ANAMEMOIR

Saturday, the first night. I was rushed to the hospital, but no nearby facilities could accept me because we needed an S2-licensed psychiatrist. My family was advised to take me straight to the NCMH (National Center for Mental Health). They saved my life.

I was nearly intubated and electroshocked…it was that life-threatening, my mother said. This is literally my second life, yet I don’t remember most of what happened…

I just recall waking up confused about where I was and why there were so many tubes connected to my body. At one point, I even pulled out my IV, leaving blood all over my bed and the floor. I tried to pull out my catheter, too, but..damn…that hurt so much and I couldn’t do it. (If you know what a catheter is, you know!) My closest cousin, who works in a hospital, even teased me about it when she saw it.

The nurses gave me multiple doses of activated charcoal. I didn’t care what I was drinking… I was just so thirsty. No matter how black it was. My arms were covered in bruises, likely from all the injections and tests.

By the second day, Sunday, my ward mate, Aryan, was singing and screaming at the top of her lungs. I acted shocked, which prompted the nurses to tell me not to engage with her during her episodes. I was just being playful, though! We talked about a lot of random things, but I’m pretty sure neither of us understood the other… probably because we were both so unstable.

I was craving solid meals, but all I got was a liquid diet during my first two day stay at the ER pav 7. Thank God jelly ace exists…I even got multiple lunches with jellies only. They are considered a “liquid diet.” I consider jelly aces as solid food!

Monday, the third day. Aryan was still my only ward mate, and I felt safe with her. It was just the two of us, despite the other three empty beds in our area. She continued to scream her songs. Sometimes, I’d “diagnose” her with schizophrenia and narcissism, but deep down, I think she just wanted her family to come for her and for the nurses to stay by her side all the time. She craved constant attention, something providers in a public psych ward simply can’t give.

Tuesday, the fourth day. Life was still relatively easy. It was still just Aryan and me. (Psychiatric hospitals are not that bad at all….I thought)

My bed also sits right next to the oxygen tank station. Every time the nurses move them, the metal clinks and clangs, creating a melodic ringing that makes me feel as though I’ve been transported to Tibetan temples.

Wednesday, the fifth day. Shitty things happen randomly. Out of the eleven patients in our pavilion wing, seven got a fever…Aryan among them. Then, one by one, patients in our wing began to pass away. (or perhaps this is what a normal experience in the ER is like) Some live…some don’t. We gained a third ward mate: “Doorknob Mother.” She literally had a doorknob stuck on her finger and needed surgery to amputate it due to a severe infection. She sang loudly, too.

The sixth day. We got a fourth ward mate, El, who could speak clearly like I do. The nurses were constantly checking our blood pressure and temperatures. Suddenly, at 2:00 AM, Aryan was rushed out of our ward. I didn’t know why at first, only that she had a fever. I cried uncontrollably as I watched the doctors and nurses prepare to intubate her. She was my first friend there…the only one who made me feel safe aside from healthcare providers. As we were separated, I kept repeating the mantra: “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” Aryan was only 1 year younger than me.

Aryan didn’t survive whatever disease she caught. That was the moment I knew I had to get out. My brothers had visited me for six straight days, and on that sixth day, I begged my eldest brother to help me get released immediately. I couldn’t handle it anymore…my traumas were multiplying by the second. Luckily, my psychiatrist and the nurses liked me and believed I was ready for the outside world. I passed the interviews with the “higher-ups,” and I was cleared to leave.

I can live my second life for you, too, Aryan.
My hands are shaking nonstop…I was traumatized. But I have to try to be optimistic. I’m back in the world now, with an appointment for outpatient follow-ups.

I will live. But please….anyone who love me? help me go back to reality if I will lose control again…

PS. My psychiatrist actually agreed with me when I mentioned the flaws in the system. Politics. It’s always politics. Without the corruption, perhaps things would have ended differently. (But they have great meals…I loved my breakfast and dinner meals.)