“Bed cheeeccckkk!”
With crusty eyes and a head still heavy from slumber, I tried to wake up and fix my bed. A squad of nurses in blue scrub tops and white pants barged in. My roommates, still under their covers, were unmoved. The air conditioner continued to lull them with its low whirring hum.
“Bed check!” One of the nurses shrieked again.
My roommate closest to the switch turned on the lights, and like worms sprinkled with salt, the others began to squirm.
There were four of us in our room –a regular rectangular room with cream-colored walls and bright fluorescent lights. On one side of the room is a 24” Samsung flat-screen television with a large steel locker beside it. Further along is the door to a common bathroom. On the other side were four beds propped up against the wall. Except for the hospital beds, one would think of it as a typical dorm room, not a psychiatric ward.
Our room is just one of the four psychiatric wards in the hospital. The other two were larger wards that accommodated male patients, while the fourth housed patients needing acute care and closer observation.
“Abad… Cortez… Santos… Superable…”
“Present,” I answered in a deep hushed tone.
The nurses glanced at me as they ticked the attendance sheet.
We were used to this routine; we were expected to be awake with our beds fixed before the morning rounds. We understand that this is done so that the nurses could ensure that none of us escaped or took her own life during the night. But oftentimes, like any other person, we too struggle to get out of bed in the morning.
I was admitted to this institution many moons ago after a failed attempt at ending my life. I have told this story a couple of times during therapies and patient interviews. They told me that sharing what had happened over and over again can be cathartic in a way, but I never did forget the feeling of hopelessness that I felt. There were moments that I would be caught off-guard and emotions would suddenly rush in, as if I was being transported back to that time.
It was a misty Sunday morning. The rain had poured the night before. The sun had cast a soft glow over Manila Bay. I was in a hotel room overlooking Roxas Boulevard. As I drew open the large hotel windows, I noted that few cars and even fewer pedestrians were plying the road. Over at the distance, a couple of ships were anchored at the bay. One could say that it was indeed a fine Sunday morning. Nevertheless, the tranquility of my surroundings was inversely proportional to the turmoil that I was feeling.
It was the last day of quarantine. I was not able to sleep the night before. My eyes were already red and swollen from crying. Intoxicated with wine and drenched with the sweet stench of Marlboro Reds; I contemplated the events that brought me there.
I was a good daughter. I followed my parents. I was a diligent student. I avoided drugs and alcohol and instead, stuck to my books. I worked my ass off to make my parents proud of me. I was prim, proper, and level-headed. I was not “loose” in any sense of the word.
Nevertheless, there I was inebriated, recalling how I was sexually harassed by someone I trusted, in the same room where I was staying. I did ask for help -but from the wrong people. I thought it was right to seek guidance from my peers. But I think they were there for the chismis, rather than the genuine concern for my welfare. It is ironic how those who retweet #NoToVictimBlaming were the ones who were quick to judge. And I too began judging myself. As a result, I only sank deeper into the rabbit hole.
In my thirty years of existence, I have never been more disappointed with myself. The term disappointment cannot even capture the dejection that I was feeling –it was more of disgust. I was disgusted with myself. I was reflecting on my life and all I could think of were the wrong turns I had taken –the wrong decisions that I had made. I felt as if I had failed in all facets of my life with no salvageable aspect. I was a lost cause. It was dark and heavy, crushing even the deepest depths of my being. I couldn’t breathe. It was weighing me down.
I needed to do something to numb the feeling, to fight off the misery. The only thing I could think of at that time was to end it once and for all. Overdosing myself with anesthetics seemed apt.
I had the anesthetic, syringes, and a couple of intravenous cannulas delivered to the hotel via a Pabili app. As I prepared the medication, a sense of relief came over me. “It will soon be over,” I told myself. I thought about my loved ones and was glad that I would no longer be baggage to them. I thought of all the people whom I had wronged in the past and imagined this was my way of apologizing to them. And finally, I thought of the people who had wronged me and surmised that I deserved what was about to happen to me. In my head, I was already writing my own elegy.
I methodically inserted an IV cannula into my left hand, meditating on the things about to happen. I was pushing close to half of the anesthetic that I prepared when rationality suddenly came over me. This is not how it is supposed to end. I realized that what I needed was professional help. Right there and then, I called the hospital. I was fetched by an ambulance and so, here I am.
After the bed check, I lined up in the lobby with the other patients to get our morning rations. In our hospital, the food can be pretty predictable: if it’s not scrambled egg, then it could either be processed meat or dried fish. That day, they were serving longganisa. I got my bottle of mustard and ate quietly while I ruminated further on the circumstances that brought me here.
I was part of the medical staff in the same hospital. We catered to surgical patients but would occasionally get referrals from other services. In spite of this, seldom did we venture into the psychiatric ward. They were housed in a separate building inside the hospital compound. They have a world of their own, cloistered in their own space. Images of violent patients in restraints would pop into my head whenever I passed by, and I am sure that I am not the only one.
The reality is, even among us health professionals, the topic of mental health is only spoken in hushed tones with a tint of embarrassment. There was something about being diagnosed with a psychiatric condition –it was not similar to having pneumonia or appendicitis. It carried with it a negative connotation, a mark that cannot be erased once a person is tagged mentally unfit -especially, among those in the medical field.
How could a person suffering from mental illness be able to take care of sick patients?
As such, many are still apprehensive about seeking professional help. They are scared of the stigma that is still prevalent today. It is not just about the risk of losing one’s job but also the loss of credibility in making rational medical decisions for the patient.
Nonetheless, never in my wildest dreams had I thought of ending up in a psychiatric ward. Moreso, in the hospital that I have been working in. Well, never did I think that I would be raped either –the unwelcome transgression on my being that started my downward spiral.
Anyway, word got out quickly that I was admitted to the psychiatric ward of our hospital. During the first few weeks of my stay, I would usually hide whenever I saw a familiar face passing by. I was embarrassed for myself. Even I hold the same stigma against people like me.
It is rare to find health professionals seeking help regarding mental concerns. People automatically assume that since we are in this profession, we already know how to take care of ourselves. But let us not forget that we are still humans. We, too, are not immune to feeling pain and sadness once in a while.
After breakfast, with water bottles in tow, we lined up again in the lobby for our medication. I received the standard Vitamin B and C given to all patients, plus a mood stabilizer. I was diagnosed with, among other things, Bipolar Disorder.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM V), the bible of Psychiatry, defines my condition as a mood disorder characterized by shifting episodes of depression and mania. This could be marked by increased sleep, loss of interest, and suicidal ideations during the low points, which then shift to increased goal-directed activities, flight of ideas, and a sense of grandiosity during the high points. In my case, I oscillated from being active and not needing sleep for seventy-two hours straight to being depressed to the point of committing suicide. In other words, persons with bipolar disorder like myself, experience mood swings on a level that can affect their normal day-to-day functioning.
The other patients received antidepressants and antipsychotics, depending on their conditions. Mental illnesses such as Bipolar Disorder and Major Depressive Disorder are brought about by an imbalance of chemicals in the brain called neurotransmitters. Some are more predisposed to developing these conditions, especially if there is a history of mental illness in the family, or if a patient undergoes a traumatic experience. This imbalance may then manifest with symptoms of depression, irritability, sleep disturbances, or hallucinations. As such, patients would need medications to help balance them out and maintain that sweet spot called normalcy.
However, this is just an oversimplification of what it is like to have a mental illness. A mere chemical imbalance in the brain doesn’t encapsulate the fear, anxiety, sadness, and the whole gamut of emotions that we are feeling. Taking a pill doesn’t magically make everything all right. The loss of jobs, rejection from family and friends, and the constant stigma doesn't simply go away. We still have the terrors of our past and the uncertainty of the future constantly nibbling on us, making us aware of their presence.
After receiving our medications, we retreated to our rooms to waste away time. Some opted to spend theirs watching TV, playing Monopoly, or exercising in the mini gym. I spent mine reading books.
They screen the games we play, the movies we watch, and the books we read. They cannot be too violent or too sad, else it may trigger traumatic experiences. If you disregard our predicament and look at things differently, staying at the psychiatric ward is just like having a vacation –in Big Brother’s House that is.
Modern psychiatric facilities are a far cry from the scary asylums depicted in movies such as Shutter Island and other psychological thrillers –well at least not here. There are no patients in straitjackets, locked away in dingy cubicles nor are there screaming patients, walking loose in the corridors. True, some patients arrive here out of their minds, screaming, shouting, and needing restraints. But they are isolated in austere confinements for observation and stabilization. Once stable, they are then integrated with the other patients in wards like ours.
“Choooow!” one of the patients hollered.
I barely noticed that four hours had already passed and it was now time for noon mess. We left the comforts of our bunks and lined up again to get our food. They were serving tilapia. They always served fish for lunch –not much to look forward to.
After lunch, we retired back to our beds. Siestas are highly discouraged lest we have difficulty falling back to sleep at night. Most of the patients admitted during my stay were diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder which manifests as, among other things, insomnia. Nevertheless, we still proceeded with our afternoon nap.
It was close to four in the afternoon when I woke up. People were already lining up outside for an afternoon run. I slipped on my navy blue rubber shoes and joined the formation. Since technically, we were still patients, even though with no visible infirmities, everything we did should be supervised by the nurses and doctors. And so, for our afternoon run, we usually do it in squads of ten, accompanied by staff, in a predesignated route inside the hospital compound. Others who prefer to walk may do so again, accompanied by staff.
After the afternoon exercise, we found dinner waiting for us. I grabbed a tray and was greeted with the sumptuous smell of pork binagoongan –my favorite. I devoured the meal quickly and went back to our room to freshen up. One of my roommates turned on the television.
“Metro Manila has been placed on Alert Level 1 after a noted decline in the number of COVID cases…”
COVID has been declining and the country was slowly opening up.
The world is opening up again. People would soon return to their normal way of life -going to school or work, dining out with family and friends, living out their lives. And yet, for those of us admitted at a psychiatric facility with a big sign slapped to our foreheads that read mentally unfit, there is no going back. Family and friends would feel uneasy around us. Employers would hesitate to hire us. Most of us would need lifelong medications. But the biggest demon that we need to hurdle is the way we view ourselves, for we know that we will never be the same again.
We spent the rest of the night watching the evening news and teledramas on TV. Another day had concluded.
“Bed check!” The nurses are here again.
“Abad… Cortez… Santos… Superable…”
I retire under the covers of my bed. Yes, another day was done.
Our day might not seem much to the outside but we got through another day. And tomorrow is another silent battle we fight with the monsters inside our heads.