lessons from the psych ward by michael byrne

I learned how to speak about my condition candidly. Conversations with other patients were coarse, as there was no need to stage our usual act of normalcy. We all knew we were broken and conversed about our abject hopelessness with no fear of any offered platitudes, no half-believed assurances that “everything was going to be ok.” 

I learned a myriad of creative ways to kill myself. The fact is, I never thought more about the ways in which I could commit suicide than when I was already in the psychiatric hospital. The ward was completely depressive-proof, and consequently enlightened me on ways in which to kill myself that I never even considered. There were obvious the setbacks. No belts were allowed. We had to be monitored if we wanted to shave using provided blades that would require an act of God to even break skin. But then there were more intriguing alterations like suicide-resistant sheets, stainless steel mirrors, toilets with no hinged seats, special door tops and handles with sensors that alerted the staff if any pressure was being applied that could mean a ligature had been connected to it.

I learned that a “ligature” is a catchall term for things you can use to hang yourself. There are a few other meanings, though. It can refer to when two letters are combined into a single character, like in amœba orbæ. It’s also the name of the device that holds a reed to the mouthpiece on a woodwind. “Ligature” may be the single thing that connects suicidal people, typographers, and clarinetists, which, might I add, has the potential to be a great “X, Y, and Z walk into a bar joke.”

I learned how to knit a patch from an elderly woman named Darlene who told me that she was there because she made the ill-advised decision to quit taking her lithium. I asked why and she said that she was feeling fine and thought that she had gotten over her bipolar disorder. I commented, “you were feeling fine because of the medication, that’s like quitting beta-blockers because your blood pressure is stable.” She laughed and responded, “Yeah, well, that’s why I stopped taking those too.” 

I learned that even people with fine intentions could strip you of your humanity. We were deposited in the basement of the hospital, and there was no access to natural light, no indication of life outside those walls. Time became disorienting with no knowledge of the sun’s position. And with so many people moving in and out of the ward, doctors, nurses, and orderlies rarely remembered your name. You became a faceless specter, haunting the linoleum-tiled hallways, occupying your time with little mental games like “What’s the average interval between indecipherable shouts from the senile man’s room?” or “How many ceiling panels are in the entire ward?”

I learned that even at the bottom of some desolate pit, you could find some decency in your peers. I can still remember Ann’s face. It was aged, even more so by the use of a multitude of drugs as she told me, but you could tell she had been beautiful when she was younger. Her voice was little more than a croak and every day she wore the same cheap gown she was admitted in, since she had no one to bring her any hospital-approved clothing. We talked about our lives, and I told her that I felt like I was at the end of my rope. She said to me, “But you have the most valuable asset on your side, kid. You’ve got time. It feels like a knife in your chest right now, but you’re gonna be able to pull it out and use it as a weapon. It’s gonna help you in the long run. Help you fight other battles, help you appreciate life. I wasted most of my time, left that fucker in for too long.” Feeling defeated, I replied, “What if I can’t be fixed though?” She said, “I had that exact thought when I was in my 20s. I believed it, that’s what fucked me. You do drugs?” I shook my head. “Drink?” she asked. “No,” I said. She laughed. “Kid, you’re smart, I’m not worried about you. I know you’re worried about you, but I’m not. You’ll figure it out. Hope is the thing with fucking feathers. You’re just molting.”