(From May 11, 2017)
Sunday evening I had a Dystonia episode (muscle contractions). The previous Thursday I had been prescribed a new medication, Ambien, which is used to help you sleep. I’ve also been fighting a cold. Since the best way to stop a Dystonia attack (for me) is to sleep, I decided to go to bed early. I took my regular meds, one Ambien, and some cough syrup. That was a big mistake. In a mental fog, not really awake and not really asleep, I thought that if I took some more Ambien it would help knock me out. Instead, it put me in a state that I’ve never experienced before.
The whole evening is just a series of snapshots. I remember watching the end of a movie in bed, but I don’t remember anything about it. Then I watched a documentary that I normally would have turned off after five minutes, or not watched at all. I only have a few flashes of that. At some point I sent a message to Monica through Daniel. I had scribbled on my touchscreen computer: “I took too much. I’m sorry.” I barely remember doing that. Monica says I told her to call somebody. She called poison control, who told her to take me to the emergency room.
Again, I only have short visions of what followed. I remember putting on my shoes, but I have zero recollection of the drive to the hospital. I remember sitting down in the waiting room, but I don’t remember — and this is really weird — taking out my phone and posting a Facebook check-in to the hospital location. I had typed, “Uh oh! My bad.” I had tagged Monica, and I rarely tag people. I had used the “Feeling” thing (“Feeling confused”) — and I almost *never, ever* use that feature. That part is totally blank in my memory. Why on earth would I do something like that?
The rest of the night are still frames of a usual overdose hospital E.R. visit. This is something that, around 10 years ago, I had experienced on multiple occasions during some very dark years in my life. Given my history and the fact that I was unable to communicate, the ER doctor and Monica assumed that this was another suicide attempt. I can’t blame them. I still work on depression and newly diagnosed Bipolar Disorder. But this really was an accident.
If you think the story is exciting so far, I’m just getting started. I was eventually moved to a secure room with a guard posted at the door — on suicide watch. As my brain began to clear I struggled to put the pieces together. Why did I do that? Did I try to kill myself? Because, if I did, I don’t know why. I had not had a great day, but it wasn’t terrible either. Sure, I have bad days, but I’ve been in much worse depressive states than lately. In fact, I got a lot done during the week — doing errands and taking care of the kids. I even fixed our shower! I recently had been scheduled in to play with the church band occasionally on Sunday mornings, which is a big step for me. The fact that I didn’t know why I “tried” to overdose scared me. Then I remembered something that my doctor had said about Ambien, the sleeping pill. She said that some people had reported sleep walking or even sleep DRIVING while taking it. I started putting the pieces together. The Ambien, combined with cough syrup and my regular meds, put me in an altered state. When I ended up taking SIX Ambien in that state, my brain had left the building. (Side note: Don’t take Ambien, people!)
As the fog lifted, I told Monica what I thought had happened. However, by that time the hospital had decided that I had to be transferred to a local Mental Health Hospital. We told them that it was a medicine mix up and that I could be treated outpatient, but the hospital’s point of view is that they would be liable if I went home and completed suicide (CYA). There was nothing I could do. I was going to be held in a psych ward. After hours of waiting in an extremely uncomfortable gurney, with a guard watching my every move, an ambulance showed up to transport me. So off to the mental hoosegow we went.
As I mentioned before, I had purposely overdosed several times about 10 years ago, so this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’ve voluntarily been admitted to a mental health facility on more than one occasion. It’s a safe place to recoup, maybe adjust medications and get your thoughts together. But this was the first time I’ve ever been forced to go. And given that this was really all Ambien’s fault, it really felt like prison. I was terrified. Fortunately, I had an understanding doctor who could see that I was telling the truth and let me leave the next day (normally they would hold someone for three days).
During the almost two days I was there, I interacted with some of the other patients. Despite this post being mostly about me, I want this next part to be the takeaway for anyone who has managed to read this far. Most of the patients were very young. There were two or three around my age and one quite a bit older. Aside from me and maybe four others, the patients were there for addiction problems. Some of the patients suffered from mental illnesses as a result of addiction. While during group sessions the patients would speak of beating their addiction, outside of sessions they openly bragged about the various drugs they had taken. Almost everyone’s vocabulary was heavily laced with profanity. I’m not judging these people based on their addictions or the way they talked. I’m just stating facts. Three of these patients were military veterans. About two-thirds were male. I was the only white male. There was only one white female. Those are the demographics. I should clarify that in my part of the country, if you aren’t white you’re probably Hispanic.
The group sessions were — in my opinion — routine, stale, shallow, and some of them were just weird. I went to all of them, and had I been there as a suicidal patient or even an addict, I don’t see how any of it would have helped. However, short-term mental hospitals are designed as a stop-gap and not a solution. Maybe that should change.
What I found interesting is that, while the food was terrible, some thought it was like a fancy restaurant. While the beds were almost torture, those who had no beds thought it was like a nice hotel. And while there were several who were clearly chemically imbalanced, most were just regular people — hurting people. Most were people who had made really bad choices and were now paying the physical, mental and social consequences of those actions. But almost all of them blamed someone else for their situations. It made me sad. I felt helpless.
In a mental hospital and as a patient, you can’t just go around spreading the Gospel of Christ. That’s a good way to extend your stay. So, while people noticed that I never cursed and couldn’t relate to their drug experiences, I didn’t have an opportunity to be any more of a good witness for Christ. I hope that, at the very least, I was a good example in that I was a different kind of person. After my initial shock of being locked up, I didn’t shy away from interacting with anyone — the girl in her early 20s who had been sleeping on a floor for months — the gang banger who was being transferred to a more secure wing because of his disruptions — the vets with PTSD who told me unimaginable stories of their time in the Middle East — the elderly lady who didn’t have a home — the young African American girl who wouldn’t say a word — the kind, gentle man who had been in a traffic accident and had severe brain damage, who couldn’t forgive himself for the death of his godson in that tragedy — the young man with bandages over his slit wrists.
These are “the least of these”, my friends. These are the forgotten. These are the broken. These are the lost. These are the ones that need someone to let them know that — even with their damaged souls — there can be peace in Jesus. Even homeless, addicted, torn, and discarded, they can find love in Jesus.
I could rant and rave about how the Church should do more. I could point the finger at individuals who could help show the Way. I could whine about how I tried to work with church leadership to work with people like this, only to be ignored. I could rail against the government for their childish handling of America’s health system. I could tell you horror stories of terrible doctors. I could blame you, reader.
Instead, I choose to look to God. Instead, I choose to see what I personally can do for these damaged souls. Instead, I’ll take the blame myself, because I know what it’s like to be staring into a dead end. And as I continue to work on the issues I face, in the name of Jesus… I’ll continue to figure out how to help others who have been down that same dark road.