Into the Cuckoos Nest

Previous: [The Assessment]

The second hospital interview with the doctor in charge went smoother than the first. All the kinks were worked out, Kinks being the details of my situation, my medical and substance abuse history, my child abuse history. Long and sordid. The big question was if I had any resistance to being hospitalized.

I was ready to go in, I thought. I dodged the psychiatric ward, for better or worse, and headed to the addiction ward. I don’t know if it made a difference or not. The doctors knew I suffered from both addiction and depression and they were probably linked (duh). Which to address first was the question. I was like a dog chasing its tail. They could medicate me out of my mind or send me to alcoholics classes. The classes won.

Following the interview I headed for intake. A search of my belongings. All my medications were confiscated, identified and replicated. Just in case I replaced them with other drugs or soaked them in LSD or something. Shaving razors taken. Nothing I could damage myself with.

Rule number 1: Addicts cannot be trusted. Not even a little.

It seemed a bit extreme until I learned a few things about my fellow patients. And myself.

I ended up in isolation for observation for a week. Security camera embedded into the ceiling. Not allowed to leave the room. PC and cell phones were allowed. My reservations turned into ecstasy. A week of minimal human contact supplied with my PC? I became Br’er Rabbit. “Oh, please just don’t throw me into isolation…”

I completed two short stories and entered them in writing contests, made serious progress on a new long fiction and drew pictures. Pure creative heaven. I was so busy nurses asked if I was working the day job.

I also learned the other reasoning behind the observation period. One was a chance to sober up. I had already been off alcohol for a month so it was pointless for me. But a nurse asked me if I was having any withdrawal symptoms. This was a glorified drunk tank.

The second night, there was a new intake. Didn’t see her, just heard her voice. She wasn’t happy. Started screaming things about everyone being liars and “It’s always booze, booze, booze …” Yeah, no kidding. It’s that for a reason. I would have eye-rolled if I wasn’t terrified. She was on the edge of insanity I hadn’t reached.

A week later I moved to a new room, single occupancy, still under surveillance, but alone with my PC. Joyous times. Productive. My Nordic roots satiated (psst, Henry Miller reference).

Eventually I had to join a multi-person room. I can’t write about that yet. Too personal, too invasive of other’s privacy. But it wasn’t bad. I didn’t participate but I witnessed things. I learned. It becomes the addicts vs. the nursing staff. Cuckoo’s Nest territory. You are a participant or a rat. Like prison. Not good choices. I’m proven not to be good with life’s choices. So I survived. Haven’t told a soul why. Maybe never will.

I came away with two things. The declaration “I’m an addict,” an Alcoholics Anonymous requirement, and rule number one. Never trust an addict. It was like the ending of that Eddie Murphy movie, Beverly Hills Cop. “Trust me.” Delivered with a knowing smile.

It’s all true. Trust me.