psychiatric units

darnold1975

These Beautiful Walls (Poetry)

These Beautiful Walls
8.3.19
Some people see what others can’t see
These beautiful walls that keep me safe from me.
People think this is where we come to hide
But this is where I find members of a “trauma tribe.”

We are people who have been through more than most.
And more than not several of us have a host.
For we have seen and been a part of the evils of life.
And for us it has caused lots of strife.

We have fingers and we have toes
But with that comes many woes
Listen to me as I begin to close
We come here beaten down and come to
recognize ourselves as heroes.

By: Dana Landrum-Arnold
#thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Life Is Better When You’re Laughing

Life Is Better When You’re Laughing

“I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose.”

—Woody Allen

The above title is the writing on the outside of my private journal.  Understand comedy however you wish but for me it has gotten me through a lot of situations both good and bad.  I have always prided myself on the fact that regardless of what events have taken place in my life, my ability to laugh and find humor in most situations was never damaged.  Often times humor was used against me as a form of humiliation and embarrassment.

As a child, I’m not sure if I was humorous or not.  However, with my dad’s quick wit and grandmother’s lack of a filter, in any capacity, there was always a reason to laugh.  In my teen years, clowning around became second nature and a form of survival.  I became a class clown that followed me into adulthood.  In most treatment centers and psychiatric units you can most assuredly find me as the guilty party wherever roars of laughter might be exhibited. This is not because I like attention.  I do, however, love laughing with like minded individuals.  Things I Have Learned on Psychiatric Units is another blog where some of this very humor was captured.

I am usually telling stories related to my late grandmother’s antics especially when birds, squirrels, her individualized driving abilities or lack thereof and Wal-Mart scooters are the topics. She never could quite understand the fact that birds and squirrels have co-existed for thousands of years together.  She also never realized that both birds and squirrels can survive on food even if you don’t personally feed them every day.  There were many days when you would catch her screaming at the squirrels in a murderous rage about staying out of the bird feeder because they had their own food (corn cobs) placed securely onto a tree.  After throwing random objects from her house such as knives, spoons, cooking pots, a tea pot and house slippers at said bird feeder and using language that would make even the most liberal of southern Baptist blush she would then proceed threatening them with verbalized thoughts of a mass squirrel genocide.  Even after her death some of those same house slippers were found buried beneath leaves of the once violent anti-squirrel tyrant.  The blog post Birds and Squirrels also reiterates some of these same scenarios played out by one of my greatest friends….my Nannie.

comfort zone

Her driving consisted of her ignoring street signs, mainly speed limit signs, because they were viewed as a suggestion rather than law.  My family and I started driving her around soon after we all realized that safety behind the wheel was not her goal or a priority.  When I would take her to Wal-Mart my 80 year-old grandmother used the same lack of driving skills on the scooters.  There were times when I would look up with her driving solo to the women’s clothing section right up into a clothes rack.  She then proceeded to tell me the scooter was broken  and that’s why the incident has occurred.  Never once did she acknowledge operator error.  She would somehow cuss her way into leaving the area on the “broken” scooter only to leave a trail of blouses that had been ripped off the rack.  She would also drive down to another section of the store with additional clothing and hangers swirling around and grinding in the tires.  I’m sure Wal-Mart wrote these damaged items off because they most assuredly could not be sold after my Nannie had done her damage.

The ability to laugh at our own shortcomings allows us to not take life so seriously.  Laughter helps to reduce pain, strengthens immune function and decreases stress.  Whenever I feel some type of major depressive episode coming on I’ll usually find a movie or a standup performance by one of my favorite comedians/actors to help chase it away.  Granted this doesn’t always work but laughter has been some of the best medicine for me.  Some of my favorite comedians are:  Kevin Hart, Katt Williams, Dane Cook, Tyler Perry, Rickey Smiley, Jim Gaffigan, Aries Spears, Gabriel Iglesias, Will Ferrell, Jim Carey, Dana Carvey, Margaret Cho, Amy Schumer, Ellen Degeneres, Tig Notaro, Melissa McCarthy, Mo’nique, Whoopi Goldberg, Wanda Sykes, Cedric the Entertainer, Jeff Dunham, Mike Epps, Russell Peters, Darren Knight (Southern Momma) and the late Robin Williams, Chris Farley, Bernie Mac, John Candy and Ralphie May.

While my ex-husband could be comical, he used his humor in a very demeaning way against me.  And in public or around family is when he would let these skills reverberate with only me having the knowledge that this was not done in fun. I picked up on those comedic verbal sniper attacks very well. Also, since tears and real emotions were not considered “safe”, humor whether appropriate or inappropriate was always acceptable.  To this day, I’ll deflect most emotions other than anger or humor because it just doesn’t feel safe even with safe people.  Luckily, my “coach” already knows this and gets my attention when deflection seems to be my goal instead of feeling uncomfortable feelings.

Learning how deal with feelings through laughter is ok.  However, using humor as a way to avoid feelings can be detrimental and deadly if taken to extremes.  Re-learning how to deal with feelings appropriately is not an easy task.   But I will still take time out with telemarketers to let them know that I have to end the call because I have a cow on fire in the front yard.  Again, another part of life where I must learn and accept the importance of moderation and balance.

#thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Things I Have Learned On A Psychiatric Unit

“Psych units are the only place where you can cry, hallucinate, take a nap, and then laugh so hard you almost get written up, all before breakfast.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today’s story requires spiritual armor, emotional bubble wrap, and possibly a priest. It’s good to be able to laugh at yourself. And at the flaming dumpster fire situations life casually tosses your way like, “Here. Deal with this.”

Before we begin, let me just say that if life had a suggestion box, I would’ve stuffed it full years ago with notes like, “Hey, maybe stop throwing flaming emergencies at me before breakfast,” and “Please stop sending character‑building experiences. I am fully built.” But here we are.

One thing about me? I will laugh at absolutely anything. Trauma? Comedy. Chaos? Material. A mental breakdown?  Existential dread? Put a wig on it and call it performance art. Give me ten minutes and a snack and I’ll turn it into a TED Talk with punchlines.

I’ve spent so much time in the mental health system that I should honestly get a loyalty punch card. Nine visits and the tenth one comes with a free juice box and a pair of grippy socks. And while none of it is funny in the moment. Because nothing is funny when you’re locked behind steel doors wearing hospital-issued foot mittens. Give it a little time and suddenly you’re laughing so hard your abs almost activate for the first time in recorded history.

So today, we’re taking all that chaos, all that “what in the actual hell?,” all that fluorescent‑lit trauma and we’re turning it into comedy. And after a string of emotionally heavy posts, the kind that require a nap, a snack, and maybe a brief dissociative intermission. It felt like time to lighten the mood. Because if I don’t laugh, I will simply lie face‑down on the floor until my cats gather around me like I’m a fallen soldier in a Civil War reenactment.

Spending most of my adult life in the mental health system has gifted me something priceless an absolutely unhinged collection of stories that were NOT funny at the time but are now comedy gold. Nothing is funny when you’re behind steel “safety” doors wearing grippy socks and questioning every decision you’ve ever made. But soon you’re laughing so hard your abs almost activate for the first time in human history.

A lot of my trauma centers around the idea of being trapped. Which makes psychiatric stabilization units a special kind of irony, because nothing says “calm down” like being locked behind metal doors with fluorescent lighting and a chair bolted to the floor.

The system is deeply flawed. So flawed that being “stabilized” often destabilizes me further. But I’ve been lucky enough to meet some incredible people along the way. I call them my fellow battle buddies and sometimes all you can do is laugh together like, “Wow. This is impressively bad.”

I’m also extremely talented at roasting myself at any given moment. It’s a gift. Or a trauma response. Possibly both. So grab your emotional support beverage, your sense of humor, and whatever coping skill hasn’t been recalled this week. Welcome to the blog. Welcome to the chaos. Welcome to the Psych Olympics.

If you’re considered “too spicy” for regular psych, congratulations you’ve been promoted to the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit, lovingly known as the PICU. This is where you’ll witness behaviors you didn’t know the human body could perform. You may also receive bonus labels. One such title is “poop slinger,” which is not a metaphor and absolutely not a personality trait you want on your résumé.

Through trial by fire, I’ve learned how to survive these units. I’ve also learned that confrontation is sometimes necessary. Not because it’s wise, but because it makes both staff and patients suddenly realize you are not, in fact, the easy target they hoped for.

Below Are My Field Notes From the Inside Some Of These Units

• If you find someone drinking out of the toilet bowl like a Labrador, this does not mean they are friendly. Approach with caution. This is not a Disney movie.

• When staff asks, “Do you want to take a trip on the van?” They are not talking about sightseeing. They are talking about Ativan.

• If you don’t drink fruit juice or cow nipple secretions, you are now considered “noncompliant” and also “mysteriously thirsty.”

• Showering without a curtain is a deeply humbling, prison-adjacent experience no one prepares you for.

• You will dry off with either a pillowcase or your own pants because paper towels are apparently dangerous weapons.

• The food is not food. It is a suggestion of food. A memory of food. Something a horse once dreamed about.

• When your safe food is hummus and it arrives looking like caulk from Lowe’s, served with graham crackers instead of saltines, the will to live briefly exits the chat.

• Poo-Pourri is contraband. Your only option is shampoo sprayed aggressively into the toilet while yelling, “WE HAVE A SHITUATION! AND WE NEED SHITRUS SPRAY” Staff will not laugh. Patients absolutely will.

• When cigarettes become your only coping skill, germs lose all meaning.

• “Therapeutic activities” include coloring pages and word searches, which somehow increase aggression instead of reducing it.

• Some psychiatrists have the energy of people who definitely own jars of eyeballs labeled “DO NOT ASK.”

• Saying threatening things while angry never ends well. This will, however, guarantee a forced nap courtesy of booty juice.

• Booty juice is a powerful chemical cocktail delivered directly to the ass cheek — could stop a zombie apocalypse.

• Stress hives will convince other patients you have mange.

• Yelling “DEAD MAN WALKING!” while entering the cafeteria is hilarious to patients and devastating to staff morale.

• Benzodiazepines may be prescribed solely because you are annoying.

• Being given laxatives while actively battling eating disorders is a choice. A deeply concerning one.

• Watching daily emergency codes becomes like watching Cops. You start rooting for chaos like it’s a sport.

• You may meet someone who looks suspiciously like a knockoff Mike Tyson.

• Serving sexual trauma survivors link sausage does not guarantee a faster healing pace.

• Panic attacks may be treated with what appears to be chest compressions.

• Every diagnosable mental disorder exists here.

Every single one. You think you’ve seen weird behavior? You have not even scratched the surface of humanity. I hope you laughed. Because everything in this piece? I lived it. It really is this bad. And somehow, we’re still here, laughing anyway.

If you made it this far, you have survived a guided tour through the psychiatric Hunger Games, narrated by someone who has absolutely been there, done that, and stolen the hospital socks.

Every fluorescent light. Every bolted chair. Every “therapeutic activity” that made me want to fight God. Every cafeteria meal that looked like it had been described to the chef but never actually prepared. And somehow we’re still here. Still laughing. Still healing. Still comparing trauma notes like, “Girl, did that really happen or did I hallucinate it?”

The system is flawed. The experiences are wild. The stories are unhinged. But the resilience? The humor? The ability to look back and say, “Wow, that was impressively terrible”? That’s ours. We earned that. So if you laughed, good. If you related, I’m hugging you in spirit. If you’re still in the thick of it, I’m cheering for you with the enthusiasm of a patient who just got approved for outdoor time. And if you ever find yourself in a stabilization unit again, just remember: You are not alone. You are not broken. And somewhere out there, I’m probably also wearing grippy socks and yelling “WE HAVE A SHITUATION” into a toilet. Thanks for reading! Keep smiling.

Affirmation: “I am thriving, even when life hands me trauma, fluorescent lighting, and a pillowcase to dry off with. I bend. I don’t break unless it’s hospital furniture, in which case that was already loose and not my fault.”

#ThisPuzzledLife