When I stepped out of my father's car onto the blacktop of the community hospital parking lot, I had only a fuzzy idea of what to expect over the next 24 hours. Emergency rooms had never been the most efficient experiences for me, especially when it came to treating mental health issues. In the defense of the mental health community I've been a member of since childhood, it's difficult to get past the labels pasted on temporary holding rooms or orange cones. Mental issues, psychiatric patient, suicide risk... why don't they just slap a big sticker that reads "broken" right on our foreheads?
It had been 10 tumultuous years since my last visit to a psychiatric ward (behavioral health facility, mental hospital, whatever you want to call it). So, while I carried a sense of assurance knowing I had walked these steps multiple times before, there was still overwhelming fear of moving forward by myself. I sat in the hallway of a bustling Emergency Department, eyes dripping with the remaining tears I had left, I watched as the scurry of nurses managed other patients.
New patients received the same set of questions. What's your date of birth? What brought you in today? And the age-old classic, on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain? My nerves shook with anticipation as I waited for my turn and prepared my answers as I always did. (I even like to prepare back up answers to questions or comments not expected - welcome to anxiety if you weren't familiar!)
A male nurse finally approached me in my bed. I wiped my goopy nose on the sleeve of my sweater, initially unfocused on the fact no one had offered me a tissue or that it had been almost an hour before he spoke to me.
He asked my DOB. Check. Then he asked what brought me in - a question I was obviously expecting but it really wasn't until it was said aloud to me that I realized how stupid my answer would sound. Here I am, surrounded by people who were fighting for their lives, and all I could say was, I want to die. My response created zero reaction, at least in his expression, as he jotted down a few notes. Second question, check. The clipboard quickly fell to his side and he leaned over the gurney towards me. I was ready for the final question.
He looked down at the gurney's mattress and offered to bring me another blanket. Confused, I accepted, but it left my stomach twisted. Shortly after, it hit me like my dad used to, and a little spark of anger started to brew within my gut. Later on before I was shipped off, the same nurse returned to take my vitals and say goodnight. This time I would not let my fear silence my voice. I took the opportunity to ask a question I knew would not have a satisfactory answer...
Why is it that physical pain is measured here but mental pain is not? His brow furrowed a little, but he didn't seem to understand what I was getting at. Why is it that the only criteria for anyone needing emergent help is whether or not they want to hurt themselves? I asked more clearly, why don't you ask me to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10?
The nurse had an answer, but not one any of us couldn't have pulled out of our asses if we needed to. His lack of understanding mirrored the masses. The world is not ready to accept that these two groups of patients deserve the same detail of care. Not until the overarching, ancient framework of society that deems mental pain an affliction outside of a medical doctor's scope of assistance is abolished. Not until mental health is recognized as synonymous with physical health. Not until we start to appreciate the level of pain those that suffer from mental health issues.
If you were wondering, my pain that day was at an 8.
So...On a scale of 1-10, how would you rate your pain today?
How long would you survive the end of the world?
How do you make friends who understand?
How to be your own advocate!
