TV on the wall. The windows were huge, looking into the center courtyard between all the buildings on the property. It’s summer, so the trees are all full and the flowers profuse.

There’s a small kitchen with a table that could seat four, a refrigerator filled with lemonade, yogurt, and tea, a coffee pot with all the necessary java makings, a sink and dishwasher, and cupboards filled with hand-me-down table service. There’s even ice cream and sherbet in the freezer.

There’s also a large common room filled with couches and armchairs that is mostly used for group therapy sessions, but they said that on the weekends people can watch movies or sing with a karaoke machine. The windows here open out onto a sunny patio with wrought-iron patio furniture including big green umbrellas for shade.

My first impression when I arrived yesterday was one of relief. This place is a thousand times better than that psychiatric emergency room I came from. Today, though, I know it’s all gilding. The pictures cannot be moved, not even to set it a little straighter. They are glued to the walls. Someone walks in to check on me every 15 minutes, all day and all night. They woke me up last night and told me I couldn’t pull the covers so closely around my head because the person with the flashlight needs to quickly see I’m okay and move on to the next patient.

All of my belongings – except my clothes – are behind a front desk, and I have to ask for my hairdryer or purse. I cannot use a razor unless there’s a staff-woman free who can watch me use it. I’m not allowed to use my cellphone. I must stand in line and wait my turn to use the landline on the wall or the one behind the folding glass doors for a bit more privacy. I’m not allowed to have visitors other than my immediate family, and then only once a week.

I’m required to follow the schedule on the whiteboard, attend each meeting no matter how much I wish to just be left alone to think. I have to ask permission to sit outside in the fresh air. I need permission to go for a walk, and can only go if there are enough other patients who want to go at the same time and there’s an available staff person to escort us. I have to stand in line for my morning and evening pills, and if I want to sit in my room until the line dies down, a staff person will come find me and tell me to get in line. They are nice enough about it, but some of the staff look at us like we are cats they are trying to herd.

I’m in a hospital, no question, and I can’t leave until they say I can.