This next reader had a horrible time as an inpatient, and her feelings ranged from lonely boredom to the fear of sexual assault:
I can’t tell if the timing of Eva’s letter is great or awful for me, because I’ve been in an inpatient psych ward twice in my life—and due to various circumstances, I recently began to wonder if I’ll soon be forced into a third. Eva mentions that her experiences have been a mixed bag, and I guess I’d categorize my experiences similarly, overall. But the negative moments have been so horrendous that more than once I’ve caught myself thinking it’s not worth saving my life if I have to be trapped in one of those places again.
I’ve only been in psychiatric wards in the U.S., and they’re pretty uneventful. The most notable thing about them is the widespread boredom. Sure, there are group therapy sessions and arts and crafts and meals, but all of those occupy at most 30 percent of the time. The rest of the day I spent lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and crying, or sitting in the community room watching whatever soap opera was on TV that day. You were not allowed access to any electronics—not even a cheap MP3 player to help soothe yourself—for the entire stay, and there were no locks on any of the interior doors.
The other inpatients were rather benign. (The only issue I had in that regard was an older man who either seemed to want to be my drug dealer or my sugar daddy, I’m still not sure which. Maybe both.) What elevated dull hospital stays into “Never Again” is the widespread incompetence and cruelty of the doctors who “recommended” my hospitalization and controlled my fate once I was there.
The first time I was an inpatient I was 16. I had been depressed since I was 11, and my illness had recently progressed into self-harm with scissors. When my psychiatrist found out, he forbade me from cutting myself and threatened hospitalization. Of course, because I was 16, I agreed out loud but in my head told him to go screw himself. I kept cutting.