by Julia Bessey
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of Bobby Dodd Institute.
For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with persistent unwanted, distressing and involuntary thoughts called intrusive thoughts and what I called “irrational fears”. I was very sharp and self-aware, but just a child with no proper words to describe my experiences. I would try to ask for help from my family, but everything I went through was dismissed as a typical childhood experience. Eventually, these fears and thoughts developed into my long battle with obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD. I would have intrusive thoughts surrounding relationships, language, superstitions, behaviors, and philosophies, just to name a few. These changed my viewpoint from a curious child to an anxious one because my OCD would convince me that I was going to act according to these thoughts.
I was a very sweet and shy child, so of course I would never have done what my intrusive thoughts told me I was going to or “should” do. That didn’t matter to my brain. My anxiety tormented me, and my main compulsion was seeking reassurance from anyone that I would not act on my thoughts. It would be my parents, siblings, counselors, or people I didn’t even know well. Anything to ease the anxiety I was feeling, and to get the repetitive intrusive thoughts to go away.
On top of that, in the following years, I started experiencing depression. I had a habit of beating myself up for every little thing I thought I did wrong. I was very dramatic with low self-esteem. I also had a fiery temper, and would often start fights with my best friend for no reason. I even started experiencing suicidal thoughts. Worse, my parents didn’t understand. My father would tell me to “get over it” because “everyone has problems”, and had a habit of dismissing my experiences when I opened up to him.
I was having homicidal thoughts about my own sister, and my parents finally saw, through my behavior and speech, that something was clearly wrong. However, OCD and depression weren’t the only mental health problems I had; I also developed psychosis. For those who don’t know, a psychosis is a distinct disconnect from reality. Its symptoms involve delusions and hallucinations, confusion, and a blur between what’s real and what’s not. My psychosis was particularly disabling. I lost many of the vital brain functions I was proud of, such as how to do simple math and use critical thinking skills. It wasn’t until I was 14 that my parents sought out therapy for me.
My first of many therapy appointments was with an OCD therapist. At this appointment, OCD wasn’t what stood out to him. What he noticed was my monotone voice, homicidal language, and the way I described how I was feeling. He diagnosed me with psychosis “not otherwise specified”, which meant I clearly had a psychosis, but I did not meet the full criteria for a psychotic disorder that psychologists were aware of at the time. He concluded that I was a danger to myself and others, and told me and my parents that I had to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital. If we didn’t comply, a 1013 would have been enacted. A 1013 is code for a Georgia law indicating a police-mandated admittance to a psychiatric hospital. Since my parents had no choice, they took me to a hospital in Dunwoody, Georgia. I was barely a teenager at this time, and spent 10 days inpatient, plus a few weeks outpatient here. This, of course, meant I could not go to school for about a month.
My personal experience at the hospital was quite traumatic. That doesn’t apply to every hospital, though, and this blog should not be taken as medical advice. I vividly remember arriving. My parents and I sat in the waiting room. I was barely there mentally, still struggling with my ongoing psychosis. We filled out paperwork, and then were called into another room for a consultation about my stay. Eventually, I was sent to the section of the hospital for children my age and younger. I sat down before being shown to my room. I remember kids asking me why I was there. I told them the truth, and after that, most of them stayed away from me. Who wouldn’t, especially after hearing that I struggled with homicidal thoughts?
I didn’t like the hospital at all. To me, it felt like jail. During and after my stay, I described the hospital to myself and others as “mental health jail”. There was a central area, and two hallways with rooms: one for boys and the other for girls. Each room had two beds, with the exception of a room with only one bed for any child who was struggling even more and needed to be isolated. I was not this child, so I was assigned a roommate. I had a few different roommates during my stay. Every morning, we had to be up by a certain time. Then, everyone filled out a form about how they felt and what they wanted, basically a check-up. I remember that every morning, I wrote that I wanted to go home. Here I was, forced into a hospital without my parents or family, and around other kids who I was told not to make friends with by staff. I interacted with one or two of the kids at most. I was incredibly lonely, and staying at the hospital didn’t help me at all. I didn’t even get a proper diagnosis or the right medications. You’d expect psychiatrists handling such vulnerable children to know what they’re doing, but I felt as though it was the psychiatrists who aren’t as qualified that get hired to work at psychiatric hospitals.
After we finished the daily form, we’d get our medical vitals checked by nurses who, again, I expected to be trained and experienced, but it was usually nursing students who did this job. When everyone was finished, we walked in a single-file line to the cafeteria for breakfast. I experienced severe sensory deprivation during my stay, which means I couldn’t feel when I was hungry, thirsty, had to go to the bathroom, and more. Due to this issue, I never ate much while I was there. I had no appetite for any food in general. The doctors had to give me protein shakes eventually so that I wouldn’t go hungry.
After breakfast, we’d line up and go back to our area. We did one of a few things for a few hours; color pages, receive useless lessons about mental health, or go to the gym. Once those activities were done, we would go to the cafeteria again for lunch, and some days – yes, only some days – go outside to a very small garden area.
After that, we’d head back to the main area and get to spend time in our rooms. I spent this time reading books or taking naps. I lost all sense of time while I was there, so sleeping was extremely difficult, even at night. Therefore, I tried taking naps whenever I could. When dinner came around, we’d do the usual cafeteria routine. Then, later at night, we would choose from some snacks for dessert and watch movies and TV shows in the main area. We had a curfew: everyone needed to be in bed by 9:00 PM sharp.
While we were sleeping, or pretending to sleep, every once in a while, the social workers came through the hallways with flashlights. They opened doors and shined their lights on us to make sure we were sleeping. I would often wake up in the middle of the night, leave my room to talk to the social workers, and desperately try explaining to them the mental health disabilities I thought I had. They weren’t very friendly, though; they would just tell me to go back to sleep.
As I mentioned before, I was without my family for nearly two weeks because of the hospitalization. I only got to see them once every Tuesday, which was when the hospital scheduled family visits. I was able to call them each night, but there were only so many phones and many children needing to use them, so it was a stressful process getting to use one.
When I finally was discharged from the hospital, my journey with psychosis was only just beginning. The outpatient care and catching up on school was very stressful, especially without the proper medication. I didn’t fully recover from my psychosis, so that presented new challenges for me. I managed to catch up in school and complete the outpatient care, but my life was forever changed – and not for the better.
Everything was unfamiliar and terrifying at the hospital. They are safe places for people who need them, but there can be many red flags as well. If you or your loved one(s) are struggling and might need admittance to a psychiatric hospital, listen to your medical professional’s advice to make the best decision about whether or not you or they need to go.
My childhood was filled with appointments, medications, doctors, and strained relationships after my first psychotic break. My family didn’t interact with me as much as they did before, especially extended family. I felt like I lost my family even though none of them were truly gone. It felt like there was a rift in all of my other relationships too. To this day, I hardly ever contact or receive contact from family members, even my two older sisters. It feels very isolating.
This isn’t the end of my story. It is only just beginning. I hope that by reading this blog, you have become more aware of the experiences of child-onset mental health disabilities and the effects of psychiatric hospitals on children.
