As a teen shortly after my mother sustained a massive head injury, my dad checked me into a mental health rehabilitation facility to be treated for depression. I was depressed due to the tragic event that happened to our family. This is not uncommon but rather a normal human response to trauma. It is by no means a mental illness, nor does it require "treatment". A loving support network of friends and family are the perfect remedy for one who experiences pain in their personal life. We all suffer tragedy at some point in our lives, but the answer is not medicine, nor do we all need to be locked away.
The facility was very dark. The staff were borderline abusive to the kids and teens. We were all labeled with a "disorder" and we were ALL prescribed drugs. The labels were the same for all of us, just a few categories. Your psychiatrist diagnosed you with depression, bi-polar disorder, or ADHD. For us teens, we all had manic-depression and were given anti-depressants to "feel" better. In fact, when new kids arrived the first thing we asked them was, "What do YOU have and which drug did they give you?" None of us were allowed to reject taking the pills, they forced us each day as we lined up at the nurses office to receive our daily dose. They watched us take the pills, checking to make sure we swallowed. If we refused, they would punish us by placing us in a small room with padded walls. No, this is not something you see only in the movies, but it is reality. Even our parents had no idea what was happening.
If any of us broke the rules, we were forced to spend a certain number of minutes in that room. I broke one of the rules, I was accused of telling a lie. We had therapy classes each day with different leaders and each leader had to initial our agenda sheet. Without the agenda sheet signed, no T.V. after dinner. I neglected to obtain one signature for the day. (not realizing it) I was called from the recreation room and confronted about "lying". I argued with the staff, trying to explain it was only a mistake. They refused a phone call to my dad because of my "disobedience". I began yelling and screaming, I wanted to call my dad, I wanted out of that place. Instead they called my psychologist. They forced me to speak with him. When I told him I just wanted to go home, he began describing my behavior using "psychological" terms. His voice sounded strange, as if he were the one with a mental disorder. It was not the same voice he had used in sessions.
Once the phone call ended, they gave me one more chance to "tell the truth". I refused. Two large male nurses dragged me kicking and screaming to the padded room. The last thing I remember after being thrown onto the floor, is crawling to a corner. It was dark and smelled of urine from the younger children who had been locked away too. I do not know how much time passed. I do not know how long I was there. The next memory I have is being in the arms of one compassionate nurse on a gurney outside of the padded room. Her name was Kay. At the end of the hall I saw other teens that I had become close to while staying in this horrible place. Through the glass of a door I saw them, crying, screaming, beating the door, pleading my cause. I was brought to my bed and do not recall falling asleep, but only waking up the next day seeing the reality of a drab room, and a window that would not open.
It was a frightening experience. The punishment was no visitation with my family that day. And it was my 16th birthday.
I watched other teens being treated the same way, drugged, occasionally given shots to "calm" them, and then the room where they would sometimes be left for a couple of hours. There was no place for human error, or human feelings/emotions. No matter what you did or said, it was a disorder that required treatment, drugs, more counseling sessions. It drove many of us to complete madness. I watched kids get worse due to the methods that were forced upon them. We were in a prison, no way out, and no one to save us.
After the medication started to "work" in my system I began having nightmares, anxiety attacks, dizziness, I no longer felt like myself. When it was time to leave (code for my dad's insurance had reached it's limit on what they would pay) , I was sent to live in a girls home. The psychiatrist convinced my dad that this would be the best choice for our family. In fact, family was always last and I watched them rip families apart over and over again. Many kids were sent to live in other facilities as well. In these state run homes, more drugs, more therapy, more trauma, and more money for the adults who made their living off of destroying kids and teens. I didn't want to live in another place. I wanted my own room, my own bed. I sat in the backseat of a car driven by social workers to my new home. Tears streaming down my face, no words. We stopped at one point at a small convenience store. As I looked out the window watching people come and go I longed to be them. A normal life. For a moment I thought about leaping from the car and running away. But they would catch me, and might give me more drugs, or worse.
The group home was required by the state to continue giving me medicine. After a few days of pretending to take it, they caught me trying to get rid of my morning dose. I was punished for my crime. No privileges and no visitation with my family. It was obvious that every adult in the field of "mental health" was trained to use our family as a way to punish us. This was the tool used to force us into submission. From that moment forward, I was monitored to insure I was in fact taking the medicine. A couple of weeks later I overdosed on purpose and almost died. The ER medical staff pumped my stomach and I spent three days in ICU, another week in a room. One of the nurses at the hospital (red hair green eyes) told me she had no sympathy for anyone who tried to kill themselves and asked me if I realized that attempted suicide was illegal. It was a very low point for me. No one heard me. I did not have a voice. No one cared. And no one knew that the medicine had affected my mind and caused me to go over the edge.
That is only the first half of my experience with psychotropic drugs. I should have remembered what happened to me. Three days ago I shed bitter tears. I discovered truth and I want others to know...............
Heather
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