#inpatient psychiatric hospitalization

[neuroticboyfriend]

not that people who've been to the ward are immune from being pro-psych, but if you've never been to a psych ward*, i sincerely don't want to hear about how psychiatry/psychology is good because you've had such a good experience with X provider, or X medication saved your life. *i also don't want to hear about how the forced treatment was what you needed or how the ward you went to let you have your cellphone etc. etc. i genuinely do not want to hear it.

like. the first hospitalization traumatized me so bad, i became dangerously delusional, was re-hospitalized, and sent to state. when they transferred me, i was strapped down into a gurney at all points on my body, *head and neck included*, and loaded onto an ambulance. my parents lost most of their parental rights; i was a ward of the state and had near zero rights. when i got there, they made me choose if, "if necessary," if i wanted to be wrangled down and forcibly injected with a sedative... or wrangled down and locked in a padded room all by myself (but at least i had a choice, right?). i signed consents and paperwork that i did not fucking understand. then i was told i'd be locked inside for 2 straight weeks (which yes, they followed through with). the psych ward was remote, nothing but barbed fences and trees around us. cant even see the sun through the heavily tinted windows. that was the *start* of the stay. i'm sure you can imagine nothing good came after.

so like. if you walk out of a place like that thinking it was good for you, then i can only imagine how traumatized you are and i hope you heal someday. but if you've never faced the destruction of your autonomy like that and go around being like "oh this is good actually" then shut the ever living fuck up.

[cranialgames]

Not that I’ve realised the anniversary of my transfer into the acute psych ward will be this week I’ve got so many conflicting thoughts and emotions about it all resurfacing and like bruh I’m just trying to get used to adding beta blockers to my medical cocktail

The thing that hits most — and I didn’t really intend for this to be a long post but what else is a blog for — is how much I miss it? I miss the other patients I was there with, I miss the structure and routine of each day and the set mealtimes and the set activity times and I miss lining up for tea and biscuits at 8 and 10 pm each day like those things were my cornerstones for just under four weeks and if I separate the messy stuff they were probably the most relaxing and settled four weeks of my post adolescent life and everything about independent living is so fucking hard but it shouldn’t be hard and it was hard before I was a mum let alone how hard it is now that I have to be independent for Tom as well as myself

Everything out here feels like such an endless Sisyphean mess and on top of it I’m so lonely, like all the time, and I’m lucky that I still have my family but how is it fair that I’m lonely too how is it fair that the only place that I felt like I fit in and has ever made sense to me is somewhere that likely will never admit me as a patient again regardless of how desperately I might need it

[opaline-gemme]

I feel loved🥲

[weirdworldofwinnie]

A Safe Way Out

Jonathan Breech x Female Reader (NSFW 18+ only)

Summary: You're a very shy patient at the psychiatric hospital and the newest inpatient part of the therapy group has to be the cutest man you've ever seen, and he takes an interest in you, but he's not quite as innocent as he looks.

Word Count: ~3,384

Warnings: Smut (unprotected sex), loss of virginity/innocent reader, cum squirting, oral (fem receiving), mental illness, past trauma, talk of depression and suicide, some angst, language

Disclaimer: This just fantasy/fiction, I do not own anything from the 2001 Irish film On the Edge starring Cillian Murphy.

Breech, Jonathan.

He was surely the prettiest person you'd ever witnessed admitted to this institution that he could make both men and even women jealous, even though his pajamas were ill-fittingly too short and he had a cocky attitude that didn't go unnoticed by the staff and other patients, but he wasn't a total asshole... at least you hoped.

At the couple of group therapy sessions he attended he was rebellious, giving the always tired (but very patient) Dr. Figure grief through ample sarcasm that made you stifle smirks, but as usual you never spoke much, being selectively mute unless you were forced to answer a question from Dr. Figure. They didn't give any drugs to dope up; the doctor didn't think you nor the small group you were part of needed them, but sometimes you wished they would so you didn't have to participate in these stupid sessions that went in half-spun circles and could just conk out in your room or outside.

You had been submitted here by your estranged parents after a series of concerning events that you had tried to mentally block out, including attempting to take your own life because of bullying and abuse; you were not able to ever acclimate fully to society because of it, which led you to being stuck in this place, mentally spinning wheels while growing more and more wary of the outside world everyday. Jonathan was the opposite; he had a spark of defiance and a fire you didn't have enough oxygen for to nourish for yourself. He clearly didn't think he really belonged here and in a way, you sort of admired him even if he was a bit strange and potentially dangerous... He was certainly an exciting refresher in such a dull, day-to-day drudgery.

One day after walking out of yet another mildly frustrating therapy session, he stepped in front of you in the hall as you were making your way back to your room alone, a curious light in his stunningly blue excuses for eyeballs.

"Hey, you mind if I join ya in your room?" he asked suddenly and you froze, uncertain of how to react. You only ever minimally interacted one-on-one with people you trusted... Fellow patient Nick kept saying Jonathan wasn't to be trusted, but Nick was also kind of a paranoid weirdo that always was listening to his headphones, so what did he know?

Jonathan seemed to sense your hesitation and he grinned, trying to put you at ease or maybe he was just messing with you. Either way, you had to hide your intrigue in case he was pulling your leg.

"Don't look spooked out, I'm just so fucking bored at this place and you're pretty cute, but you never really talk... I just wanna get to know ya better," he explained sincerely, but you still felt wary.

"Can I see your room at least?" he asked innocently and you finally gave him a shy nod, causing him to smile in broad relief that reminded you of the last rays of sunlight splashing upon the cliffs.

He walked along beside you, swinging his arms back and forth a bit as if he was winding himself up, all the way to your room and past an orderly who gave him a suspicious glance, but you gave the man a thumbs up to let him know it was fine. Security here was surprisingly not as strict as one would imagine for a psychiatric hospital and the younger patients tended to sneak out once a week to the city with minimal repercussions. They always came back anyway.

You reached your designated room and opened the door slowly, and Jonathan strolled in after you, sighing loudly.

"Oh, would'ja look at that - they gave you the fanciest room they've got," he commented sarcastically as you sat down on the small bed, tucking your knees up to your chest and he stood, surveying you and scene for a second and then joining to sit, copying your posture. He fiddled with his slippers for a minute and then turned to you curiously.

"So lemme get this right: You only talk when or if you have ta?"

"Yeah," you mumbled and he nodded sagely.

"That's an interesting way to deal with people. Don't blame ya, lot of wanks out there not worth being spoken to. What's your name - I mean, I know it from the meeting, but can you say it?" he asked, however unlike any doctor, it wasn't clinical or judgmental. He truly seemed interested and so you whispered your first name aloud to the floor.

"It's a nice name. How old are you?" You could hear the smile in his deep voice.

"T-Twenty two," you responded with a slight stutter, too fluttery to be able to meet his gaze.

"Fuck, that's older than me... I'm nineteen, but you know already know that. You ever been anywhere outside of Dublin?"

You looked away, not answering. If you ever had, you'd been too small to remember.

"How long you've been here?" he asked curiously and you splayed your hand, palm up towards him.

"Five weeks or five years?"

"Years," you whispered and he was silent for a few minutes, picking at the hem of his baby blue pajama pants.

"So much for the road to recovery, eh?" he scoffed and you just shrugged.

He put his legs down, feet flat on the floor and crossing his arms tight to his chest, wearing that oversized silly orange patterned sweater of his. He sniffed and bit his lip, glancing up at the bare ceiling as if he would find the answers to existence there.

"Something happened to you, I know. Shit, something happened to us all here. It's okay if you don't wanna or can't talk 'bout it. But I can't figure out if you have the same thoughts me and the others have? You know, what the doc locks us up for... suicidal? Like there's no fucking point to this blip of existence? And they think we're nuts, but we just seein' the truth."

You slowly pulled up your sleeve, exposing the faint scars etched into your left wrist, remnants of cutting attempts to escape life before you had been dumped off in this place indefinitely. You had never tried it since and were now an adult and could seek the means to leave if you truly wanted to, but there was nothing out there in the world for you.

"See this pinky finger?" Jonathan asked suddenly, poking up his baby finger and you nodded, interested.

"I was just trying to get rid of what was left of me old Da and the damn car didn't do the job right. Could've broken neck but all I broke was me baby finger. Least you've got the scars there to prove survivin'." He sighed heavily, almost disappointed, and you spoke the first sentence you had in days, your voice hushed from disuse.

"Why do ya wanna die?"

He blinked, giving you a meaningful glance and his full lips stretched into a tight ironic smile.

"I don't want to die; I don't want to be alive. I'm just a fucking living ghost, we all are... Doesn't that realization scare the wits outta ya?"

He looked away at the wall, blinking as the drippy tears escaped and his mouth quivered in quiet anguish, his dewy face scrunching up. You reached over and touched his cheek, catching a tear rolling down his smooth pallid skin and wiping it off tenderly. He sniffled, embarrassed, and gently took your wrist and whispered emphatically.

"I like you, Y/N. You don't freak out or talk down to me or bitch about your own problems. You're unique, but I'm thinking ya too cute to be truly crazy."

"Cute?" you repeated and he grinned at hearing your high breathy voice.

"Don't be so afraid to talk, you got a pretty voice. Bet nobody be calling ya cute in a long time, right?"

You shrugged sheepishly and he tilted your chin up with his fingers, tracing the outline of your face fondly and you blushed, not used to being touched by anyone like that. It was... comforting, a feeling you had been very numb to for some time. His pinkish lips parted and he tilted his head slightly, mouth gaping in anticipation for a kiss but you froze, unsure and not wanting to take the lead.

"I want a kiss," he murmured and the way he said it made you draw closer, trusting the process. He closed his eyes and blindly groped your lips, sucking, and then his tongue dove in with a surprising force, swirling around your mouth and he gripped the sides of your head in a vice, cutting off any resistance... Not that you were repulsed in any way once the initial shock wore off.

He broke away after several seconds, gasping and licking his lips hungrily.

"Mm, didja like that?"

Your cheeks became pink and he glanced over your head at the windowpanes being pattered with a steady rain and it was growing dimmer outside, evening approaching with a cloaking storm, and it reflected in the dull colors of the room that was becoming muted of natural light.

"Can I show you something?" he asked huskily, shifting on the bed restlessly.

You ducked your chin in affirmative, heart fluttering in uncertainty as he reached to yank his sweater and pajama shirt over his head, leaving him with a bare chest. You stared, fascinated in his anatomy; it had been so long since you'd seen anyone without some clothing on. He grinned, pointing awkwardly to your own chest.

"So, uh, now this... this'll be the part where you remove your garment," he instructed and cautiously, you unbuttoned your pj's and you never wore a bra, so soon he was facing your naked breasts with your nipples hardening from the airy exposure.

"Really cute," he breathed, gently putting a finger to your right nipple and pressing lightly, stroking around the center and then drawing a line to the other breast, doing the same to that one and you shivered, feeling a strange pull in your stomach that was borderline butterflies. He leaned back, bouncing up slightly on the bed and kicking his slippers off to the floor.

"But hold on, there's more to see," he said with a verging mischievous excitement. You'd never seen him look so genuinely joyful and as he tugged down his pj bottoms, you blinked, faced with a protruding bugle in his white underwear.

After a beat, he removed his boxers, springing forth a stiff appendage that you'd never in the flesh on a man, well, in its erect state at least.

"Want to touch it? It doesn't bite," Jonathan joked with a lazy grin and you cautiously extended a hand and put your fingers on the glistening tip. It was definitely moist and firmly solid, and he shuddered through a breath of arousal.

"Wet," you observed and he laughed, scooting closer so his penis was resting in your hands.

"I like it when you touch me there, don't stop," he begged and you felt him up, amused at his reaction.

He twitched in your palms as you ran careful fingers up his fleshy length and to his balls, lightly petting the coarse dark hair nesting around them, and he shivered pleasurably, resisting the urge to already ejaculate.

"Feelin' good?" you asked fondly, seeing his mouth agape and eyes nearly rolling back.

"Too fuckin' good, need to stop before I cum too quick. Wanna enjoy this... Lemme have at that pussy of yours now instead of using me dick, m'kay?"

You could tell it wasn't a question, but you weren't sure what he meant entirely. You eased off his genitalia, cock dripping slightly, and sat back, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Here," Jonathan murmured and his hands went to your waist, teasing down the waistband of your pj's and pushing the pants down your legs, letting you wiggle out and kick them to the floor, along with your slippers. He stared for a full ten seconds at your womanhood, biting his lip and swirling his tongue around his mouth, before he bent down and spread your legs apart. You tried to ask him what was going to happen, but he dove in already, tongue flicking at your delicate folds with attempted precision. You gasped audibly at the new sensation and he clamped hands down on your thighs, clinging on as he maneuvered his thick tongue faster and you grabbed at a fistful of his hair, shaking from the unfamiliarity and equal anticipation as your body seemed to take control of natural instincts and budding arousal grew stronger.

He just wanted to warm you up though, and he withdrew his tongue soon, lips glistening with a tiny smear of discharge. Your bare chest rose and fell in rhythm as he surveyed the fresh terrain, just aching for more. You very well might be a complete virgin and that prospect tantalized him yet also privately frightened him of messing up. Of course he'd been with girls before, but they weren't this sheltered and sweet. He may corrupt you and alter the course of this extremely new friendship, which in his mind was always meant to become more of a relationship; the moment he saw you he knew he needed to get in your pants.

"Eh, give it a go," Jonathan told himself forcibly and his finger jerked onto your entrance, worming in needily and making you squeak in surprise. He shushed you, zipping his lips with his free hand, giving you a clear message that it wasn't wise to make unusual noises. Even though it wasn't like there was cameras in the rooms, one couldn't be too careful. If Dr. Figure found out his newest unstable patient, the same one that pledged not to kill himself before New Year's Eve, was somewhat taking advantage of a virgin he just met in her own room, the doc would be most displeased.

Nevertheless, whimpers escaped from your throat as he pressed further to your clit and moved another finger to join the first, uncomfortably stretching into your walls. Despite the stinging pain, you felt an decent amount of wetness pooling from your vagina, almost like peeing, and clenched reflexively, hitting his knuckles.

"Oh, I'm thinking it's ready," he whispered impatiently, wriggling his digits away with a squelch and wiping your light drizzle of cum on his cock.

Before you could react, he adjusted position and slid on top of you, pressing his body down onto your bare one and rubbing his full cock in-between your thighs.

You gasped when he began to shove in rather roughly, squirming into your tight unbroken hole and you looked up at his face, watching his hair askew slightly and you noticed a scar above his eyebrow you hadn't noticed before. You wrapped your arms around his neck, afraid to get pinned underneath him, and tried to buck and roll with the motion, but it was getting painful.

"Hurts," you whimpered into his ear as he thrusted further.

"Not gonna hurt in a minute, baby," he whispered, too in heat to stop and consider much else and he clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle any more alarming noises.

"C-Can't go-go all the way in," he panted, his skin slapping yours and rocking the whole small bed.

Sure enough, the pain became more bearable though the more he worked you and pleasure eventually overturned it altogether, the bursting bloom of an orgasm that was very likely the best feeling that had ever happened to you. You sank your mouth on his shoulder to stifle a cry, careful to not bite too deeply, and then mewled into his neck, panting heavily along with him and digging your fingers into his brown scrubby sideburns and floppy hair.

"Mm, fuc-fucking good, ya likin' it, eh?" Jonathan choked out in a whisper and you couldn't respond, too taken by this incredible euphoria and the way his cock flexed inside close at your cervix. You weren't sure how long he could stay in without it becoming too uncomfortable, but he lifted up slightly, grunting softly at his own arousal and effort.

He pulled out just in time, finishing outside by squirting hot ropes of milky cum all over your vagina, stomach, and legs. The bedsheets took a few splatters as well and he heaved in relief as you laid there, utterly stunned at his sexual performance. You had squirted a little bit too and it had intermixed with his juices that you couldn't tell which was from whom. It was so intimate and gross and a big part of you absolutely loved it, having never been in such a situation before... It was exciting and playful.

He swiped two fingers through the fluids and spread it on your thighs further, encouraging you to feel it as well and you giggled at him taking your own fingers and guiding them up to his face, dotting his chin with cum.

Jonathan then sat back on his haunches and admired you, catching his breath and listening to the steady patter of rain. You rolled over onto your side and your eyes widened at a couple spots of blood on the sheets and he looked down in causal observance.

"Ah, that'd be normal, don't worry," he assured with a chuckle.

"Though, uh, maybe we'd better try to hide it case they come collect the sheets tomorrow," he realized on second thought.

"I say I been bleeding, on my cycle," you offered as an explanation.

"Yeah, that'd be good cover," he agreed and climbed off, picking up his clothing and shimmying back into the pajamas and sweater.

"Look, I'll get us some towels or somethin' from the bathroom," he said, walking quietly to the door and opening it with a peering glance out, but the coast was clear. Most patients should be in their rooms by now anyhow.

You relaxed in a post-orgasmic trance while he was gone, listening to the dripping weather outside and wondering how you'd be able to be normal around him tomorrow.

The door squeaked open softly a couple minutes later and Jonathan came back inside with a bundle of torn sheets of toilet paper clutched in his hand.

"Couldn't get towels, so I took some shit paper that'll have ta do instead," he announced with dry amusement and he used it to wipe you clean of the wet mess and you thanked him quietly, grateful to be dry again for it had become rather cold and tingly on your skin. You automatically flinched a fraction when he wiped at your folds, as you were raw and sore, but he was fairly gentle. When he finished, Jonathan moved in very close as if for a kiss, but only whispered near to your ear, tickling your earlobe with his warm breath.

"Don't tell anyone about what we did... just a little secret, m'kay? Though I guess you wouldn't be blabbin' to anyone else anyway," he chuckled darkly, but it wasn't mean.

"Maybe we can see each other again?" he proposed as he balled up the soiled toilet paper and retreated back towards the door.

"Okay, Jonathan," you whispered in reply and he flushed at the sound of his name on your lips.

"I think you'll be my new therapy, better than anything that wanker of a Freud psychiatrist can offer." He paused, shuffling his feet and then glanced up daringly, determination in his blue orbs.

"We'll find a way out soon, a safe way out, me and you and Rachel and Toby... and I'll show you how to have a good time at the pub, eh? Like the sound of that?"

You only smiled as he turned to exit, but then abruptly paused and bit his lip as he looked back at you with a yearning, like what the two of you had just done still wasn't enough.

"Abair do phaidreacha agus codhladh sámh," he spoke in Gaelic and you translated back softly with a meaningful smile.

"Say your prayers and sleep well."

With a dip of his head and smug, yet almost childlike smile, Jonathan ducked out the door and was gone for the night.

[woundofglory]

Please pray for me.

I am inpatient at a psychiatric hospital right now, working on healing my depression and anxiety. I will be here for 2 months, so please pray that I am safe and healthy. I will be holding the Lord’s hand this entire time.

God bless 🤍

[trans-axolotl]

Image description: [Black text on lined paper. Text reads: Share your story with the Psych Survivor Archive. Hold the psychiatric system accountable for the violence and coercion we've survived. Make space for our anger. Grieve together. Celebrate our resistance. The Psych Survivor Archive is a forum for psych survivors to share about their experiences and be believed. You can share as much or as little as you want. Your story will be anonymously published on the website with writing from other psych survivors. The archive is open to anyone who identifies as a psych survivor, including people who survived inpatient hospitalization, rehab, troubled teen industry, partial hospitalization, outpatient programs, ABA, and any other form of coercion psych treatment. Check out the prompts, participant rights, and content guidelines. Share your story now: www.psychsurvivorarchive.com/submit-your-story]

Hey everyone. I wanted to share this here as well. The Psych Survivor Archive is looking for anyone who wants to share their story and have it anonymously published on the website, in order to create a collection of our experiences navigating the psych system. Your responses will be anonymous and can be as detailed or vague as you want. On the website, there are prompts, but you can feel free to share in whatever format makes sense to you.

This is a more informal way to participate in the Psych Survivor Archive if you are not interested in creating art for the zine, but still want your story to be heard and validated.

For me, it has felt very cathartic to write out my story, on my terms, in the way that I want to be known. I hope that the archive can offer that space to other psych survivors as well, and I can't wait to keep developing this project and offering even more. In the next couple weeks, submissions will open up for the second edition of the zine, so if you're interested in submitting creative art or writing keep an eye out!

love and solidarity always <3

[ofsappho]

Summertime Sadness (part 1)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

Second chance romance, heavy angst, hurt/very little comfort

Later’s better than never… right?

Ten years ago, Simon and you met at the same therapeutic boarding school. You fought, he said some shit, he left. He thought he’d never see you again.

Until one day, a hospital calls and informs him that you’ve listed him as your emergency contact.

(title from the song by Lana Del Rey)

-

Tags: mental illness, abuse, addiction, self harm, suicidality/suicidal ideation/suicide attempts, angsty shit in general, Ghost being very mean as a fucked up 17 year old boy

There’s an old battered flip phone he hides in the back of his locker wherever he’s deployed. Ghost doesn’t turn it on all that often. Everyone who knows the number is dead.

But sometimes he does, just to stare at the contacts and click through the photos and remember what it was like to talk to them.

Today is one of those days.

He can only take so much talk from his team about families, friends, dogs waiting back home, and pretty girls before feeling the urge to break things.

So he excuses himself to hide in the bathroom like a fucking pussy and takes the phone with him. Simon can pretend he’s waiting for his own phone call from people who love him for a few minutes. Then he promises himself that he’ll put it away and not touch it for another six months.

It takes forever to power on. It’s still janky from the last time Ghost threw it at a wall, it seems.

One (1) missed call.

…What?

They left a voicemail.

His fingers shake as he listens to it.

There’s a long, tinny beep. “Hi, Mr. Riley, I’m…” A woman says in a rushed, businesslike manner. “I’m one of the nurses at-“ Ghost hears a bustle of background noise; faint murmurs, emergency sirens, doors sliding open and shut. “…Hospital. I’m calling because a friend of yours,” The nurse says your name. A name he hasn’t thought about in years. “…Put you down as her emergency contact when we admitted her to our psychiatric inpatient ward. Unfortunately, she did not provide us with anyone else. Please give me a call back at this number if you’d like to speak with her.” Click.

Ghost starts packing an overnight bag before he even realizes it.

Then he’s on a plane.

-

TEN YEARS AGO

“I hate you.”

You’re crying as you run after him in the forest. He speeds up, trying to lose you in the trees. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Simon. I’ll never bring it up again.” Snot covers your upper lip and your eyes are bright with tears.

He hates this fucking place. He hates this fucking school, the kilometers of wilderness separating him from his life because the fucking shrinks think he’s crazy. He hates you for trying to keep him here.

And just when Simon was about to fly the coop, you spilled the beans. “Leave me the fuck alone. Never, ever, ever talk to me again,” He barks, stopping abruptly and turning to loom over you.

When you reach for his hand, he slaps you away. “But you promised you wouldn’t leave-“ You end up on the ground, the pine needles biting into your bare knees as if Simon shoved you.

That makes him angrier. You’re too soft for a world like this. You’re practically begging for someone to hurt you again, someone like him, with your vulnerability and open, bleeding heart. Well, he’ll fucking oblige. You’re not strong like you think you are. You’re the weakest person he knows, and weakness is something Simon could never respect.

“I lied. I fucking lied, you dumb bitch. Didn’t you realize it?” Simon snarls, wishing desperately he’d never let you befriend him on his first day at this therapeutic program.

You're sunshine and innocence and friendship bracelets, the kind of girl who will always be a victim because this world devours little girls like you. Simon is nothing like you. Simon is a survivor. A warrior. Simon is steel where you are china.

Your American accent is almost as unbearable as your pathetic weeping. “…What?” Your bottom lip wobbles.

Hopefully this will teach you a lesson about tattling. Nobody likes a snitch. “Forever doesn’t fucking exist. You were the only tolerable person in this shithole, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to be friends forever. What are you, a fucking infant? God, you’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass.” If anything, Simon is letting you off easy. You told the counselor things Simon told you in confidence about his dad because you were ‘afraid for his safety.’

But you just don’t get it. Simon can’t spend another day here. And the longer he stays, the angrier his dad will get. You just earned him another week of shit and black eyes.

“Newsflash. People lie. Everyone’s been lying to you. Nobody likes you, not even your mum. And I can’t stand you. You were useful, but I don’t need you anymore. I’m better,” Simon hisses as cruelly as he can, using every blade in his arsenal to cut at the sensitive parts of you where he knows you’ll bleed. Just like you did when you told.

You’re only stuck in this place because your mum left you here. You don’t have anyone, not like he does. He has Tommy and his mum. He has a future. You’ve got absolutely fucking nothing.

“I was just trying to help.”

“I’m getting out of here. I don’t need your help. I’d tell you to keep it, but it wouldn’t even help you.” Simon pauses. You’ve stopped crying. Good. A crying fox is easy prey for the hunting dogs. “They won't believe you. And you wanna know why?” It feels good to be the hunter instead of the fox for once. You make excellent prey.

“‘Cause I told them the truth. That you’re an obsessed freak who’s hyper fixated on me and you’d do anything to keep me here. That you’re a sick, compulsive liar and that you’re the one who’s a danger to herself, not me.”

You fall silent. Finally, blessed silence. You look up at Simon with glazed eyes and a still tongue. He feels better. Good, even.

“Goodbye. I hope I never see you again,” Simon says flatly.

-

TODAY

You picked a good place to get yourself locked up in. This is one of the nicest hospitals Ghost has been in recently. Shiny floors, no dirt caking the walls. New York City puts Kabul and Moscow to shame.

He’s wearing a plain black balaclava. Nothing identifying or particularly memorable. This is going to be a short visit. Ghost will see what you want and then leave. That’s it.

You look tired, exhausted to the very bone.

None of the shiny pinkness that drew Ghost to you in the beginning when you were fifteen and he was seventeen. None of the glow, the round cheeks, the wide doe eyes.

There’s dark circles chiseled into your face, so dark he almost thinks they’re bruises. A couple of IV bags run through a drip hidden under bandages covering your arms from wrist to elbow. Your eyes are as quiet as you are. A couple of marbles would be more lively. You look almost like a doll forgotten in a corner.

The nurse gave Ghost the run-down as she guided him to your bed. Police picked you up on a bridge trying to off yourself. Your fifth time this year. Unless you show some real improvement, the doctors will recommend an indefinite hospitalization.

You’ve been busy in the decade of his absence. Multiple addictions, more attempts than he can count, and some small stints in jail. A list of disorders he wouldn’t know how to pronounce. And nobody left to call.

Is this his fault?

When Ghost rounds the corner, you smile like he should be proud of you. “You came,” You say.

I have absolutely no business starting a new fic. Absolutely none. Idk. I have brainrot. No clue when this will be updated. But here, have it.

[neuroticboyfriend]

massive trigger warning for abuse/suicide on this one, but for anyone who thinks psych wards are about protecting people:

1. my friend was trying to choke herself. i begged the staff to help her, and they said she was only looking for attention. minutes later, they call a code, wrangled her to the ground, and forcibly sedated her.

2. a girl was upset because she couldnt call her dad past a certain time. she started screaming, and crying, messing up the front desk. 8 security guards took her down. they broke her arm and sprained her wrist.

3. i came back to my unit in shambles because the staff on hand did nothing to stop a fight. i had to remedy the situation myself. things like this happened often.

4. i was having a trauma meltdown during "quiet time." the youngest patient tried to comfort me, and staff told her to stop and go back to her room because i was "a big girl who can handle herself." i was an out trans guy. the staff member didnt speak to me at all.

5. they separate roommates if they become friends. but they put me and my friend together for the sole purpose of putting us on constant observation together. we had zero privacy, even in the bathroom (which they took the door off of). at state, if you're on C.O, they take away your clothes, possessions, and "privileges."

6. im a CSA survivor. i was forced to regularly occupy the same space as a rapist, no matter how many flashbacks it caused me. they even roomed him next to me.

7. i am intersex. at state, doctors forced me onto an anti-androgen. i refused at first; they labeled me noncompliant, extended my stay, and took away my "privileges" (ex: snacks, going outside, doing fun activities, socializing).

8. they left my friend in a padded room strapped to a table for hours. they then let her off the table and left her in the padded room overnight. she had to wait hours in the morning to be let out.

9. at state, kids have to choose between being forcibly injected with a sedative, or being locked in a padded room if deemed "necessary." your parents have to sign away most of their parental rights, and if they want to sign you out, they need to go to court. for months. the state owns you.

we were all children. none of what i said is a "bad apples" situation. things like this happened every. single. day. it happened at multiple hospitals. these places are made to control mentally ill and other marginalized people. they exist to abuse us into conformity, take away our autonomy, and keep us away from polite society. psych wards should not exist.

[schizopositivity]

Do you have a severe mental illness that can/has caused a mental health emergency? Are you currently stable? You should make a basic safety plan! [Disclaimer: I am not a mental health professional, this advice is taken from my own experiences and what I learned in inpatient psychiatric facilities. This post caters more to those who experience severe psychotic episodes as that is my experience.]

1. Find a safe person. Someone you often spend time with that you can trust with the details of your mental illness and feel safe around. Ask them if they are comfortable being the person to look out for you if you have a mental health emergency. Preferably someone you live with. If no one you live with fits this role, find someone you contact regularly.

2. Explain to the safe person what a mental health emergency looks like for you. Think of the way you presented in the past during mental health emergencies and try to describe it. You may have to describe it based on what others have told you if you had memory loss during episodes in the past.

3. Let them know how they can check with you to see if you are in a mental crisis. You might need them to ask you some questions to gage your mental state (examplse: Do you know where you are right now? Are you able to talk?). Tell them what questions to ask to find out if you are in a crisis.

4. Explain to them what you would want to happen in a mental health emergency. If they are able to see that you are indeed in a mental health emergency, what steps would you want them to take? If you will need to go to the hospital, but don't want to interact with police, let them know to tell that to emergency services. If there's a nearby inpatient facility you would want to go to, tell them which one and give them their contact info. If episodes typically pass on their own for you, let the safe person know how to keep you comfortable and safe until it passes.

5. Have an easily accessible contact paper or note on your phone with some basic info in case you can't speak to professional help while you are in a crisis. Add your name, birth date, your diagnoses, and exactly what medications you take and the dosages. You can add specific warnings or triggers about yourself (examples: Doesn't like being touched by medical professionals. Can react violently to loud noises). You can add contact info of people you'd want to let know about your situation. You can add your insurance information if you have it.

6. If you would have to go to a hospital/inpatient facility, let the safe person know if there's anything else you'd want them to handle once you get there. (Examples: Pack a bag of clothes for the inpatient stay. Feed my pets while I'm gone or ask someone else to. Contact my work place for me and let them know I won't be able to come in.)

Yes this is a long list, but I feel it's important to prepare and get your bases covered while you have the capacity to do so. Often when someone is in crisis they don't know how to ask for help, or what to do once they get help. Thinking of everything ahead of time saves you the extra worry later, or the extra worry of guessing by the people around you.

And if you are thinking "this is too much work to make someone else do!" Consider how much harder it would be if they found you in crisis and had no idea what to do and you wouldn't be able to tell them. If you have a severe mental illness that can/has caused you to be in a state of mental health emergency, you deserve to be cared for by others during the crisis.

[macgyvermedical]

My Experience in Inpatient Psych

So I know a lot of people on here have talked about their experience in inpatient psych facilities, but I'd like to add mine just to give all you writers out there a writer-focused one. It's below the cut just in case you have to sit this one out for your own reasons.

To give you some background, I am 30 years old and have had hallucinations since about 16 and bizarre intrusive thoughts (someone living in my house that wasn't supposed to be there, somebody poisoned my walls, etc...) for about a decade, as well as very severe anxiety since I was about 3 years old. This is something not a lot of people know about me, even people I am friends with IRL.

The only thing I am actually diagnosed with is anxiety, which I'm starting to think is a failing of the psych systems I have been a part of. I have had counseling off and on and prior to this hospitalization I took escitalopram, aripiprazole, and gabapentin prescribed by my primary care doctor- all for the severe anxiety.

Quite frankly, I should have been in inpatient psych at least a few times before this, and it's by sheer dumb luck that I've survived to continue this blog.

On Friday, I was at home alone and made a few pretty bad decisions. I wont say what they were because frankly they're embarrassing, but they have to do with self-harm. I was scheduled to work Saturday and at about 9pm I realized that if I drove myself to work I would crash my car. Since my wife drives me sometimes, I figured I would just ask her to.

I told my wife and she asked- even if she drove me to work, since I was a nurse, would I be able to keep myself safe around insulin or other potentially dangerous drugs? I couldn't answer that question. We talked for a couple hours and came to the conclusion that I probably needed to go to the emergency department.

At this point I figured they would evaluate me and release me because I couldn't possibly meet the criteria for inpatient. I was wrong in this assumption. After telling them the decisions I had made that day, the feelings of wanting to die in a car crash, plus about a previous attempt, they recommended inpatient. Turns out, when you're a nurse, you can make some really bad life choices with the knowledge you have, and they didn't want to take any chances.

I was given paper scrubs to wear (so I couldn't hurt myself with my clothing or a hospital gown). I was also given a patient companion (someone who sits in the room and makes sure you don't hurt yourself).

They gave me the option of signing myself in voluntarily, or putting me on a writ of detention. A writ of detention is a piece of paperwork that allows a medical professional or law enforcement officer to hold someone for 3 days in a psychiatric facility against the person's will for the purposes of psychiatric treatment. Whether you sign the voluntary or get placed on a writ, you cannot sign yourself out. You need to wait until the psychiatrist taking care of you thinks you're ready to go.

I didn't believe at this point I needed to go inpatient, but I took the voluntary option because there are some perks, like being able to leave within 3 days if appropriate. At this point I was convinced I was probably going to have to call off work Saturday and Sunday, probably be out of the hospital Monday, have a few days to rest and be back at work on my next scheduled shift after that, which was Thursday.

Well, that's not what happened.

Because of some of the decisions I had made, along with bed availability, they wanted to keep me in the observation unit overnight before they sent me to psych. I stayed overnight in a unit that shares staff with the unit I work on, so I was taken care of by my coworkers. This was surprisingly not that bad. I like my coworkers and they were really professional about it.

Saturday I felt like I was in a fog all day. I couldn't watch TV. I couldn't color or write. I worked out some in my hospital room and paced the halls once or twice. Mostly I hung out with my wife and occasionally talked with my companion, but even talking was difficult. I had refused ativan because I felt like I had no hope of finding a medication that made me feel better, and I figured I didn't want to take the one medication that might actually work and then not be able to get it ever again.

Around 7PM I took a 45 minute ambulance ride to the facility. Getting my blood pressure taken is a big anxiety trigger for me, but my brain felt so scrambled that I couldn't express this well. They took it every 10 minutes on the ride there and by the time I got there it was in the 170s/100s (BP goes up when you're having severe anxiety). This was not their fault of course, but no matter how much I thought about telling them or refusing the BPs, I just couldn't do it.

When I got to the facility I was greeted by a tech who took my BP again (150s/90s this time), showed me around and looked through my personal belongings (basically just the clothing I came in with since my wife took my phone and wallet knowing I wouldn't be able to have them on the unit) to make sure I didn't have anything I wasn't allowed to on the unit. She showed me around my room and was really thorough with telling me how things worked, what the rules were, etc..

The rules included:

No patients allowed in other patients rooms

No personal belongings that had strings, belts, or laces, or that could be used as a weapon

No caffeine after lunch and no free access to caffeine

No personal electronics (including eReaders and watches). There was a TV in the day room and 2 phones mounted to the wall for patient use

A little later my nurse came into my room and asked me a ton of questions. Here's the thing about any hospital- you get asked the same questions over and over. By the time I'd gotten there I could give my story in under a minute. Or at least, that's what it felt like. There were only 2 clocks on the unit, at the nurses stations.

The unit itself was laid out in a "T" shape. There was a main nurse's station at the place where the two hallways intersected. At the end of the long hallway there was another smaller nurses station, a cafeteria/day room, and a "comfort room" which was a small room off the day room that had a collection of the oldest and worst donated books that have every come together on a bookshelf.

I did some pacing that night and then went to bed, but didn't sleep particularly well.

On Sunday morning the tech woke me up to take my blood pressure, which was, not unsurprisingly, still high. It was about 5 AM so I got up and paced the longer of the corridors for about an hour. Breakfast was served at 8 and the food wasn't that bad. The coffee was about the worst I'd ever drank, which I suppose helped with the no caffeine goals.

Just after breakfast I met with a psychiatrist on an iPad for about half a minute, and I'm not exaggerating there. The only questions he asked were whether I was suicidal and whether I would be fine with tripling my dose of aripiprazole in light of the hallucinations. I had had a 50-lb weight gain in the last year so I asked to switch my med. He switched the med to cariprazine. That was all.

I had a much longer meeting with my nurse later. All the nurses did an excellent job of assessing me, asked tons of questions, and it seemed like they really tried to figure out what was going on. That day I also met with a social worker, and a therapist, and a nurse practitioner. Each of them did an assessment to see what my needs were while I was there.

There was also a music therapy session where I cried my eyes out to Because of You by Kelly Clarkson.

I was really tired by the end of the day but I also didn't think I could sleep so I asked for trazodone. I should clarify that when I say "I" in this piece I really mean my wife convinced me to ask because I legitimately didn't believe I needed or deserved any of the things I asked for at this point. To my utter shock and surprise, they gave me the trazodone.

My first night on trazodone was amazing and I realized I hadn't slept well in a long time. With trazodone I fell asleep and stayed asleep until the blood pressure cart came rolling down the hallway at 5am. The second I got up on Monday morning I was wide awake.

I paced a lot Monday. I went to a goals session in the morning where I gave a goal to write 3/4 of a page. I didn't know if I could do it or what I was even going to write about, but I know I like to write and it might be a reasonable introduction to getting back to life.

I also was having kind of a rough day brain-wise. My brain was coming up with all the ways I could hurt myself in my room. There weren't a lot of them, but it was trying. I told the nurse during her assessment and she asked if I felt I could keep myself safe. I asked her what she would do if I said no. She said they could move me to a more secure part of the unit and give me more supervision. I knew what part of the unit she was talking about, and I didn't want to go there (no space to pace, and pacing was keeping me alive right then). So I told her I could keep myself safe (if anything, the idea of moving was good motivation to do stay safe in itself). I hallucinated some black and white blood cells falling from the ceiling and music coming out of my vents.

I also had another meeting with the social worker to figure out discharge plans. I voiced in the meeting that I wasn't sure that I could trust my wife, since it felt like at the time she was the one who exaggerated my symptoms to get me in here. The social worker said we had really good communication skills, since this was something I felt needed to be said in front of both of them and we both stayed really calm through the whole thing.

I finished the day with an art therapy session that really helped me turn a corner. The prompt was to draw the emotion(s) you felt right now on one side of the paper, and to draw the emotions you wished you could feel on the other side. For the first time I realized that my emotional state was actually really bad and that the suicidality hadn't come out of nowhere, and that I needed help.

When my wife came to visit later that night I was able to tell her about my breakthrough, even though I still felt a little bit like she had done something to get me in here and I still wasn't sure I needed to be inpatient.

Tuesday was a lot better. I felt like I had woken up out of some kind of fog and I had no idea how long I'd been in it. I went to goals group, a spiritual group, and group occupational therapy. My goal was to be more social and I made a friend and we paced together and worked out. I read a quarter of The Martian by Andy Weir (my wife brought it for me because the best thing on the bookshelf was Louis L'Amour). I wrote about how good I suddenly felt. Turns out, I thought, a few days of good sleep, lots of therapy, and a new medication or two will really change things.

A quick side note about The Martian. I highly recommend it to anyone who is chilling in a psych hospital but has the ability to read while they're there (I sure didn't the first few days). I don't really know why, but the first few times I read it, I felt like they had created this superhuman character in Mark Watney just so they could throw a ton of wild things at him for the story. This time reading it, as a suddenly not suicidal person, I realized anyone with Mark's skill would have done the same thing and not just died on Sol 7 to get it over with.

Wednesday I woke up not feeling nearly as good as Tuesday, but still like the fog had lifted. I was a little disappointed (I hallucinated my cat (thanks for coming to visit me, Corina), some spiders, and just felt kinda meh. But I remembered how good I felt the day before, and that really kept me hopeful about going home.

I saw the psychiatrist again and asked to go home. He joked a little about me staying till Christmas, but ultimately he said as soon as his note was in I could go. I ended up leaving at about 12:30 with my wife.

In the time since leaving I have required a lot of support from my wife. The medications are all locked up, so are the blades and anything I could use to hurt myself. My wife has me in eyeshot at all times. I can't drive due to intrusive thoughts, so she does all the driving now. I quit my job because I feel like it was a big part of why I ended up as bad as I was. As someone who has been a pretty independent person this is a big change of pace, but something that is really necessary to my healing.

Ultimately at the end of my hospital stay, I was prescribed escitalopram, gabapentin, trazodone, cariprazine, and then a few days later propranolol. I'm currently on a total of 5 psych meds and honestly I don't care one bit because its so much better than being not on them at this point in my life.

[godspeedviper]

How the Therapists Handle your Suspicions - Headcanons

𖤐 SFW || TW: mentions of psychiatric hospitalization

𖤐 Requested by @cthulhu-cat : Can I please get headcanons of the psychiatrists with someone who has distrust of mental health workers? (i.e. "If I'm honest, I might get committed." "They wouldn't understand." "They'd look down on me if I admitted this.")

Dr Jonathan Crane (Scarecrow)

It's the "hard" patients he likes the most. Jonathan Crane has always been up for a challenge, but what he really enjoys is the fear. He knows how to read fear in its many expressions; as standoffish behavior, as shyness, as body language and tone.

As soon as he identifies his patient's expression of fear he switches tactics. Watching him transform his entire demeanor in a matter of seconds only intensifies the fear and anxiety you feel sitting in front of him.

"Do you know what fear is, child?" It's his favorite question to ask. "A relinquishing of power. Fear is your mind telling your body to surrender. Now, are you gonna let me have all the decision making power over you, or are you going to give me something to work with?"

While his methods may be a bit harsh, they are ultimately effective. Over time he teaches you how to tackle that fear head on, how to use that emotional energy to your advantage, and ultimately how to see it in others. You're his best pupil, he tells you. He's very proud of the person you become when you bend fear to your will the same way he does.

Dr Hannibal Lecter (NBC)

Unlike Dr. Crane, Hannibal approaches apprehensive patients with a more gentle approach. He makes sure to give you a few sessions just to bond and get to know each other better before you opened up about why you're really here.

Sometimes he will offer you tea and make sessions feel more like a friendly invite. However, this doesn't mean he goes easy on you either. Hannibal seems to have bizarre skill that allows him to sense when you need some interrogation, and when you would otherwise shut down if pushed.

"Do they need to understand?" he questions you. "One does not need to understand someone in order to have sympathy for them. Anyone can see that you're suffering, so it's understandable to act up under such pressure. People can be more accepting than you initially believe."

He gives you the courage to explore vulnerability, and learn to let your guard down. Over time you come to think of him almost as a close friend. There's an inherent intimacy in Hannibal's office, he cultivates that feeling with ease.

Dr Harleen Quinzel (Harley Quinn)

There's Dr. Quinzel and then there's Harley. That is, there's Quinzel's professional side, and then her "quirky girl next door" side. As soon as she feels you holding back from her, she goes full Harley mode, talking to you like a concerned aunt.

She always does her best to make you feel safe, and you soon learn that her pristine office holds a lot of little surprises. Hidden among the filing cabinets and drawers is a cache of plushies and fidget toys.

"Would it be so bad if you were committed?" There is a sincere worry present in her eyes. "I will never purposely put you in harm's way, and I also want what's best for you. I work inpatient half the time so I'll be sure to watch you. I won't let anyone hurt you there, I promise."

You ultimately stick to just weekly visits in her office, but there is that sense of comfort knowing that if things ever got too bad, Harley would still be there on the inside to help you through the journey. You would be in safe hands.

Dr Hannibal Lecter (Silence of the Lambs)

"Are you afraid of me? Or afraid of what I do as a psychiatrist?" He seems to almost be amused by your initial apprehension. He gently pokes and prods with various questions trying to get a feel for you. At first you find it a bit cruel, but as you learn over time, Hannibal loves to make everything a bit of a game.

Two can definitely play at that game. Once you pick up on this playful tone, you start to make your own moves. Sometimes you purposefully held back, taking mental note of how many ways he will try to crack you open like a thief picking a lock.

You grow fond of these sessions and look forward to each one. He inspired that mischievous spark in you, and you enjoy trying to toy with him as much as he does you. He awakens a curiosity in you to see what you'll become when you allow yourself to trust.

"They will think we're in love." He teases. Sometimes you do wonder if you love him. Sometimes you think it's just a leap, and you're simply happy that his presence in your life has really made a difference. "I'm just projecting." You tell yourself, but the truth is you don't quite know.

ao3 || guidelines || WIPs || Ko-Fi

[auschizm]

I had a family member who ended up in the psychiatric hospital and he said it was miserable, there was paper outfits, barely any privacy, and the beds were uncomfortable

I feel if your going to put someone in a psychiatric hospital it should be comfortable so they can be helped comfortably.

Yeah but it's unfortunately usually not. I've spent altogether a year of my life inpatient in various psych wards and I can cosign your family members experience. A psych ward might sometimes be a necessary evil if you are actively a danger to yourself or others, but beyond a psychiatric evaluation, more pills and a locked door, they generally don't offer much. And for many people those three things aren't actually a help, no matter how ill and unstable they might genuinely be...

[beguines]

Following the philosophy of moral treatment, regimes of work were established in institutions for the insane so that the chances for idleness among these deviant populations would be minimised and the work ethic could be reinforced as part of the new, dominant approach to "care." Farms were to be attached to asylums to offer the opportunity for "the kind of regular employment which greatly helped to restore men's minds". However, while still stressing the therapeutic benefits of moral treatment, as the asylums grew in size, the work undertaken by patients became more orientated to the goals of the facility. Similar to prisons, inmates of asylums could be found "employed" in the asylum laundries, as farm labourers, and for undertaking other menial tasks within the institution. Thus, "work therapy" became an excuse for patients to be used as cheap labour for the smooth running of the institution. This would be a constant of inpatient existence until such establishments were phased out in the latter half of the twentieth century, with Brown commenting on psychiatric institutions in the 1970s that: "[h]ard work, faith in one's superiors and rule-following are taught, backed up with the wide range of threats available to hospital staff. Everything done to the patients is seen as something for the patients—'work therapy,' 'recreational therapy,' etc. Thus cheap labor on the wards and in 'occupational therapy' is obtained in the guise of help."

Bruce M.Z. Cohen, Psychiatric Hegemony: A Marxist Theory of Mental Illness

[loving-n0t-heyting]

hi, I was re-reading some of your posts about anti-male sexism in the prison system (from jan 22nd), and was wondering if you could elaborate on your arguments some more? While I do understand how men tend to receive harsher sentencing, I don't think that they are treated worse than female prisoners necessarily? Both experience different forms of sexual and physical violence, but I'm not sure how this demonstrates anti-male sexism? I do really want to know what you think in good-faith; I didn't know how women were over-represented in prosecution which is kind of eye-opening

first off i should correct a confusion: women are not over-represented among cali prosecutors; prosecutors here are female at about the same rate as attorneys generally (~45%). the reason i brought this ratio up was not to suggest women play a particularly important role in this disproportionate incarceration of men, but that it is not the exclusive work of men, which is a common way of dismissing allegations of misandry: "its just men doing it to themselves!"

i think that gets to one difference between how i think we should understand misandry and the strawman that a lot of misandrists keen to denounce the concept bring up: its not an "axis of oppression" (which is not imo a particularly helpful lens by which to think about the world) but a societal prejudice. men are, overwhelmingly disproportionately and even when similarly situated, treated as dangerous and unclean and predatory and disposable, in need of being kept away from ppl whose safety and purity fetches a higher price

disproportionately severe treatment at almost every stage of the criminal process is one obvious manifestation of this, historically much higher rates of quasi-carceral psychiatric confinement pre-deinstitutionalisation is another.* im not sure why you dont consider this in and of itself a form of injustice, going to prison in my country is just about the worst social fate i can imagine for anyone, and the fact men are not only far and away more likely to be condemned there but more likely even controlling for similarity of criminal circumstances seems like an obvious knockdown argument for the horrifying reality of misandry

these are obviously extreme examples, but i think similar patterns play out in most ppls lives very regularly. which is why i can be reflexively hostile: this all seems so obvious to me i assume it must be to others as well, so my first instinct is to assume malice

idt these prejudices are unique to women, liberals, leftists, or feminists. similar fundamental distrust of men is talked about just as openly on the opposite end of the political spectrum. but i think the way ppl dismiss these concerns in communities friendly to feminism is both pretty unique and quite bad

*(some ppl in the thread were complaining about how this doesnt hold for contemporary inpatient hospitalisations. this apples/oranges: large mental hospitals in their heyday played a very different and harsher role than being forced to spend a couple of weeks in the psych ward, and ppl blithely comparing one to the other are just parading their ignorance. state mental hospitals, the actual direct institutional successors to the madhouses of yore, are basically nowadays adjuncts to the carceral system itself, and thus skew overwhelmingly male; see p. 10 here)

[notdefendingtaylor]

the most worrying thing to me about the asylum aesthetic

aside from the clear co-opting of mentally ill and disabled people's historical abuses under a broken, underfunded, and at times deeply unscientific system....

is that mental healthcare available NOW can be a profound help, life changing AND life saving.

but the asylum/love made me crazy/'female rage' imagery of ttpd is provoking a lot of discussion about historical abuses and the actual benefits are getting somewhat lost in that discussion. (scientology, THE anti-psychiatry organization, must be thrilled.)

here are some facts about recovery under appropriate and professional help:

bipolar: "Shorter duration of illness, higher social class, and treatment compliance were associated with higher rates of recovery and more rapid recovery." (source)

borderline personality disorder: "One study found that 77% of participants no longer qualified for the DBT diagnosis [of borderline] after one year [of DBT treatment]" (source)

major depressive disorder: "Clinical and functional remission was achieved in 70.6% and 56.1% of the MDD patients, respectively." (source)

hospitalizations: "it can reduce the stress of daily responsibilities for a brief period of time, which allows you to concentrate on recovery from a mental health crisis. As your crisis lessens, and you are better able to care for yourself, you can begin planning for your discharge. In-patient care is not designed to keep you confined indefinitely; the goal is to maximize independent living by using the appropriate level of care for your specific illness." (source)

what is my point here? contributing to the STIGMA around psychiatric care, trying to couch mental illness in language of romantic shared mania (folie à deux) is not just giving 2005 myspace, it's inherently irresponsible. a 'recovery is possible' mindset is what saves lives and in the US, her home country, the stigma against seeking help works hand in hand with the systematic defunding of mental health care to dissuade people from achieving the recovery that can lead to abatement of suffering and transition into a life worth living.

here's my mental illness cheat sheet:

it's not romantic. it can be associated with creativity, but that's not guaranteed or inherent and may largely be a cliche that sidetracks real functional improvement: "Romanticizing the 'mad genius' myths surrounding bipolar disorder can also be harmful, and have negative consequences on your wellbeing and productivity." (source)

it's expensive as hell to treat, but under certain income thresholds in the US, Medicaid can pay for most if not all of the treatment you might need.

it generally leads to lower employment rates or underemployment but treatment leads to the best outcomes for employment and housing: "undertreatment can have a negative impact on occupational functioning" (source)

substance abuse is a conversation that can't be unlinked to mental illness and for some reason the US seems more ready to talk about that than the underlying mental health issues - because then an element of blame can be assigned to the individual for self-destructive behavior. but addressing the core mental health issues can certainly lead to recovery in other areas, when the substance use is linked to depression, anxiety, etc.

the US loves to talk about mental illness when gun violence occurs, but that doesn't mean those same legislators will vote to expand access to mental health treatment (source)

my #1 tip i have is this: if you don't have insurance or your insurance only covers a fraction of your psych inpatient bill, CONTACT PATIENT FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE AND FILL OUT PAPERWORK TO SEEK A WRITE-OFF. instead of that $3000 bill you can leave owing $500 (or less). literally cannot emphasize this enough! the write-off is based on income so they will need to see your financials to assess what write-off(s) may be appropriate in your case.

peer support groups like National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) may hold meetings in your area where you can discuss your problems and relate to others' who may share some of your struggles. this is basically peer-led, FREE group 'counseling'. seriously, it's effectively nearly as good as the group sessions you might have to pay for, and the frequency is often weekly. (find support)

yes, we can talk about past historical psychiatric abuses and ongoing abuses today, which tend to disproportionately affect the socioeconomically disadvantaged. but the conversation needs to also include the benefits of access to scientifically-informed mental health treatment as well.