St Joseph Mercy Hospital

story of a psychiatric hospitalization for a 14 yr old girl

St. Joseph Mercy Hospital

 

I knew something was wrong when I came downstairs and saw my parents in the living room.  Dial-a-Ride was supposed to pick me up for school and my parents were supposed to be at work.

"You're not going to school today.  We're going to see Dr. Borby", my mom said. 

Dr. Borby was a psychologist my mom forced me to see once a week.  I couldn't stand her.  Her office was cold and sterile; the walls were painted a stark white and were barren except for her degree.  Dr. Borby was kind of like her office, cold and sterile.  She always wore these ugly brown plaid skirts and jackets, never smiled and had bulging eyes that bore into you.  My mom could force me to see her but she couldn't make me talk to her.  We would often sit in silence, staring at each other - a defiant 14 yr old and a 60 yr old psychologist.  Eventually, I would laugh out of discomfort while thinking how stupid it was that she was being paid to stare at me.  Each time I laughed, Dr. Borby would ask "What is making you laugh?"  I never had an answer for her.  

Fourth grade is when my mom decided I needed therapy.  She often compared me to my older sister and grades were a part of this.  My sister received all A's while I mostly received B's and C's.  My mom first decided to take me to a "learning center" for tutoring.  After taking and doing well on numerous academic and intelligence tests, my mom decided I had difficulty learning due to "emotional blocks".  What my mom didn't know is that I purposefully received B's and C's.  I wanted to be average. I didn't want to stand out; I wanted to blend in and I wanted to avoid attention. I suppose it was also one of the few areas in my life I had control over and I took advantage of it.

My parents were overly strict and religious.  We had to attend church several times a week, went to a Christian school, had "devotions" after dinner, prayer was expected several times a day.  We were supposed to do everything we did "to the glory of God" - whatever that meant.  My mom targeted me as far back as I can remember.  She was always angry and wanted things done her way on her time schedule.  I was expected to do whatever she said whenever she said it.  I always wanted to wait until I was away from her scrutiny, her criticism, her anger.  I knew whatever I did would never be "enough" for her and no matter what I did, she would lash out at me.  Once, I remember getting into trouble while vacuuming the house because I didn't do it with a "cheerful Christian attitude".

My mom stopped physically lashing out at me around the time she took me to therapy.  Therapy felt like the new punishment - one of them.  I went to a series of therapists and my response to each one was the same - silence or one word answers.  Again, it was one of the few things in my life that I had control over.  I was so fearful and anxious, I couldn't think of anything to say.  I believed anything I said would go straight back to my mom and I wanted her to know nothing.  In my mind I was protecting myself and trying to have some sense of control over my life.

The therapists (or at least my experiences with them) weren't all bad.  One of the therapists asked me once if my mom was a b***h.  I don't know what shocked me more; the use of the word "b***h" or how the therapist knew my mom could be a b***h. I liked this therapist but soon after my mom decided to switch therapists to .......Dr. Borby.  This seemed typical of my mom - taking away what she knew or thought I liked.  She no longer physically lashed out but she still punished me.

It was March 16, 1983, 4 days after my 14th birthday.  My mom had come home from a vacation visiting her sister in California the day before.  I couldn't figure out what I'd done overnight to warrant this special visit to Dr. Borby.  Dreading the answer, I asked my mom "Why are we going to see her?"  Neither parent would tell me, but I knew it wasn't good. 

 When we got to the office, Dr. Borby held up a piece of paper that looked like a xeroxed copy of a letter that had been taped back together.  I felt a chill go through me as I realized what it was.  I scrambled to think of answers while I sat paralyzed with fear.

About a week prior, I watched an episode of the TV show "Fame".  One of the students wrote an anonymous suicide letter that's found by a teacher, the student realizes people care about him, he's helped, etc.  In my 14 yr old wisdom, I thought I'd copy this.  My anonymous note wasn't a suicide note but one that described my feelings of despair and hopelessness.  My plan was to drop it in the hallway at school, someone would find it, I'd see that people cared and everything would be great.  I soon realized my plan was foolish and would only get me in trouble.  The note could easily be traced back to me and my parents would be informed.  The one thing I didn't want was for that to happen.  My mom would easily use it against me.  I ripped up the note and threw it in the garbage.  I had no way of knowing that my sister would dig it out and tape it back together.

When Dr. Borby asked me about the note, the first thing I thought of was to deny writing it.  Then realizing my handwriting was identifiable, I said I wrote it for a friend.  After further discussion between my parents and Dr. Borby, Dr. Borby informed me that she'd talked with a doctor at St. Joseph Mercy Hospital and I was being admitted to their adolescent psychiatric unit. 

I don't remember the drive there; I barely remember the intake process.  I was mostly in a fog and wanted desperately to believe this wasn't happening.  The first night in the hospital I cried like I hadn't in a long time.  That night was the first time in my life that I didn't want to live.  The next day, I tried to find out if I had any legal rights to contest the hospitalization and learned that I could file an appeal of some sort.  I was going to do this until one of the nurses told me if I lost, the court could order I be there or at another type of facility for a much longer period of time.  This was enough to scare me into not taking this action.

It got better after a few days.  I still refused to participate in the typical therapy sessions (especially family therapy).  Some of the other therapies were actually fun - recreational therapy, music therapy, occupational therapy.  We listened to popular music and went to movies.  I did several things I wasn't allowed to do at home and I relished in this newfound freedom.  I didn't have to go to church nor did I have to suffer through family devotions after dinner. I once was afraid of people who were not Christian having been taught that they were "of the world" and therefore "bad", but I came to like most of the other kids on the unit and the staff.  Some were obviously a bit more messed up but the majority seemed relatively normal. 

I became more comfortable with the relative stability of the psychiatric unit.  I knew what was okay to do and what wasn't okay.  No one yelled or lashed out at me unexpectedly.  I laughed and talked with other patients and staff on the unit.  People were nice to me.  I didn't have to be afraid all the time.  I was able to do my school work without fear.  I didn't have to worry about my parents yelling at each other or possibly hurting the other.  I was relieved to be away from home and didn't want to return.   One of the nurses assigned to me asked me if I wanted to go home and if not, where I wanted to go.  The only place I could think of was my grandma's and uncle's house.  My grandma had died two years earlier but my uncle still lived there and he seemed to like me.  I hadn't realized this was even an option.  I later learned that it was discussed with my parents and they refused to consider it.

I ended up being in the hospital for 48 days with a diagnosis of Dysthymic Disorder which is a mild case of depression.  I didn't have to take any medication or undergo any type of procedures.  In an odd type of way, it was kind of like a hard earned vacation. 

Twenty two years later in May of 1995, I received the medical records from this hospitalization.  I felt somewhat vindicated after reading them.  I wasn't the "problem" as I'd been told for so long and the assessments done were for the most part, fairly accurate.  I learned a few things from the records as well.  At the time of the hospitalization, my mom had told the doctor that my problems "began at birth"; that I was a "difficult baby who refused to eat unless spoon fed until 2 years old."  I have no memory of her telling me this but according to the medical records, my mom "told the patient (me) that if she (me) didn't come to the hospital, she (my mom) would leave the home because she felt unneeded, unloved and had to have emotional support."  I learned that my mom felt my problems centered on "the relationship with father, school issues and inability to express feelings".  I also learned that one of my teachers from school went to see the family therapist and told the therapist that she "places much of the blame upon patient's mother. That the mother has been trying to scapegoat patient for a long time.  The teacher doesn't see any problems at school.  She also felt that the patient is quiet at home because every time her mother finds out anything, she tells everyone".  To this day, I have no idea which teacher this was but I am grateful for her. 

My mom changed significantly in the years from my adolescence to my adulthood.  A few years after I received the medical records, my mom asked if she could read them.  I was a little hesitant as they weren't exactly complimentary about her but said okay.  She read them, gave them back and said "That sounds about right".   

Author's Note

what do you think?

Reviews

[Mel3358]

I wasn't aware at the beginning that the lashing out was physical. You might want to clarify that around the time of the vacuum story.

"She no longer physically lashed out but she still punished me." feels redundant.

So was she put into the hospital because the doctors saw the mother was abusive?