Fuck the Cuckoo's Nest, This is Real Life...

I have spent almost 2 weeks in the Psych Ward. The official name of the unit is Adult Services Unit III/CD. The CD standing for Chemical Dependency.I did not enter this unit due to a necessary detox. In fact I am certain there were no legal or illegal substances in my body that would warrant the "CD" label. I am guessing/hypothesizing that I am on this unit due to my past experiences with chemical dependency. Basically, these are my people. I, of course, am here in the first place for attempting suicide. They were going to keep me somewhere no matter what. It just so happened this ward had an open bed when the ICU needed to kick me out. I was just going to be held here until space opened up on another unit. I fit in so well here they kept me. I am certainly glad they did! I have seen so many things I have never seen before. I have met so many people, the likes of which I never knew existed. I have experienced so many emotions that I am finding exhaustion at the end of the day. I don't want this blog to turn into a run of the mill recounting of the personalities that have crossed my path so if it does, tell me. I want an accurate, touching, funny, heartfelt and REAL tribute to the men and women living and working on this unit.



I will begin at the beginning. I was brought to intake by my ICU nurse and, for some reason, a security guard. I was kind of amused by this because I actually felt more like a VIP than a suicide threat. While I was intake, I was treated well and even given some cookies and soda while I waited. Then it was down to the unit. Here I met Lee. Lee is a Psych Tech on the unit and one of my favorite people that I met. He was smiling and accommodating the entire time I was there. I was surprised to learn later in my stay that he was in his fifties. I would have guessed him my age or younger. One of my favorite fellow "inmates," Laurie, informed me that, "Black men age well." This seemed rather unfair. They already have a well known advantage in the anatomical department and now I learn they have cornered the "aging well" market. Just not right. The next few days proved to be the scariest but most amusing days for me as I got to know the other "inmates..." There was Clif. The "senior" member of the yard both in years and in time on the ward. Clif was the epitome of cantankerous. Racist, bigot and crotchety old fart would be words that well describe this man. Underneath all of that was a scared, depressed, lonely man who had spent a lifetime being confused and misused by those closest to him. I ignored the racist comments. I let the bigotry slide. I paid very close attention to the many tears and soft-spoken cries for help. This man called it as he saw it. Right, wrong or indifferent. There is NEVER anything wrong with that. Maybe his views were skewed. Who am I to judge? Clif disappeared one day. He left for his Electro-Convulsive Therapy (shock treatments) one day and never returned. I miss him. Truly. Warts and all. Next we had Jeffre. Just a kid. Just a baby.At the tender age of 24, Jeffre had been in and out of jail, hospitals, Er's, and doctor's offices in the last 2 years more than most people have been in a lifetime. You see, Jeffre was a mixed-martial arts fighter with quite an attitude problem. He drew a fight on 5 days training and was mismatched with a fighter he had never seen tape on. Needless to say, tragedy struck. The other fighter managed to place several knee shots to Jeffre's face. His facial bones were shattered. Many surgeries later, he found himself in constant pain. This was due to nerve damage he suffered as a result of the bones fusing together. The nerve damage caused him to twitch and shake like a Parkinson's patient 4 times his age.When he was able to keep his eyes open, which was very rarely, I found him to be sweet, pleasant, scared and extremely depressed. I could not help but to feel for him. Doctors pumped him full of pain meds to the point that they all but stopped working. Typical of people in his position, he turned to other ways to control the pain. Namely heroin. This poor kid didn't stand a chance. It broke my heart every time I laid eyes on him. I am quite sure he would never want my pity. I never showed him any. I just nodded knowingly and tried very hard to just be a friend. Jeffre related well to another "junkie," as he called himself, Max. Another hard case heroin addict. This kid was never comfortable while he was here. In and out of jail and hooked on that evil drug, he stood little chance of seeing his 30th birthday. All he talked about during his stay was drugs. What he used to do. What he wanted to be doing. What he was going to do when he got out. There is no other way to feel for this kid but sad. Nice family. World at his feet. Beautiful fiancee'... and all he could think about was that poison. Not to mention the system deemed him cured of his needs after just 3 days. LONG before, in my unprofessional opinion, he should have been. I have it on good authority that Max scored some "H" within hours of his release. Now we have to talk about the most colorful "inmate," Jack. Or as I called him, Jack-Jack.... Jack-Jack stood 6 feet 7 inches. He was all but skin and bones. His hair was long, stringy and poorly dyed black. His mouth was filled with sparse and rotting teeth. His eyes were a constant red and his skin was the very picture of sallow. He was, for all intents and purposes, a complete wreck. Jack-Jack was in here to detox from alcohol. I have never, in my 35 years on this planet, ever seen a man or woman in his condition. The way he looked, the way he acted, the babbling incoherently, the inability to maneuver his lanky frame all said to me that he was a strung out meth, crack and heroin junkie. Not the case at all. Jack-Jack loved beer. That was it. Beer. In AA we are taught that alcohol is "cunning, baffling and powerful." Jack-Jack was living proof. He was the poster child for the evils of alcohol. It took him 3 whole days to be able to walk on his own, talk coherently, and function as a human being. Even at that, he was just barely. During his "drying out" period there was only 1 time I saw a glimmer in his eye. It was when I asked if he was a musician. Something about him made me suspect it was so and he lit up like a Christmas Tree when I broached the subject. Being as how this was his incoherent period, the conversation was garbled and short. This notwithstanding, I still managed to touch a nerve that did his poor soul some good. Even after his detox was "over," it was still abundantly clear that Jack-Jack had done a tremendous amount of damage to his brain. One fellow "inmate," Tim, remarked, "His brain is definitely damp, if not wet all the way." So sad to see. On his release date, Jack-Jack's son came along with his wife to pick him up. Such a cute little 3 year old boy. Bright eyed and bushy tailed. Loves his Daddy. That much was obvious. I hope, with all of my heart, that Jack-Jack makes it in the cruel world. I suppose I should talk about Tim being as how I just quoted him. I need to really share the story of this amazing gentleman. At first glance, with his trademark yellow shirt and red sweats, you might guess Tim to be a college professor on his day off. He stands well over six feet tall and spots an impressive shock of silver hair that fits him like a glove. Then he opens his mouth and you would swear he was "Ivy League Professor Man." The witticisms and and quips he spews forth would make you swear he just walked off of Harvard's campus. Nothing could be further from the truth. He is a retired, journeyman electrician with a high school education. At least, that's what he was before substance abuse and severe clinical depression got their terrible claws into him. He was forced to go in and out of so many hospitals and treatment centers that he actually uses the "express lane." This is neither an exaggeration nor a slam on Tim. I say this to emphasize the scope of these diseases and conditions. No one is immune. Young, old, black, white. People of all walks. People from all different places. They need help... We need help... I need help... Living inside these walls has afforded me the privilege of seeing all of these types of people on a day to day basis. I have seen the group of 24 change over completely 4 different times. In these turnovers, I have found several people who don't really need to be here. They are just here for 3 hots and a cot. Literally, these men and women have nothing wrong with them except the inability to take care of themselves. They stroll into an emergency room and threaten suicide. From there, regardless, they are whisked off to the deluxe accommodations of a mental health facility where they receive food, shelter and drugs. Most of the time, this is at our expense. "Our" being the taxpayer. These people come in and out of these places so often that they actually become addicted to the drugs they are administered. They detox off of the street drugs they are using then they need to detox off of the prescription drugs making the whole scene a vicious cycle that the average working stiff has to pick up the tab for! It is to the point that state funded health care won't help those who really need it. It just helps those who want free drugs and food. I won't name any of these leeches. I think putting their names in this blog would only serve to give them a chance to sue me. Believe me, if there was a way, these folks would find it. So, I will leave these denizens of the detox centers well alone. Back to the characters.... I'd like to spend a few moments discussing the staff. These amazing men and women have not only helped me feel better about myself but they have also maintained a level of professionalism unmatched in any field. The pre-dawn duo of Steven and Brian helped start every day off right. Always ready with a smile and truly interested in making things tolerable. Brian with his delivery service and Steven with his understanding of our needs. Katie, my night nurse (more often than not), should get a medal for keeping me sane among the insane. Her smile and pointed questions, combined with her genuine concern for my well-being, kept me alive and kicking during my 2+ weeks in the house. I really wish I could devote pages to all of the incredible people on this ward but I would write myself to death. Suffice it to say they all deserve an enthusiastic "Thumbs Up!" I would be remiss if I did not single out Vicki. She was one of the activity therapy specialists and possibly one of my favorite ladies here. We clicked almost instantly in a way that thrilled me. We had an adversarial but loving relationship. The kind of repartee I truly enjoy. I had a great deal of difficulty deciding whether or not to talk about this last staff member.... Sonya.... Beautiful, demure, sexy, sharp-tongued, intelligent, funny, assertive, sensitive, direct, efficient and just all around HHHHOOOOTTTTT Sonya!!!! I know what you are thinking. How can I possibly view a woman in such a light considering my suicide attempt had a great deal to do with the loss of the woman of my dreams? First of all, since I never heard from said dream girl the entire time I was on the ward, I figure it safe to say there is nothing left there. Secondly, my attraction to Sonya is, for the most part, quite surface. She is presently involved. We have, what amounts to, a clinical relationship. She the Psych Tech, me the patient. Not to mention the fact that I have sworn my heart to only one person should she ever want it and should I ever give it away for real. I bring up and speak about Sonya now because my attraction to her gives me hope that some day I may find someone, somewhere. I know now that due to my most recent mistake that only 100% honesty will work. Nothing short of absolute disclosure will do. Should I EVER (and it's doubtful) decide to enter into a relationship of some kind, I must practice full disclosure. No questions. It's imperative that I succumb to only honesty. That is all of the staff that I feel I can write about but I wish I could write about them all. Alas, I cannot. Needless to say, none of them will be forgotten. They are all unique and colorful and deserve my thanks. The last "inmate" I am going talk about is Wayne. We had similar stories that brought us to the unit but we came from VERY different backgrounds. I was raised in AZ in a nuclear, picture perfect family of 4. Wayne came from a large, disjointed and dysfunctional family that resided in Pennsylvania. Wayne moved to AZ less than a year ago and has 8 years of sobriety and clean time. He is a widower and single father.Wayne found himself on the ward due to severe suicidal thoughts. He felt as if his world was quickly crashing around him and rather than making a poor choice, he chose to get safe. He found safety in the halls of the ward. He quickly, and effortlessly, fell into a leadership role in almost every activity and aspect of daily life. A short man with NO Napoleonic complex and the heart of a lion. The kind of guy you'd love to have in your corner. He came across as a scrapper. That guy that would use a cheap shot if he needed to gain an advantage. All around, a great guy. A big support. A helping hand and a good ear. I hope I can stay in touch with Wayne on the outside. I know we could both use each other. Okay, so there it is. Some of the highlights.... If you can call them that.... I cannot say my time here was enjoyable. I also cannot say it was a complete waste of time. I truly feel as though I have grown. I am quite sure that I am healing. Was this place my salvation? Was it the beginning of the end? Only the higher power knows.....