Have you ever just needed a break? Some time to get rid of the stress and anxiety that makes you feel like you’re slowly losing your mind? I did. And I did it in the most extreme way possible, because I’m just that kind of girl.
I won’t bore you with the details of why my anxiety got out of control, mostly because they just sound like White Girl Problems when I say them out loud. Regardless of the source of one’s anxiety, the important part is that there are psychological, physiological, and social ramifications of allowing anxiety to spiral out of control like I did. I was gradually ruining my life and I was taking those closest to me down the rabbit hole as well.
I’m genetically predisposed to panic attacks, but they tend to only rear their ugly heads about twice a year, and usually for a good reason. My panic attacks began to increase in frequency a few months ago, and they were happening for no apparent reason. I frantically told my therapist that I needed help. I talked myself into thinking I was going crazy and that I was having a psychotic break. My therapist encouraged me to make my own decisions about what needed to be done about getting back to feeling like myself – and I decided that what I needed was a trip to outpatient therapy at a local mental hospital.
When I imagined outpatient therapy, I saw a pool, spa food, and a lot of talking about my feelings. Basically, I pictured celebrity-caliber drug rehab. Outpatient therapy is nothing like that. In fact, the other name for outpatient therapy is “partial hospitalization.” My first day of treatment, I showed up to a decrepit old mental hospital that was clearly haunted. I sat in the waiting area before our day was supposed to begin, and others slowly filed in. One woman stretched herself out across a plastic couch and proceeded to yip and yell things out. Another woman mumbled to herself in the corner. I sat there reading, trying to look like I was just waiting for a crazy friend.
When a nurse called me, we went up to the floor where we would be for the day. We passed through a large room with people coloring and a woman dancing like Richard Simmons to the oldies radio station. I was told to turn in my cell phone until “phone time,” and off we went for the in-processing interview. Most of the interview consisted of the nurse asking behavioral questions and me saying, “What? People do that?” She asked about impulsive behavior, and it made me think. I started a Ph.D. program on a whim and I tend to be all like, “Let’s go to Norway tomorrow!” (that actually happened) – but apparently none of that counts. It seems that impulsive behavior, no matter how weird and how much your parents and friends give you the side-eye, only counts if you can’t afford it. Apparently socioeconomic status always reigns supreme.
Our morning group session was already in progress when I got out of the interview. I grabbed a seat and a worksheet and tried to catch up. The worksheet had questions about goals for the day, our feelings, and our “safety level.” I figured that my goal was to figure out what this whole deal was about, and I guessed I was somewhat safe, making me a 5 on the scale of 0-10, 10 being safest. Others around me talked with difficulty about their goals for the day – many of which were making psychiatry appointments and taking meds. Group members tentatively rated themselves at moderate safety levels. Everyone was kind and welcoming to me, and for that I was extremely grateful.
The day continued with group sessions on various topics, and during the sessions, people were pulled out for social worker and psychiatrist appointments. The group discussions were fascinating – these people were really hurting and they were scared for themselves and their own safety. In one group session, we discussed anger. I got to thinking that, sure, I get angry sometimes. I had to take an online aggressive driving course a few years ago. And I once threw a fit in a McDonalds when they were out of parfaits. But by the time I focused back on the discussion, we were talking about punching through bulletproof glass, scaring family members away, and being arrested for angry outbursts. They got to me and I had nothing interesting to add about my anger. It was like that scene in Mean Girls when the girls are listing everything that’s wrong with their appearances and Cady says, “Um, I have really bad breath in the morning.” While I was enjoying hearing people talk about their situations, I felt that I wasn’t really in the right place and that I shouldn’t have the privilege of hearing their stories.
Throughout the day, it because even clearer that I was not a candidate for “partial hospitalization.” I felt like an imposter and almost like a field researcher as people yelled out, wandered the room, cried, danced, and discussed the breakdowns that had led them to the hospital. I began to freak out all Girl, Interrupted style. During phone time, I frantically texted my therapist to get me out of there. I grabbed a nurse and pulled her aside telling her I needed to get out – these people were crazy. In hindsight, I looked insane when I was telling the nurse how sane I was. My panic escalated to its apex when we had our wrap-up meeting to plan for the weekend. Most people’s goals were to stay safe and to have some form of social contact, like going to the grocery store. I also learned that “safety level” didn’t mean something new-agey and warm and fuzzy; it was a scale indicating the likelihood that we would harm ourselves or others. So, there I was, not knowing all day that those people around me with safety levels of a 2 or 3 were likely to hurt themselves or shank me with a color pencil.
I was so in over my head. Being (partially) hospitalized is a new level. Even the most calm, “normal” person would come out of a day of outpatient therapy having over-analyzed herself and thinking she may be crazy. I left the hospital feeling shell-shocked. However, I won’t lie about taking advantage of the mental patient status. There is a sense of freedom and being able to do whatever I wanted because I was technically a mental patient. It was a license to be weird. But, all good things must come to an end. On Sunday, I notified the hospital that I wouldn’t be coming back.
Though I skewed toward the dramatic by checking into an outpatient program for my anxiety, I learned valuable information from my day as a mental patient. Most importantly, I learned that my anxiety – though sometimes emotionally and physiologically painful – is not in the realm of crazy. In fact, I’m not sure there’s really a solid definition for crazy. For now, I’m going to go with neurotic and delightfully eccentric, or just Kelly.
