Up we went.
Hospital walls all look the same. White, with a white bump that juts out halfway up, acting as a bumper for bed corners, and carts, and whatever else is wheeled through the halls. Big white doors, some of which are propped open to reveal lines of beds separated with curtain partitions. White linoleum floor, that looks as if bare feet would stick to it in that clammy way as you walk. Every so often there is a counter and desks where nurses hang out, filing papers, monitoring rooms, and chatting about whatever it is nurses chat about. Hospitals are all the same, and every corridor looks the same, and after a while of walking and turning down corridor after corridor, you get lost, and you have no idea where you're going, but your feet seem to know which way to turn.
And then the giant white double doors stand there, looming over you, with the word "psychiatric" above them, almost like a neon sign. It might as well be a neon sign. Not that anyone couldn't have already figured it out. Where else would a girl be going, with a bag of clothes and two teary eyed parents in tow?
The doors open.
To the left is a nurse's station, with it's high counter and desks on the other side. To the right is a wall with a closed door. Straight ahead is a sitting area, with a long table and ten hard plastic chairs around it. There is a couch on the far wall, and another perpendicular to it. Past the closed door, there is another sitting area, with a couch, and a TV.
A nurse is talking to my parents. They are signing papers, and asking what happens next. He runs through what sounds like a generic and vague response that he as been coached into giving. Mom doesn't like his answer, and is asking about what happens if they don't leave me here.
For a moment, I can almost feel sorry for her, I can almost forgive her. But the nurse tells her that I cannot leave, that the moment I walked through those giant double doors, I became a resident of the ward, and only a judge could release me from their care. He tells mom that legally I cannot leave. They would have to file through the court system, and hope a judge will expedite my release. He tells me that is likely not going to happen any time soon. He tries to assure them I am going to be fine.
A nurse stands up from her desk behind the counter, and takes paperwork from my parents. She starts asking them questions about insurance, and types on her computer. The male nurse takes my bag from me and ushers me away from my parents. Mom is sobbing, and dad is holding her, trying to comfort her, but it's too late. I want to go home, but it is too late.
The nurse takes me around the counter, and through another set of double doors. There is another sitting area, with a couch, a TV, and a handful of hard plastic chairs. No table. A small room is to the left, and we walk inside and the nurse closes the door behind us.
The little room looks like a room at a doctor's office. There is an exam table, a sink and counter, and some cabinets. I am instructed to sit on the exam table, and I do so without objection. He sets a folder down on the counter, and flips it open. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he begins writing on the paper inside the folder. He asks me questions about my health and about my mood. He asks me questions about my emotions, and how long I've been feeling certain ways. The Q&A session continues through 3 forms, and then he finally turns to look at me.
He has me take off my jacket, and he examines my forearms. He has me remove my shoes, and he puts them on the counter next to my bag. He then tells me to remove my clothes, leaving only my undergarments on. I am in shock, and I don't react at first. He explains that he needs to check for self inflicted injuries, and then repeats his request.
I try to explain that I've never hurt myself on purpose, but he tells me it is protocol. I am awkward at first, fumbling with my shirt, and then with the button on my pants. Once I am sitting there, in my bra and underwear, he takes my clothes and places them on my shoes. He turns to look at me, and I am sure my face is red as he slowly looks over my body. His gaze goes lower and he tells me to spread my legs so he can see my thighs. I know I am red in the face now as I spread my legs, making the paper under me crinkle as I move. When he is done looking at me, he goes back to writing in the file.
I awkwardly sit there, shivering without my clothes. Without looking at me, he asks what size clothes I wear. I quietly respond, and he opens an overhead cabinet and pulls down a set of hospital scrubs in my size. He reaches back into the cabinet and pulls out a pair of hospital socks, in a prepackaged baggy. Those socks are awful. They're the kind with the rubber nubs so you don't slip, and they have no designated heel, so they just rotate on your feet as you move, and twist around your ankles, and because there is no designated heel, there are rubber nubs on both sides.
He turns to hand me the clothes, and tells me I will have to take off my bra, as it isn't allowed because of the wire in it. Then he goes back to the file, giving me the slightest bit of privacy. I put the scrubs on, pulling my arms into the shirt to slip off my bra, which he held out his hand for without turning around. He put my bra with my clothes and shoes.
Turning back to me, he grabbed my bag and opened it. He pulled out my clothes and shook them out. He told me they would have to be washed first, so he would keep them until they were washed. My bras would be confiscated, since they all had wire in them. My ID would be kept in my file, so I wouldn't have to hold onto it. He took all my hygiene products, telling me that I would be issued a toothbrush, paste, hairbrush, and soap and shampoo. I could ask a nurse at the desk for pads and tampons when I needed them. Hair ties and makeup were not allowed. My iPod and earbuds were not allowed. My journals and sketchbooks weren't either as they were wire-bound. He took my pens too. After glancing at the two books, he decided to take them too, due to content. They would have to be approved before I could have them.
I asked if I could have a different journal, or just some paper to write on. I tried to tell him that writing is the one thing I really need, but he said I would have to ask the doctor when I got to see him.
And with that, he stood and ushered me out of the room. Past the nurse's desk, to the other side of both sitting areas, and then to the left.
"This will be your room."