EPTI was listening to the Joe Rogan Podcast #98 and the guest, Daryl Wright, started talking about how comedy and making people laugh got him through a two year prison sentence. I had a similar experience that I haven't really shared with people, and I thought it would be good to get it down on e-paper.
Back in the middle of sophomore year of college, I was involuntarily committed to a psyche ward. They weren't especially nice about it. The calm, maddeningly dispassionate lady at student health "recommended" that I check in of my own accord, but I told her that I really didn't want to. Then she strongly recommended it, and I strongly restated that I didn't prefer it. She broke the extremely awkward silence that followed by asking me what I was thinking. Since I have the unfortunate defense mechanism of blunt honesty, I told her I was wondering what would happen if I tried to leave. I had blinked first in the the Mexican stand-off, and she excused herself from the room, leaving me alone with the increasingly disturbed calm-lady-in-training, who, with wide eyes, made small talk with me as I tried to remember what floor I was on and how I might make it to the front door.
As a brief side note, and as a result of more panicked honesty, I asked her if it was standard practice to bring a new recruit into such an impromptu counseling session. She said that it wasn't, but immediately clammed up after the first few words of explanation. Apparently my "case" was informative and interesting enough for a neophyte to cut her teeth on. I laughed at this, since the same had happened whenever I went to the doctor with a tonsil infection. For whatever reason, when I get strep throat or some other bacterial infestation of the ENT area, my lymph nodes swell up to absolutely abnormal sizes. So much so, that doctors very often call in their peers and students to check out how bloated my face is. One time, with a fever of around 103, I had to sit on the cold, adjustable bed for an extra half-hour while my doctor rounded up three med students from UNC and gave them all a lesson on neck palpation. It's nice knowing that even in sickness I can be an educational tool.
Anyway, it turns out that a "strong recommendation" means "we're calling the authorities if you disagree," and they were on their way. The calm-lady-in-training was visibly excited at this, but it was at this point that I really started to shut down. They were locking me up, and there was nothing short of violence or flight that I could do about it. They even brought in a big burly dude to intimidate me-unassuming, meek little me- into not causing any trouble. But I had accepted my fate. I was forced to make the most surreal phone call of my life. "Hey mom. Yep, I'm crazy. Yep, always have been. Nope, never told anyone. No I'm not going to hurt anybody." They had actually told my parents that I might be a danger to other people. And they were calling me crazy.
The cops showed up and very politely asked me if I needed to be handcuffed. My brain actually slipped out of gear for a few seconds as I pondered the question- not because I thought I might need physical restraints, but because there are some questions where your answer seems so irrelevant that your brain is too lazy to even bother processing it. Like "chicken or fish" on an airplane, you feel that you technically have a choice, and that your answer will matter, but know deep down that you're actually just choosing between poop and crap, and either way you're just getting a shit sandwich.
My brain did kick in, though, as I saw the handcuffs come out, and said no: that I would not cause any trouble. So instead of a cop car in handcuffs, I got a ride to the hospital strapped down to a gurney in an ambulance. The ambulance technician was actually great. "Shit, you look fine to me." Tell them that! It was the last time someone treated me like a normal person and not some fragile, glass doll for a long time.
They took me to the suicide ward, which has to be the worst place I have ever been. They take all your stuff from you, including your shoe laces, and leave you to floppy-footedly stumble around a cell with only three walls and no place to hide from the disapproving, large black nurse who gives you annoyed glances every five minutes to make sure your sorry ass isn't trying to smother yourself by shoving your shirt down your throat, or however people creatively kill themselves in such uninspiring circumstances. The worst part is that it's freaking cold, and you have no blanket. You also have nothing to distract you from everything that has just happened, and everything that might happen in the future. All there is to do is lie down, shivering, and do battle with all the malicious thoughts that have set out to wreck your brain.
I did have a nurse, though, come and patch me up. As she applied the disinfectant, she worriedly warned me, "this may hurt a bit." And I flinched. I flinched at the thought that the liquid meant to heal my self-inflicted, oft-repeated wounds might sting a little bit. Dumbass. But the worst part, the thing that made me realize how far gone I actually was: I didn't laugh. I didn't laugh at perhaps the most unintentionally hilarious thing that had ever been said to me. I always laugh. But I didn't.
The next stop was the pysch ward- straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. My two roommates were a guy who would go back to our room at least thrice an hour to make sure the FBI hadn't bugged it while he was drinking his apple juice and a fellow student who had experienced a prolonged psychotic break from reality. A few doors down from me from a lady who had an entire room to herself, kept dark. She was always strapped down, and screamed horrible things at the top of her lungs every moment she was awake. It was mostly incoherent shouting, but when I could make out words, it was mostly about how she didn't belong there and how she wanted to call her lawyer, and that she demanded to be released right that moment. But... that's how I felt. More than anything, it that woman's incessant, mind-breaking screaming that convinced me that I was, in fact, crazy; that I was, in fact, broken; and that I did need to be locked away for the good of society. Why else would I be there, with all those other crazy people?
My brain shut down, and I was completely numb in the brain for a good thirty-six hours as my body went through the motions of being a person. I colored... a lot... with crayons. I think I still have the drawings somewhere. I got to call my new girlfriend and tell her where I was. She actually stayed with me, bless her heart. I think she regrets it now. I interacted vaguely with all the other crazies and met with doctor after doctor who tried to diagnose me. I stumped them all. I didn't quite fit anywhere. Like when your car won't stop making that funny noise, but every mechanic swears there's nothing causing causing it- my glassy-eyed stories didn't place me solidly into any medically established category. Lovely. They recommended that I stay on for observation, though, and informed me that they could hold me for fourteen days without consent. I knew better than to argue.
But then I unexpectedly found the thing that would make me feel human again. I laughed. It was in the "lounge" where people dully watch TV. I was staring out the barred, frosted glass windows at what I guessed was a tree, half-heartedly trying to figure out exactly where in the city I was, when they made the daily announcement that "All patients who wish to shave should report to the back room for supervision." I glanced around as half the clientele drowsily got to their feet and started shuffling obediently down the hallway. I accidentally met the gaze of a woman, not much older than me, who had come in around the same time I had. We both broke off eye-contact immediately, you never know what bizarre shouting that might set off, and watched as two of the more out-of-it patients started to loudly argue and scuffle over who got to shave first. Our eyes met again... and we laughed.
We spent time talking after that. She was a law student sent in for almost ODing on pain killers. She had some brutal scars that put anything I had to shame. We shared stories of family reactions and future worries. She had once kicked a cocaine habit cold turkey with nothing but a dark room and the series run of I Love Lucy. She was married to her cousin. Wait... what? Oh yeah, she and her cousin drunkenly made out night at a family reunion, and the thrill compelled them to keep doing it. But they were actually quite compatible and ended up getting hitched. She calls him her cousband. They keep a picture of their shared ancestors on the mantle just so people will ask who it is and they can reply "our grandparents." That's actually how most people find out.
That story, shared with a smile, did more to help me than anything else at the center. From then on, I had someone with whom I could share all the little absurdities of living full time in a nut house. I told her the story of the nurse on suicide watch. The nurse had warned her too! She had heard it before, though, and had a witty retort ready. I told her how our Nurse Ratchett would slightly move my schizophrenic roommate's stuff around just to bug him out because he always put up a fuss about medicine, and she told me how cliques would form among the women around mental-illness lines. Depressed against anorexics. What, you're both? Girl, you got to pick a side.
Once, when we happened to roll the same group therapy session, we got to both hear the story of The God Lady for the first time. She was so-named because she was always rambling on about the end of the world and judgement and salvation, which I figured was enough per se to get her impounded with us. But it turns out she had actually broken into and vandalized a church. I intentionally avoided catching my friend's eye. Specifically, she had set fire to a crucifix and done something sexually suggestive with some of the paintings. Look at the ground, just look at the ground. You can always pretend to be crying. Why did she do all that? Because God told her to. I had to tap out. I faked a sob to stifle my giggles, excused myself, and ran to my room where I broke down in laughter loud enough to drown out the screams of the woman next door. My friend followed me and we sat there gasping for breath at having found out the true nature of God Lady.
All this being said, I was in no way mocking or feeling superior to my fellow inmates. I often times laughed at myself, and was ribbed by my friend, for my own insecurities and bizarre tendencies. The deepest, darkest secrets you would never tell anyone become the small talk in places like that. But finding humor in it all allowed me to process and filter the things that I was feeling and experiencing in a healthy way. When I could jokingly share tips at how to hide scars (I would cut on my scalp), or talk about the crazy things I would use to try not to leave marks (keys worked well), it all helped me understand how messed up I actually was, but at the same time compartmentalized the damaged bits so that I could have another, healthy part of my brain objectively analyze and start to fix it. Laughing helped me realize that it wasn't -me- that was broken, it was just a part of me, and that there were plenty of systems still functioning that could provide life support and keep me running.
That is, essentially, how comedy and humor kept, and keeps, me sane.
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i had a friend once who had scarred forearms, but she didn't have to attend a ward. I think she went to a psychiatrist, but nothing more. I don't know if she still went while i knew her, but she still sometimes did that stuff. But she seemed to have gained control over it for the most parts.
