Ignore this
I have a paper I gotta print up at school tomorrow. For whatever reason their email system has been bitchy recently. Oddly enough, I can access LJ just fine though. So this is just a copy of a boring paper on the offhand chance the email I sent myself doesn't go through.
English 110
Tuesday/Thursday
11AM
Loony Bin
I stepped off the elevator and faced the bare beige door. The buzzer was on the left hand side. Beside it was a sign saying “Caution - high elopement risk”. I have always wondered about that sign. How many visitors would know that elopement also means 'to slip away, escape'? I imagine most people stare at the sign for a moment while imagining a wedding. Ignoring the sign, I pressed the buzzer to summon a nurse. I had been here many times before. I knew exactly what the sign meant.
A couple days ago my wife had what could euphemistically be called an episode. She has bi-polar disorder, and it has up times and down times. Occasionally, those down times require more help to get through than I can provide. I have to sleep sometime. If I can't trust my wife to not hurt herself while I'm sleeping then we make a trip to the hospital. The most recent time was a few days ago. From 6pm to 8pm each day I could be found visiting her in the mental ward on the 8th floor of Methodist Hospital.
When most people hear 'mental ward', they conjure up one of two mental pictures. The first idea that is firmly entrenched in the public's mind is Victorian era institutions. They image a Dracula like fortress with dark confined cells hidden among gothic architecture so grand it's seems to be designed to make mere humans feel small and worthless before it. Alternatively, they may picture Nurse Ratched browbeating patients into obedience. Whatever occasional sparks of humanity or joy surface are ruthlessly stamped out by the cold inhuman staff. The reality is that mental health over the last several decades has progressed. These days, it is the same as any other part of the hospital. Which isn't to say that any signs of humanity or joy aren't stamped out; it's just done as a matter of hospital policy instead of a power mad nurse.
The hallways are all the same drab off-white color with endless plain wooden doors and post-it boards to say which nurse is watching which patients. The computer game Zork had a description that matches the hospital perfectly, “You are in a maze of twisty passages, all alike.” Each of these barren wooden doors open into a carbon copy room of two beds, two dressers, and one chair. The only concession given that this is a place of mental health is that there are no sharp objects, no needles, no piece of equipment that could cause self harm that isn't closely watched by the nurses.
The one difference from the rest of the hospital is that the mental ward has a large community room. This is where they hold groups during the day. All the crazies gather together and learn anger management, what medicines do, coping methods for panic, and other things of that sort. During visiting hours they do not hold group. Instead, the community room is where the patients gather together to entertain themselves as best they can. The single television in the whole place is in here. If there are more male patients than female, it's tuned to a sports game. If there are more females, it's tuned to whatever romantic drama is popular at the moment. There is a small shelf of books for the patients to read, all purchased before the 1970's. An artistic patient can spend their evening with a coloring book and a nice, safely dull, crayon. There is usually someone sitting in the corner quietly doing the newspapers crossword. Those not inclined to these exciting past times can spend hours looking out the huge picture windows. The view from the 8th floor mental ward is of the next buildings roof, one story down. Perhaps this is the hospitals sop to those afraid of heights.
The patients usually are just as bland as the surrounding. Most people there are not what would commonly be called crazy. They are depressed or suicidal rather than the god-talks-to-me type of mental illness. For the most part, the patients are rational. As a general rule, they aren't the most social or lively of people though. They tend to be the type of person who end up standing in the corner drinking by themselves at life's party. Socializing is something they fear, not enjoy. At first I felt stupid sitting in middle of a crowded room with no one talking to each other. Occasionally, I'd try conversing with one of the patients. The results were lackluster enough I have since stopped. Asking someone in a mental ward due to depression how their day was does not provoke happy conversation. It's easier to sit there and stare at the romantic drama or sports game without saying a word.
Every now and then, there is a real wacko. This is the type of person people think of when they hear the word crazy. They believe aliens have kidnapped them, Elvis is alive and their secret lover, the CIA is spying on them, or Richard Simmons is straight. Each of them has a different belief, but none of them appear to live in the same world that I do. I think the hospital brings them in to entertain the others. For example, I still remember a woman from several years ago named Michelle. She was a schizophrenic and rather excitable. On the first day I met her, she prayed to me. I do not mean she prayed for me, I mean she prayed to me. I happened to be wearing black jeans and a black shirt that day. She decided that I must be a preacher or an angel. That evening, she invoked my name along with God, Buddha, Mohammad, and some street bum that she thought looked like Jesus. Michelle had an interesting idea on how to get out of the ward, she would start at the end of the hall then run full speed towards the door. This would be the same door that is locked and needs a nurse with keys to get in or out of. The resulting thud could be easily heard throughout the ward. Undeterred, she would stand up and try again. This does a reasonable job of passing for entertainment in the loony bin. I stopped talking to Michelle after my wife told me something she did after visiting hours the night before. Michelle called a fellow patient into her room, dropped her pants and underwear, then swore that Mary appeared in her vaginal discharge. I could just imagine her doing this to me right as a nurse walks in the room. I don't need to explain how I got caught alone with her half naked. I have more than enough problems with the crazy woman I married. I do not need another one.
There should be a conclusion here. Sadly, there isn't one. I go home for the evening. I'll be back the next day. My wife gets let out. She'll be back in a few months. If I wait awhile, this always ends the same way it starts; I step off the elevator and face the bare beige door with the buzzer on the left hand side.
English 110
Tuesday/Thursday
11AM
Loony Bin
I stepped off the elevator and faced the bare beige door. The buzzer was on the left hand side. Beside it was a sign saying “Caution - high elopement risk”. I have always wondered about that sign. How many visitors would know that elopement also means 'to slip away, escape'? I imagine most people stare at the sign for a moment while imagining a wedding. Ignoring the sign, I pressed the buzzer to summon a nurse. I had been here many times before. I knew exactly what the sign meant.
A couple days ago my wife had what could euphemistically be called an episode. She has bi-polar disorder, and it has up times and down times. Occasionally, those down times require more help to get through than I can provide. I have to sleep sometime. If I can't trust my wife to not hurt herself while I'm sleeping then we make a trip to the hospital. The most recent time was a few days ago. From 6pm to 8pm each day I could be found visiting her in the mental ward on the 8th floor of Methodist Hospital.
When most people hear 'mental ward', they conjure up one of two mental pictures. The first idea that is firmly entrenched in the public's mind is Victorian era institutions. They image a Dracula like fortress with dark confined cells hidden among gothic architecture so grand it's seems to be designed to make mere humans feel small and worthless before it. Alternatively, they may picture Nurse Ratched browbeating patients into obedience. Whatever occasional sparks of humanity or joy surface are ruthlessly stamped out by the cold inhuman staff. The reality is that mental health over the last several decades has progressed. These days, it is the same as any other part of the hospital. Which isn't to say that any signs of humanity or joy aren't stamped out; it's just done as a matter of hospital policy instead of a power mad nurse.
The hallways are all the same drab off-white color with endless plain wooden doors and post-it boards to say which nurse is watching which patients. The computer game Zork had a description that matches the hospital perfectly, “You are in a maze of twisty passages, all alike.” Each of these barren wooden doors open into a carbon copy room of two beds, two dressers, and one chair. The only concession given that this is a place of mental health is that there are no sharp objects, no needles, no piece of equipment that could cause self harm that isn't closely watched by the nurses.
The one difference from the rest of the hospital is that the mental ward has a large community room. This is where they hold groups during the day. All the crazies gather together and learn anger management, what medicines do, coping methods for panic, and other things of that sort. During visiting hours they do not hold group. Instead, the community room is where the patients gather together to entertain themselves as best they can. The single television in the whole place is in here. If there are more male patients than female, it's tuned to a sports game. If there are more females, it's tuned to whatever romantic drama is popular at the moment. There is a small shelf of books for the patients to read, all purchased before the 1970's. An artistic patient can spend their evening with a coloring book and a nice, safely dull, crayon. There is usually someone sitting in the corner quietly doing the newspapers crossword. Those not inclined to these exciting past times can spend hours looking out the huge picture windows. The view from the 8th floor mental ward is of the next buildings roof, one story down. Perhaps this is the hospitals sop to those afraid of heights.
The patients usually are just as bland as the surrounding. Most people there are not what would commonly be called crazy. They are depressed or suicidal rather than the god-talks-to-me type of mental illness. For the most part, the patients are rational. As a general rule, they aren't the most social or lively of people though. They tend to be the type of person who end up standing in the corner drinking by themselves at life's party. Socializing is something they fear, not enjoy. At first I felt stupid sitting in middle of a crowded room with no one talking to each other. Occasionally, I'd try conversing with one of the patients. The results were lackluster enough I have since stopped. Asking someone in a mental ward due to depression how their day was does not provoke happy conversation. It's easier to sit there and stare at the romantic drama or sports game without saying a word.
Every now and then, there is a real wacko. This is the type of person people think of when they hear the word crazy. They believe aliens have kidnapped them, Elvis is alive and their secret lover, the CIA is spying on them, or Richard Simmons is straight. Each of them has a different belief, but none of them appear to live in the same world that I do. I think the hospital brings them in to entertain the others. For example, I still remember a woman from several years ago named Michelle. She was a schizophrenic and rather excitable. On the first day I met her, she prayed to me. I do not mean she prayed for me, I mean she prayed to me. I happened to be wearing black jeans and a black shirt that day. She decided that I must be a preacher or an angel. That evening, she invoked my name along with God, Buddha, Mohammad, and some street bum that she thought looked like Jesus. Michelle had an interesting idea on how to get out of the ward, she would start at the end of the hall then run full speed towards the door. This would be the same door that is locked and needs a nurse with keys to get in or out of. The resulting thud could be easily heard throughout the ward. Undeterred, she would stand up and try again. This does a reasonable job of passing for entertainment in the loony bin. I stopped talking to Michelle after my wife told me something she did after visiting hours the night before. Michelle called a fellow patient into her room, dropped her pants and underwear, then swore that Mary appeared in her vaginal discharge. I could just imagine her doing this to me right as a nurse walks in the room. I don't need to explain how I got caught alone with her half naked. I have more than enough problems with the crazy woman I married. I do not need another one.
There should be a conclusion here. Sadly, there isn't one. I go home for the evening. I'll be back the next day. My wife gets let out. She'll be back in a few months. If I wait awhile, this always ends the same way it starts; I step off the elevator and face the bare beige door with the buzzer on the left hand side.