The Truth About Behavior Health Floors.

I was 21. I wasn’t new to the process but this was a first for me. The double doors closed and locked as I watched my mother who had just traveled an hour and a half as fast as she could to ease me in. It didn’t matter. I cried out the tiny windows of the double locked doors as if this was it. This was how it was going to end. I would never come back from this. Next, I was wheeled to my room. White as a ghost the formalities blended together like that first time you feel grief when you lose a loved one for the first time. I sat in the exam room. I watched the needle go into my arm for a blood draw but I never felt a thing. Blank. I could feel my eyes swelling with tears that I didn’t understand. Who was I? What had my life come to that I was locked on this hospital floor unsafe to be alone? The rooms were cold. When did I get this bad? Why? I laid down on the hard mattress with blankets that felt and smelt like cardboard. All I could think about what the fact I had become a visitor in my own body, in my own brain. I closed my eyes and wished this to go away, forever.

Next thing I woke up to was a nurse nudging me softly. As she nearly begged me to get up and eat I shuffled to the common room. I sat down in the same chairs I sat in during group therapy in the Partial program. They were cold chairs but the people surrounding me were warm. Although their hearts were as broken as mine, they smiled. I didn’t understand. I barely had the energy to smile back, how did they have any to smile in the first place? I was clearly the youngest in the room. I was expecting people to be so far gone up here that they couldn’t even hold a conversation with me. That’s what they teach you right? That impatient floors are filled with vicious and weak crazy people who are dangerously mentally ill. That they lock you up here because you’re not a harm to yourself, you’re a harm to others. They make it sound like prison, don’t they?

They were wrong. My roommate sat down next to me. She spoke very little english but she didn’t even need to speak to me with words. Her eyes were kind as she reached out to hold my hand. She smiled at me. I looked up and smiled back right before I did a scan of the room. This wasn’t how I pictured it. These people were good people. These people had children, they had wonderful partners, they had great jobs and some even had families and beautiful homes. This wasn’t a placed filled with the “losers” society taught me would be here.

The stereotype began to change quickly in my head. The years of people placing a stigma on mental illness were slowly fading like the sun after a long day at the beach. The voices in my head telling me that I wasn’t normal or worthy were starting to be replaced with “I am strong,” and “I am beautiful”. Suddenly, it felt like cinderblocks were being lifted off my chest. Did this mean I could get better? I never thought it was possible. So I started to do something I never had done before. I listened. I listened to stories from these people, the people that I had no idea were going to change my life. I listened to their strength and grace when going through what I thought was a vicious circle of misery. I watched frowns turn into smiles and darkness turn to hope. Hope. This was not a word that was in my vocabulary.

On day three that four letter word became an afterthought. Borderline Personality Disorder and Bipolar 2, once I heard those words creep out the mouth of my psychiatrist the feeling hope vanished from my mind. “What a freak” I said inside my head. I knew what people said about people like me. I saw the Facebook comments using bipolar as an adjective. I knew people only thought of it as a mood swing crazed b****. As for Borderline Personality disorder, I wasn’t quite sure. This was a new one for me. I looked through the packet the doctor gave me. I read all about the pain and suffering that lead to this illness. Everything started to make sense. All the relationships in my life that felt unhealthy, this was why. My random yet strong attachments to people who gave me the time of day, it all was starting to click. The need for feeling pain that I could be in control of, so many things were starting to come together in my mind. The next thought was, how was I going to fix this. Borderline Personality Disorder was an illness a pill couldn’t solve. I needed to work, and I needed to work hard to cope with this.

They don’t teach you much about Borderline Personality Disorder in school. They barely even talk about it in society it feels. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I knew that this illness would creep up on me throughout the rest of my life no matter how hard I worked. It all started with opening up. I started to talk about my past without shame or embarrassment. I began to open up in ways I didn’t think were possible. I began to move forward away from my past. Here is the thing they don’t tell you about the fifth floor. They disguise it as a prison when in reality it’s a place of healing, a place to gather your thoughts and get to know your soul. It’s somewhere you don’t have to run from, a place where you meet people like you that will change your life forever. I learned a lot in the month I was healing. I learned that being here isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of inner strength. A place where you admit you need help and begin your journey to a happy and healthy mind. If only people who shamed me for who I am could see the work I’ve done, the work that changed who I am as a person forever. When people use my illness as a stereotype or as an adjective to hurt something or describe their erratic behavior, it is one of the most painful things to experience. Imagine working so hard on yourself for people to see right through all the work you’ve done, all the pain you’ve faced and overcome.

The long days began to get shorter as I was making memories with people I would never forget. I began to laugh and smile at the people walking through the doors for the first time, I hope I changed their lives the way the people who smiled at me changed mine. I will never forget these people. I will never forget the social workers, nurses and doctors that help me understand who I was and what was happening to me. I packed up all the hard work I had done during my time in blue folder that was ripping it had so much paperwork in it. I put the work in to begin my new live. I gave my life meaning, I gave myself strength and I left through those double doors with no fear of returning. What a beautiful place to heal.

The stigma needs to end in order for people to admit they are hurting. If you are reading this and you need mental health help, do not be ashamed! Getting help is a sign of strength and will change your life forever. Look for mental health programs near you and begin your new life with your soul at peace.