Life in a mental hospital

For over 13 months, I was confined at the National Center for Metal Health. When I was being discharged my psychiatrist quite plainly said that my sickness was schizophrenia. Since my nervous breakdown many years ago, I’ve had five different psychiatrists whose diagnoses of my illness vary. My first doctor diagnosed me as having "schizoid personality with obsessive-compulsive features," another said I was "manic depressive."

For almost a year before I was confined at the NCMH, I had stopped taking my medications. My psychiatrist had no objection to this and advised me to stop seeing her as I was already well.

Indeed I felt very well. I felt a great sense of liberation after many years of continuous medication and suffering from the adverse side effects. I felt very normal. I thought I was finally cured. I had no inkling that I would have a relapse. I was functioning very well and felt great. I would leave the house very early in the morning and go home late at night without telling my sister, with whom I was living, where I was going. Being a camera bug, I would take photos of people and charge them a minimal fee. I also sold food stuff and sundries to my friends. I did these things because I was enjoying myself although I actually lost money. I would frequent the mall to have my film printed and to buy things that I would give away just for the heck of it. I would hang around the church and visit my friends at the unholiest hours just to have some place to go.

I would buy jewelry on instalment and be unable to pay for them until they’d have to be forfeited. I was incurring a lot of debts because of my extravagance. I avoided doing everything that was unpleasant like washing my clothes and doing household chores, and shied away from taking a full bath for as long as a month. I had nary a care in the world and was worry-free, but I was always at odds with my sister because of my irregular habits.

Then one day, without telling me where we were going, my sister brought me to the mental hospital. I was shocked. My blood pressure shot up to 180. I was totally caught by surprise. I did not suspect that I was sick in any way.

For a long time I harbored hurt feelings against my sister. I felt betrayed.

I read somewhere a Chinese saying that a crisis is an opportunity that can either make or break you. I chose to think of the matter as an opportunity to discover and know myself. I observed the patients around me and befriended them. Since I was in Pavilion 6, the women’s pay ward, the surroundings were in fact pleasant. The mental hospital was far from what I expected it to be, it wasn’t exactly a snake pit.

The nursing attendants, who were also the janitors, were always mopping the floors. Most of the patients were pleasant and harmless. The worst thing that happened was that I was lot my bra, panty and soap because a kleptomaniac had filched them.

Many of the patients were rape victims, with a few of them resorting to abortion. Some of the patients heard voices or had hallucinations. One suspected her cousin was going to shoot her. A few tried to commit suicide, some talked to themselves and laughed without provocation.

Some of the patients had been in the hospital for a long time. Conchita had been there for 20 years, Julia for 16 years and Elsie for 11 years. Quite a number are readmissions.

In order to make a patient behave, the staff would threaten to tie her up. In fact, most patients were strapped at one time or another for the slightest infraction. Twice I was strapped for insisting on having a suppository for my constipation and the other time for asking for my eyeglasses back after they were taken for safekeeping. I was called makulit. Once I was able to undo the straps. In my anger, I knotted the straps many times and threw them out of the window so they would never be used again. Most often, the patient was strapped because she refused to take her medicines or she hurt someone. Some of the strapped patients would shout or moan continuously for it is was joke being strapped.

My happiest times were spent in occupational therapy. We had cooking, arts and crafts lessons, singing, dancing, strolling, drawing calisthenics, games, sports, film showings and Mass. Too bad, not all of us were qualified to join.

The patients would have a grand time everytime students from different schools of nursing came to visit. During the socialization at the end of their visits, a program was held where patients showed their prowess for singing and dancing and other talents. As a rule, mental patients can sing well.

Games and other activities were also lined up and there were food and gifts galore from the students, who went out of their way to make the patients feel better. The much-awaited event was chow time. The food was good and inside the hospital. I gained 23 pounds. I volunteered a number of times to sweep or mop the floor or clean the tables in the mess hall after meals. Merienda time, which was at 9:30 a.m. and 2:30 p.m., was also something to look forward to. Only patients who deposited a certain amounts in the canteen were given merienda, but those who had generally shared with those who didn’t have. I should say a trait most mental patients possess is generosity.

The patients also looked forward to visiting time. Most of the patients would have regular visitors who brought a lot of food that was naturally coveted by the other patients. The patients had a communal bath at 5:30 a.m. However, many of the patients not having much to do took two, three, four or even five baths a day, except when there was a water storage.

Sometime after the communal bath and before breakfast, the inmates would do calisthenics. The "Our Father" and the national anthem would sometimes be sung before the exercises.

Each morning after breakfast, we would be herded into the day room, while the nursing attendants aided by some patients cleaned the rooms and corridors. At around 10 a.m., "nourishment" would be distributed consisting of a piece of cake, doughnut or biscuits. The TV set would be turned on at 6:30 p.m. medication time was after breakfast, at noon and at 7 p.m. While I was at the NCMH, a sportsfest, a beauty contest, an amateur singing contest, an essay-writing contest and a poster-making contest were held. I won first prize in poster-making with two other patients with whom I collaborated.

Being a religious person, I gathered a group to pray the 15 mysteries of the rosary, the Chapter of Divine Mercy, the chaplet of St. Therese, the Angelus, the Three O’clock Prayer and morning and evening prayers regularly. To remind the patients of God, I would preach to the group gathered in the day room after breakfast although nobody seemed to be listening.

My confinement was not an unpleasant experience. In fact, with all the praying we did, it was like having a spiritual retreat where I took stock of myself with the help of the doctor. It looks like I have to take medications continuously to prevent a relapse. They are to be taken for life to maintain my mental health.

Soon I was overcome by homesickness and boredom and having finally assessed myself and realizing the real situation, I wrote my sister telling her that I was sorry for taking her for granted. Before long, we buried the hatchet and she took me home.