As background to why DBT has been such a positive change, I thought I’d share my truly awful experiences with the “psychiatric machine” here in London, Ontario.
I’ve been taken to hospital twice. Both visits were soul crushing. I’ll describe the second episode in a later post. Here’s the chronology of the first.
It was September of 2018, and I was alone at home. I suffered an extremely severe depressive episode. After calls with Anita and visits from caring and concerned friends, ultimately, I was taken to Victoria hospital in a police cruiser. The time was about 4 p.m.
After two hours in the emergency waiting room, the kindly officer still standing by, I was finally seen by a triage physician. There being no cubicles available, I had to explain my diagnoses, my suicidal thoughts, the historical causes of my depression – childhood trauma, the death of my first wife, and other intimate details – in sobs, in the hospital hallway. Dozens of strangers stared and eavesdropped. He decided the case was serious enough to have me examined by someone more senior. The police officer was dismissed, and I was told to wait.
Two hours later, his superior came to interview me. He had no notes from the prior doctor. So, once again, sitting on a gurney in full view, breaking down, I retold the whole thing. It was an agony of shame and grief. Redux. This doctor concluded I was a danger to myself, “committed me” in effect, and put in a call for a psychiatrist. By now it was about 8:30 in the evening.
Eventually, a bed was found. I can’t recall how, but I had a bottle of zopiclone with me. I took the half dozen or so remaining pills, indifferent to overdose. I finally feel asleep.
At 4 a.m. I was awakened by the resident psychiatrist. You can imagine what happened: he had been given no notes on my case. So, for a third time, I described the reasons behind my breakdown. Sobbing again. Shame again. Agonizing memories again.
Here was his response. He explained that there was no way to admit me, there being no beds on the ward. I could, he said, remain in Emerg for three days, under the order signed by the prior doctor. However, he told me frankly that the nurses wanted me out. His own suggestion was that I go home, have a warm bath, and be sure to take vitamin D regularly. However, the decision was mine. What did I want to do?
At 4:30 a.m. he signed a discharge. He promised that I would receive a follow up call the next day from a mental health crisis nurse. I walked out of Emergency entirely alone. I called an Uber on my own cell and went home to an empty house.
I’m lucky. My niece came that same day to look after me. Anita and Saima flew home. Friends checked in. Many other patients get sent home with no support at all. All too frequently, they take their own lives.
Such is “biomedical” psychiatry in London.
[P.S. The nurse didn’t call.]