Psych Ward Stories
Social Workers and Dungeons
The first social worker of many came into the room. I requested my boyfriend stay with me while we spoke. She asked me questions about my past and why I did what I did. I don't remember how the conversation went down, but I remember asking if I could go home.
The social worker looked confused, “I don't think you understand. You didn't sign yourself in. We are required, by law, to hold you until we feel you are ready to leave.”
I was hospitalized against my will. Tears rolled down my face. I just wanted to go home.
Shortly after the social worker left, nurses arrived to take me off of the IV. “What's going on? Am I leaving?” I asked, hopeful. “You're leaving the ICU. We're putting you in a holding room to monitor you,” a nurse said. My heart sank, “For how long? I just want to go home.” The nurse didn't pay much attention to me, “Usually, it's three days. Sometimes it's longer, sometimes it's not as long.”
Three days! I did not want to stay in the hospital for three days. I wanted to go home. I held on to the hope that it could be less than three days.
I was given clothes to change into. I realized then that I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. I didn't remember taking my clothes off and I had no idea where they were.
They put me in a wheelchair and rolled me around the hospital. I got lost trying to figure out the hallways. My boyfriend was close behind. I didn't want him to leave me. Unfortunately, he wasn't allowed passed a certain point, and we had to say goodbye. My eyes stung with hot tears. I was afraid again.
The holding room was dark. It had green walls and white linoleum floors. It was small. I didn't like it. There were no windows aside from the ones that looked into the office. The lighting was dim. It was a dungeon.
The social worker looked confused, “I don't think you understand. You didn't sign yourself in. We are required, by law, to hold you until we feel you are ready to leave.”
I was hospitalized against my will. Tears rolled down my face. I just wanted to go home.
Shortly after the social worker left, nurses arrived to take me off of the IV. “What's going on? Am I leaving?” I asked, hopeful. “You're leaving the ICU. We're putting you in a holding room to monitor you,” a nurse said. My heart sank, “For how long? I just want to go home.” The nurse didn't pay much attention to me, “Usually, it's three days. Sometimes it's longer, sometimes it's not as long.”
Three days! I did not want to stay in the hospital for three days. I wanted to go home. I held on to the hope that it could be less than three days.
I was given clothes to change into. I realized then that I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. I didn't remember taking my clothes off and I had no idea where they were.
They put me in a wheelchair and rolled me around the hospital. I got lost trying to figure out the hallways. My boyfriend was close behind. I didn't want him to leave me. Unfortunately, he wasn't allowed passed a certain point, and we had to say goodbye. My eyes stung with hot tears. I was afraid again.
The holding room was dark. It had green walls and white linoleum floors. It was small. I didn't like it. There were no windows aside from the ones that looked into the office. The lighting was dim. It was a dungeon.