Six Days at Bryn Mawr

Days like today are the worst. They start out on a great note but eventually things fall apart in my head and the clock seems to count down the hours to a crushing void within me. I’ve had countless days like this in my life, some better, and more that were far worse than today. That doesn’t seem to change a thing however and every single time it feels like a stitched wound being slowly pried open. I know there’s nothing I can really do when this happens but it never stops me from trying. Today, I went to Necklace Road and stood there staring at the Hussain Sagar for a very long time. It didn’t really help me much but it brought a lot of old memories to the surface. I remembered the 6 days I spent at the Bryn-Mawr in-patient psychiatric unit.

I left for the USA immediately after the 12th grade to study in the West Chester University of Pennsylvania. I had a great first semester despite my trouble adjusting to a new culture and an utter lack of social skills. I started feeling the weight of all of it towards the end of my first semester but somehow I managed to see it through and register myself for the spring semester. I started losing energy and focus as the days progressed and depression was taking hold of me. Suicidal ideation had firmly entrenched itself within my head and every aspect of my life was in shambles. Utterly bewildered by the entire thing, I confessed to my Aunt and I was taken to the emergency room at Paoli Hospital and that’s where the little adventure began.

I was ushered into a room by an understanding looking rotund woman who spoke to me gently and asked me pointed questions about how I was ‘feeling’. I told her and she left me to go speak to my Aunt and after a few minutes of conferring, both of them came to me and the nurse informed me that I would be put in an in-patient psychiatric unit for a few days until I felt better. I was dumbstruck by this suggestion and for a few minutes all I could do was to gape at them pitifully, pleading with my eyes not to do this to me. In my head, psychiatric units were places where people with serious mental disorders were confined and I felt like I didn’t belong in such a place. Having come to the realization that they were utterly serious, I weakly protested and told them that there was no way I’d go to a psychiatric unit. The gentle lady adopted a very forceful and determined expression and bluntly told me that at this point of time I had no say in the situation and I’d be taken there, with or without my consent. I turned to my Aunt and I saw no solace there. I bowed my head and surrendered and waited for my imminent ‘transfer’ to the facility.

I was left in the emergency room while my Aunt hastily went back home, packed a bag for me, and got back. The entire hospital scene was a blur in eyes and I had shut myself off completely from all external stimuli. I just sat there blankly staring at a set of medical instruments and then my Aunt got back and the nurse escorted the both of us out to the car and told me that everything would be just fine; I wanted to throttle her. The ride to Bryn Mawr was a silent one and I spent it looking out the window at the cars passing by on the highway. A part of me refused to believe that all of this was happening and I couldn’t bear to bring myself back to reality and really experience what was going on or consider the implications of it all. And then we reached Bryn Mawr.

I don’t really remember the walk to the facility. All I remember is being in the car one moment and the next moment staring up at two huge yellow doors with reinforced looking glass and a metal grill over them. This did nothing to help my perception of the place and my heart was racing standing there at the entrance waiting to enter the fortress of gloom. We were buzzed in and a young African American nurse walked out to greet us. She had my Aunt fill some forms and then ushered her out telling her that I’d be just fine and that there was no need to worry. My Aunt turned to give me one last forlorn look and then she was gone. I felt forsaken.

My bag and I were shown to the tiny room. There was a small bed opposite to the door and a small cupboard. I noticed that sharp objects were conspicuously absent and I fell asleep; my first night at the psychiatric unit. I woke up the next day and I was taken to the psychiatrist for an evaluation. After a lengthy session the psychiatrist finally diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder Type 2 and explained to me the medication that I would be put on and then outlined to me what my next few days in the hospital would entail. He asked me if I had any questions and all I could think of was, “When can I get out?” “When it’s time for you to”, was the only reply that was forthcoming. I was officially a checked in patient of the facility.

The next couple of days were spent getting adjusted to the ways of the facility. In many respects the unit was nothing short of a prison. There was a fixed schedule with hours that one needed to strictly adhere to. There were also bars on the windows and sometimes, our rooms were searched randomly. There were activities that we were forced to participate in, therapy sessions that we needed to attend, and pathetic attempts at inspiring socializing between locked up patients. We also got good points for falling in line and doing all of these things and these good points could be redeemed later on in exchange for freedoms that the ordinary person wouldn’t spare a thought about. Initially I was stubborn and aloof but I realized that the sooner I fell in line and acted like it was all working, the sooner I’d get out so I started playing along.

I grew up with an alcoholic father and apparently this is a fairly common variable when it comes to patients of major depressive disorders so I was put in a dual diagnosis therapy group where all of us had alcoholic fathers and we sat down and talked about our feelings. I spoke about my childhood in a monotone and had everyone commiserating with me. It made no difference to me to speak about my childhood or my depression but I saw how important it was for many others to speak and more importantly, to be heard. I felt guilty a lot of times back then because of my lack of sincerity during those therapy sessions. I had art therapy, did Rorschach tests and also took the TAT (Thematic Apperception Test) among other things. I was also put on a mood stabilizer (Lithium) and an anti-depressant (SSRI) and had a blood test every day to check for the level of lithium in my blood. I played the part of a good patient and attended all the therapy sessions and took all my meds at the right time. My reward was that I could go on a supervised walk for 15 minutes around the hospital and breathe in the fresh air and feel the sunshine. Freedom was really put into perspective for me there.

A very significant aspect of my stay there was the interaction I had with my fellow patients. I had the opportunity, for the space of a few days, to get to know them through their reasons to be at the facility. There was Zoe, a waitress who was fired from her job, Frank, a middle aged truck driver abandoned by his family, Robert, a businessman suffering from neurosis, Ashley, a teenager and a cutter, Debbie, a housewife and many other people. All of us came from different walks of life and some of the experiences that I had with them have changed me for life. I’ll try to recollect some experience to shed some light on some of the minor epiphanies that I experienced there.
I first met Zoe at my dual diagnosis therapy session. She was a tall, stocky, redhead who always seemed to be smiling. At first glance she seemed utterly out of place and it was only in the sessions that I came to realize how much she was at home here. Zoe was an orphan who was shifted around a lot in foster homes and had a very fragmented childhood and adolescence. Apparently she had incidences of alcoholism occur very early in her life and she grew up to a hard life. She had always struggled with depression and she had been trying to get her life together with the job as a waitress but when she got fired, it pushed over the edge. She swallowed a lot of pills but her roommate called 911 and she eventually ended up at Bryn Mawr. She was there before me and she played a major role in helping me adjust there. She had a very dark outlook about life but she managed to find humour in it, she left a couple of days before I did and I missed her very much then. I haven’t heard of her since.

The recreation room in the unit was right opposite the dining room and it had a piano, a ping pong table, and a few chairs and tables with board games haphazardly strewn about. I first saw Frank sitting at the piano one of the evenings we were doing our activities. He was a thin middle aged man with glasses and at first glance he looked more like a professor than anything else. He was very mild mannered and soft spoken. When I got to talking to him I found out that he was a truck driver who got laid off because of his depression and he came to Bryn Mawr almost the same way I did. He told me over many conversations about his life and how his wife and children had abandoned him after they found him too tedious to put up with. He told me that he lived alone and that he looked forward to dying. The calmness with which he uttered these words will always haunt me. It was the first time I was witness to such an abject lack of hope. During one of our conversations he strolled up and walked over to the piano and started playing Beethoven’s Fur Elise. Speaking all the while, he played a little of Mozart, a little of Paganini and some Beatles to boot. My jaw hit the floor and I came to understand that he was a classically trained pianist blessed with perfect pitch. Often, after dinner I would see him at the piano playing silent notes, always lost in thoughts, a weary expression on his face. He was still there the day I left and he was very happy for me. I asked him to take care and all he said was that life would take care of him eventually. I never heard from him again.

Debbie came in a couple of days after I did. She was a thin attractive female in her late 20’s. She was very nervous initially but she warmed to me eventually after discovering that I played the guitar. She was a housewife and her husband was an investment banker and they had a son together. She told me that she had struggled with depression for a few years now and that it was affecting her domestic life. There had been huge fights within the household and she was forced into coming to Bryn Mawr. She could play the guitar as well and we did Beatles songs together in the recreation room and those moments are some of the happiest in my life. She was deemed stable and left two days before I did; the same as Zoe. Before leaving she gave me her number and after I got out of the unit I gave her a call. Her husband picked up the phone and asked me who I was, in a very rude tone. When I told him, there was silence for a few moments, and then he told me that he didn’t need Debbie to be talking to the likes of me and told me never to call again. My mind was a blank as I cut the call and in that moment I felt the full depth of the stigma that mental disorders have in society. I never called back again.

There are many more memories of the people I came in contact with there. I remember playing Ping Pong with Robert for hours on end. I remember trying to cheer up Ashley and watch her tears run down onto her scarred hands. I remember the paranoid schizophrenic lady who never bathed and stole my chocolate pudding twice. I remember the guy with delusions of grandeur; I remember another with severe OCD, and many more with debilitating depression. We played board games together, we bowled in the hallways, we enjoyed the 15 minute walks together, and each one of us suffered the pain of a farewell when we watched someone leave that day. My stay in Bryn Mawr had far reaching consequences in my life but all I can think about, even to this day, are the people I knew there. I wonder if Zoe has a job now, if Frank’s still alive even, and if Debbie is that perfect mother that she was expected to be. I hated the therapy sessions, the closed doors, the medicines, the rigid schedules, and the general atmosphere of the hospital but what I hated the most was the fact that I formed bonds with people in those 6 days and I’ll never have closure as far as they are concerned. And on days like today, the memories float up to the surface and form the black eyesore on a lake of chaos. I hate days like these...