I was hospitalized three times while suffering from mental illness. Each time, I had different needs and different levels of insight into my condition. It sometimes felt like I was being guided to different destinations along a journey to recovery.

Denial: I am not sick, and I don’t fit in here. 

My first stay in a psychiatric hospital was against my will. Though I had been picked up by police for screaming back at my voices, I still believed I was not mentally ill. At the hospital, a group of middle-aged patients sat outside on benches, smoking. I was drawn to the hospital’s enclosed yard, with its plants, tall trees and California sunlight, but I felt awkward being the only one on a ward of forty who refused free cigarettes.

To my understanding, none of my friends had ever smoked, drank alcohol, or used drugs. I associated cigarettes with rebellion and poor decision making. This was one of the factors that made me feel alone in the hospital environment.

Every afternoon, a male Hispanic hospital monitor began to teach me new Spanish words, like “beautiful” and “hope.” Another monitor did laundry for the patients in the afternoons, and I helped her fold t-shirts and match up socks. But it seemed no one else was interested in getting to know the staff members, or helping them with chores.

When I was with members of the hospital staff, I tried to think of new topics to discuss, beyond the nice weather, and what we ate for breakfast (I’ll admit, the food was great). People like to talk about work, friends, and hobbies. But I had not worked for years, and had been isolated and friendless. While I was homeless, I did not pursue any hobbies. There wasn’t much to say.

I looked out on the other patients on the ward, and I remembered being a successful college student. Most of the other patients did not seem like they were “college material,” (of course, I may not have looked like college material either while in the hospital). I wondered how many of them had used drugs.

No one else appeared interested in practicing Spanish, reading textbooks, or looking for some kind of new challenge in life. I noticed, again, that I was alone. I was confident that I was hospitalized by mistake, since I felt different from the other patients.

The best part of this first hospitalization was my friendship with an older, Hispanic roommate.

My roommate suffered from depression. Years prior, I was friends with a young lawyer who had Major Depressive Disorder. I saw medications for the condition as nothing to be ashamed of. At the same time, I saw schizophrenia medications as tranquilizers that no one really needed, if they could just focus and be strong. I felt certain I did not need medication for schizophrenia. I thought that, maybe, nobody really did.

I enjoyed pushing my roommate around outside in her wheelchair. We read her Spanish New Testament together. One day, she created a beautiful pencil sketch of my face and hair.

During the entire time in the hospital, she seemed completely “normal” to me. I began to think that both she and I did not belong in the hospital.

Throughout my entire hospitalization, I was disgusted with the idea that I could possibly be mentally ill. Because of the stigma, I did not want to learn anything about mental illness. I tried to be cooperative and friendly, but I initially felt it right to refuse to take my medication. Fortunately, after a few days, my parents successfully convinced me to follow the doctor’s orders and take the medication.

I was not able to realize that I was ill and needed medication until my second hospitalization.

Developing insight: What is mental illness? Can it really happen to me?

The second time I was in the hospital, I began to ask the questions, “What is mental illness?” and “Can it really happen to me?”

I spent less time comparing myself to the other patients, and stopped judging whether or not I thought I should be in the hospital. Instead, I admitted I was having symptoms, and began to describe my hallucinations to the staff, and discuss my dreams for the future. I wanted to someday return to college, and resume my biology studies. I wanted to work.

In hindsight, I really began to dream about the future during my first hospitalization. Before I was hospitalized, I had no dreams at all. After I began to see that my choice to be homeless was influenced by my illness, I began to dream again. On medication, I could live a normal life.

The Cincinnati hospital where I was committed was not as nice as the Los Angeles hospital, with its pleasant yard. But my parents and I found an outdoor hospital courtyard with a big fountain and flowers. In the evenings, when they visited, we would sit in the courtyard, eat, and talk.

It was beginning to hit home that I could not live outside the hospital without medication. I was finally ready to learn about what schizophrenia was, the symptoms, and the steps I needed to take to recover. This time (a few weeks later) I believed what the doctors said, and followed their treatment plans, which included restarting my medication. I openly shared my feelings and hopes for the future in daily support groups. In a small room adjoined to the hospital, I exercised with other patients. I also spent time reading.

My parents purchased memoirs on schizophrenia including Elyn Saks’ The Center Cannot Hold and Lori Schiller’s The Quiet Room. My feelings of disgust were replaced by an interest in schizophrenia, and how the chemical imbalance in my brain caused my symptoms.

During my second hospitalization, my roommate (a pleasant girl about my age) kept a huge stuffed black cat, about the size of a Labrador Retriever, near our bedroom window sill. Doctors, nurses, and other patients visited our room to see it.

One of my last days in the hospital, a nurse led me out of the psych ward to the hospital cafeteria, were she bought me a big chocolate chip cookie and a cup of coffee. It only cost her a few dollars, but I will never forget her kindness. It was like she saw me as a “normal” person—not a “psych patient.” It made me feel special.

I was discharged after only a few days in the ward. In retrospect, developing insight was the biggest milestone in my recovery.

Determination: None of the medications seem to be working. Is it hopeless?

After leaving the second hospital, I spent a difficult twelve months trying several different medications. When one of the new medications was ineffective, and my psychiatrist was unavailable, I slipped into psychosis again.

This time, I did not need to be told that schizophrenia was a brain disease, or that I was mentally ill. I also did not need to be convinced to take my medication. But as the medications I tried were not working, it seemed the science failed me. I prayed often and was searching for God. I needed hope.

Doctors restarted me on a medication that I took for several months. Although the side effects were severe, the medication kept me stable enough to leave the hospital. It was devastating to restart the medication and experience side effects. I felt like I was moving backwards. Following my discharge, a new outpatient physician arranged for a trial of Clozaril, a new medication. I was skeptical. After spending a year trying five different medications, it seemed hopeless.

Unexpectedly, with the help of Clozaril, I fully recovered from schizophrenia several months later. I began making friends again, reading normally, and enjoying my life. I also spent hours with my psychiatrist discussing my future plans, which included returning to college, moving into my own apartment, and doing things I love, like playing the violin again.

Looking back, I was ignorant and in denial during my first hospitalizations because I bought into the stigma, and the label “schizophrenia” felt insulting. I did not understand that schizophrenia was a treatable illness. My second time in the hospital, I had a desire to learn about my condition, and during my third hospitalization, I grew determined to not give up on myself. Each hospitalization played a unique role in guiding me towards a fully recovered life.

Since I have overcome the stigma of schizophrenia in my own life, today, I seek to educate and to fight the same stigma that used to keep me in the dark.

When hospital staff treated me with kindness, and cared enough to investigate my history and carefully decide what they were going to say to me, it made a huge difference. I’m also thankful for the pleasant outdoor courtyards, the big stuffed dog, and the chocolate chip cookie. They encouraged me, and reminded me that I was a valuable person, and that I would get better.

 

The image of the University of Cincinnati campus can be found here.