CHAPTER 86

2025-09-11

The first week of June 2019 was one of the darkest chapters of my life.

The psychiatric hospital I was admitted to was housed in an old, decaying building. Its shabby condition matched my shattered self-image perfectly. “Moldy” is the word that comes to mind, and the first week there was the hardest of all.

There was no air conditioning. The men’s showers were run-down, unhygienic, and drafty, with broken windows that let in the cold wind and left me shivering. The other patients were uncooperative—sometimes out of carelessness, sometimes deliberately—dirtying the floors and filling the place with stench.

As a newcomer, I assumed everyone else had been there much longer, so I kept to myself, cautious not to offend or attract trouble. After a week, however, when newer patients arrived, I realized I was no longer “the rookie.” That shift in status, small as it was, gave me a measure of confidence.

New patients were required to wear hospital-issued clothes and non-slip socks. Those who behaved well and participated actively in activities could “earn upgrades”: permission to wear their own clothes and slippers, smoke outside, stroll with visitors, or even buy snacks.

When I first arrived, the nurses hadn’t yet given me proper socks. I rummaged in the laundry room and found a pair of clear plastic shoe covers, which I wore like socks. Two days later, a fellow patient noticed me still walking around in what looked like plastic bags. “Poor guy,” he muttered, then went straight to the nurse’s station and secured a real pair of non-slip socks for me.

At one point, I tried doing my laundry in the hospital machines. Unfamiliar with how they worked, I wasted a lot of time. Soon after, my wife began bringing me fresh clothes. I hadn’t brought a razor when I was admitted—truthfully, I didn’t have the will to care about my appearance. Later, my wife brought my shaving kit. Because razors were considered sharp instruments, they had to be stored in the office, and I had to sign them out for use. A week in, I finally found the energy to tidy myself up.

From day one, my wife visited me daily, which eased my anxiety enormously. Friends followed soon after. Their presence reassured me I hadn’t been abandoned. When I was first admitted, I had the paranoid thought that my wife and younger son had conspired to put me there and then walk away. Realizing I had been wrong about them was deeply important.

Looking back, I believe that regular visits and steady interaction from family and friends are vital. They help stop a patient’s mind from spiraling into suspicion. One nurse often told me, “Your brain is tricking you. Don’t believe it.” That advice carried more truth than I realized at the time.

The greatest torment during that first week was the medication side effects. One drug constipated me, another gave me diarrhea. The contradiction was agonizing. I constantly felt the urge to go but couldn’t, making countless trips to the restroom. Within days, I had to use an external container—twice during my stay. It felt as if I were carrying a briefcase everywhere like a traveling salesman. Later, I contracted a bacterial infection, needed antibiotics, and, ironically, those caused diarrhea too.

For psychiatric patients, the psychological burden is already crushing. Add to that the physical toll of side effects and the complications they bring, and it becomes almost unbearable. Fortunately, after the first week, the “wrong” medications were stopped, and recovery finally began. Slowly, I started to come back to myself. (End)

(Postscript: The old hospital building I stayed in was already slated for demolition at the time. A new facility was nearly complete, and it officially opened in July 2020.)