28/04/2025
I don't want you to be scared of the psych ward!
I said in my last post that I'll be posting more about the psych ward, as I've probably been in different inpatient facilities around 30 times. I've never been in an American psych facility, but I've heard the stories. All I can tell you is about my experiences in Sweden, where things seem to be very different, but I still hope it will help you find the courage to seek help if things get bad.
This picture is from February 2024, the beginning of what turned out to be a 3 month stay. I was in one of the toughest units in the region, where they treat the patients with the more serious conditions. Initially I needed to be there, but even after I improved, I requested to stay instead of being moved to a "calmer" unit. I had gotten to know the staff well, and seeing the sicker patients didn't bother me. The rules are much stricter, but I could live with them. I'm glad I stayed, because it taught me so much about humans. At first, my personal "policy" was to not interact with other patients, but they started approaching me, and I opened up, and they did the same. I ridded myself of so many preconceived notions about mentally ill people. I used to think, "I'm crazy, but I'm not THAT bad". But none of them are "bad".
I saw people with severe schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, borderline and bipolar disorder much more severe than mine, dementia, anxiety so bad they could barely function, the kind of OCD you see in movies, and so much more. The kind of people you instinctively stay away from when you see them in public. They could get violent outbursts, hurt themselves, end up restrained and injected with sedatives after needing to be held down by 5 staff members, walk around with potted plants in their arms while talking and singing to them, strip naked in the common room and not understand the problem with that... But when they talked to me, I saw the human side of them come out. We could connect, and I could see that they were just like you, me, the cashier that works at the grocery store, your aunt, the Amazon delivery lady, your mom, the neighbor down the street, your local politician that finally got that broken stop light fixed after three years. They were all people, with extra demons haunting their souls.
I talked to a guy who would walk the halls in the middle of the night, angrily and loudly arguing with his dead father, and calling himself nasty names behind me in the lunch line, but when we talked, I saw a regular guy. He talked about his apartment, a city we both used to live in, his family, my animals, and what he likes to do in his free time. He told me that the voices aren't him, but they have gotten so loud that he's not sure which thoughts are his and which are theirs anymore, and that's why he can't help but to argue with them. He told me he's so alone. He's a very social person and craves being around others, so he walks the streets of his (and my former) small town every day, going to cafés and the library, but no one will talk to him, and people cross the street when they see him arguing with himself. He said it meant the world to him that I sat down and talked to him like a normal person and that hasn't happened in years. We talked every day after that, and he became much more lucid over the weeks, and was able to check himself out. He hugged me goodbye and said said it was in large part thanks to me that the voices had quieted down. I'll never forget him, because he changed my perspective on mental illness forever, in a huge way. If we just treat people as equals, they will feel equal, and that can make a larger impact on their lives than we can ever imagine.
He wasn't the only one. I learned how to interact with dementia patients, so much so that I started teaching the nurses, since most of them hadn't received proper training. I also helped, among others, two 18-year-old girls with severe problems who were terrified at the fact that they have been moved from the children's unit to the toughest adult ward. I helped them relax and feel at home. Having eventually been the patient who had been there the longest by far, I almost felt like I took on a mother role, helping new patients with advice on getting settled and taking their first steps towards recovery. What to say to the doctors when they had their meetings to help describe their mental state, how to connect the shower hose that you're only allowed to borrow for 20 minutes, the secret that some of the nurses will sell you ci******es and snus if your "surveillance level" won't allow you to leave the unit, breathing techniques that really do calm the anxiety, that you can actually have a phone charger in your room if you buy one ten centimeters or shorter (they don't tell you that), what you have to do and say when you feel you're ready to be released. All of this helped me in my own recovery.
The reason for this picture is that this particular stint is when I discovered art, pencil drawing in particular. I had purchased supplies for drawing with the intention of learning a long time ago, but in typical ADHD fashion, I got all excited about a project and bought the stuff, just to never start it. But on my first night, I started doodling on some printer paper with a dull pencil I borrowed from a nurse assistant. It made me want to do more. I asked my husband to find and bring my untouched art supplies the next day, and after that, nothing could stop me. After lights out at 10, I'd draw in my room, but for the most part, my art supplies and I were a permanent fixture in the common room. The staff loved seeing me out and being social after a week of refusing to come out of my room, and I loved when everyone, patients and staff alike, would come by often to see what I was working on that particular day. "Whose cat is that? Wow, I love the detail in the fur! You're really improving! Look how much better you've gotten at shading! Can you teach me to draw like that? What do you mean, you've just started learning? It looks like you've been doing this for years! Can you draw me something? You should start selling your art! Have you considered an electric eraser? You're inspiring me to start drawing again!".
One day, one of my favorite doctors, who I've known for many years, but doesn't work in that ward, came by to visit me. He's a special type. Not very many people are fond of him because he's so strict and raw, and never holds back on saying what he thinks. But that's what I like about him. I offered to draw a portrait of him after showing a sketch of him. He accepted, but was very particular with his demands. I worked on that portrait for a week! I went through half an eraser on that thing. Staff were particularly interested in seeing progress on the portrait of the notoriously picky, perfectionist doctor. The day I nervously handed it over to him, everyone suddenly "just remembered" they had something to do in the common room, so they could see what he thought. He loved it!
I drew so many portraits and pictures during those three months, many of which I kept, some of which I gave away to patients and staff who kindly asked for them. Drawing slowed down my anxious mind, which was otherwise running at over top sp*ed. It helped better than the excessive doses of benzos they gave me. In fact, I stopped benzos because they affected my drawing. When I came home, I kept drawing. I haven't drawn a whole lot the past year, but I do still get my pad and pencils out on occasion. I look back on my old drawings, which I will share with you later, and see how much I've improved since then, but I love every pencil stroke on every single one of them because they all symbolize that I won my incredibly difficult fight to get out of that place alive.
![Bean today, as soon as I showed up: "Mamma, remember when we went to Leo's Lekland [big indoor playground]? I had so muc...](https://img4.medioq.com/282/056/122114787782820561.jpg)
