The Hole Within

CHAPTER 33

The stay was much like the others. One day while we were sitting in the day room I heard loud singing through the locked door. It came closer and in came a woman, sheet wrapped around her nude body singing God Bless America full volume. Any distraction was welcome. I watched as they escorted her into isolation. Apparently, Betty was a frequent flyer (a term they used to describe patients who returned to the hospital again and again). She was manic depressive (the term bipolar had not yet become common). She would stop taking her meds and she would become manic and end up on the unit to get stabilized and back on her medication. I enjoyed Betty, though. When she was out of isolation she would frequently burst into song. She would climb on the day room furniture and step from cushion to cushion, chair to chair, without touching the floor. I would laugh then join her. The staff was not amused. My nurse friends told me it looked bad for me. What did it matter? We were all crazy in here. It always amazed me. The hospital was somewhere safe for crazy people, so that the craziness inside could be let out. Or so I thought. The truth was they expect you to behave, to hold it in like you must on the outside. I learned that lesson the hard way.

I still paced the halls in the evening well into the night. Soon it was not enough to run my knuckles along the walls. I needed more relief than that. I needed to feel flame on my skin. To feel the pressure of the razor blade. To watch the blood flow. I had many scars on my arms and burns and various degrees of healing. I used a lighter for the most part. Holding my arm over the flame or holding the flame to my arm. Watching the skin blister then pop, tissue burning away. None of the burns were as deep as Liz's wedding day burn. Other times I would use the end of a lit cigarette, making neat round burns on the back of my hand, forearm and stomach. Only some of the cuts required stitches. Typically, I would use a Band-Aid too tightly hold the skin together. The cuts would bleed and I would go through several Band-Aids before they stopped.

I had my own triage kit in my room at home. Gauze, tape, Band-Aids, scissors. Occasionally I would rub dirt into the open wounds. Contrary to popular belief, ground dirt does not cause infection. At least the dirt I use never caused me infection, much to my disappointment. Cutters/burners do so to externalize their pain. They feel it so acutely that they do not know how to express it. Of course, I would also did it for self-punishment. I do not know how common that is. I was self-harming before it became a fad. I did not know anyone else who did it when I started. Once again, I digress. I was in real need for relief that afternoon. And went to my room and searched through my things. There was always a way to hurt yourself if one was creative. Finding a pair of tweezers, I took them out of my bag. I opened them and held one handle and one side of the tweezer in my right hand, making a crude weapon. I slashed down my arm; nothing. I used more force and slashed again. The open tweezer ripped a line of flesh open and splattered blood onto the floor. That would not do, I was a neat and tidy girl. I moved over to the sink, lay my arm down on the porcelain and proceeded to slash and rip at my skin. When a nurse came to my door my arm was a bloody mess and gore splattered the sink. It looked much worse than it was. The nurse cried out, "What have you done?" and moved quickly to catch my upraised arm. She quickly washed the blood off so she could assess the damage. She was angry with me, "Why didn't you tell us you were feeling this way?" I was panicked. I had not thought this through and now I was caught. She rushed me to the nurses' station, towel held on my bleeding forearm. "I'm taking her down to the emergency room," she told the rest. She led me down to the ER where they stitched several of the deeper gashes up. The whole time, the normally friendly nurse was brisk with me. Back on the unit, she made me sit in the day room and told me not to move. A psych tech was assigned to be my one-on-one. After an hour so she came in and got me and led me to my room. She had hand restraints with her. They were large gloved mittens with canvas straps and metal buckles. She fumbled with putting them on me. After some time, she gave up trying and led me back to the nurses' station where several of them studied instructions while I watched. Apparently, these were a new addition to the unit and they had not had the chance to use them. Another nurse tried to put them on me and after several tries finally succeeded in securing my mittened hands to my waist. I went back to my bedroom and lay down.

I learned later that, according to state regulations, they were supposed to check on me every fifteen minutes and remove the restraints every two hours. Of course, they did not. Just another case of incompetence at the hospital. Dinner came and my tray sat in the cart. I could not raise my hands to retrieve it let alone eat. Finally, as my food got cold, I went to the nurses' station and told them of my dilemma. They acted put out and it was another half hour before someone came to release me so I could eat under the supervision of the psych tech. After dinner, the restraints were put back on. I paced the halls with my hands tied to my sides. I had to pee and let the nurses know. An hour passed and urgency was so bad I could barely hold it in. I approached them again, fearful of their baleful looks. Finally, one of them took me into the bathroom. She did not remove the restraints, instead she pulled down my pants for me. I had to had to get up without wiping. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I think that is how they wanted me to feel. I am sure I caused them a lot of paperwork.

While I was down in the emergency room they had stripped my room bare of everything but soft clothing and bedding. Even my toothbrush was gone. What did they think I was going to do with my hands tied down? Eventually, after pacing the hall half the night, I sat down against the wall and went to sleep. A nurse got me up at some point and took the restraints off so I could change into my bed clothes. She tied me up again and I laid down to sleep. Morning came and no one came to let me use the bathroom. The breakfast trays came and left. Finally, at about ten a.m., frustrated, demoralized and crying I knocked the phone off the hook. After several tries I was able to dial mom's phone number. When she answered, I broke down and sobbed into the phone, kneeling by my bed with my face close to the upturned receiver. I explained what happened I told her about the staff's attitude towards me. I told her I had not gone to the bathroom or been allowed to eat. That I was still in my nightshirt. She was livid. She told me to hold on, that she was coming to get me. I wept with relief. Mom was finally going to come save me. About a half hour later my mom came into my room, nurse in tow. The nurse silently removed the restraints and I went to the bathroom with relief as mom packed my things. I later learned that she that when she got there the doctor intervened. He told her that I was beyond their help and I was in the process of being transferred to the State Mental Hospital. She told them that she would not allow that. She argued with him and he finally relented making her sign an AMA form (against medical advice), taking full responsibility for my welfare. I do not know what would have happened if I had not called mom, or if she had not come to rescue me. The State Mental Hospital was a forbidding place to be sent to, the end of the line. Thank god most of them have been closed down.