St. Luke's Roosevelt

The halls are painted cream with egg white trimming. Combined with the fluorescent light and you realize this is what depression is: an ugly color scheme. A hospital should make you feel happy, invited. I want to throw up. I've seen McDonald's that look better than this. Throw in the brown furniture and you have a perfect shit storm. That's St. Luke's Roosevelt floor 7G. The pysch ward. I've been here a week.

I came here on my own accord. Living in a New York shelter, without any money or ID, I had nowhere to go. I had no friends in the world except for the one in my head. He's the reason I'm here in the first place. Voices. They get me every time. They're the one's that said run to New York. I listened. But I'll save that story for another time. This is about Roosevelt hospital.

I've been holed up her for exactly seven day. I've seen the doctor once. It's not very promising. The psychiatrist says she is going to change my medication to a dosage that's effective. I've heard the same thing for three years. You learn to nod your head, act interested. You almost want to believe it this time. But belief betrays hope, and without hope you're left with reality. Reality is depressing. I'll cling to hope.

Apparently my doctor is on leave this week. The problem is no other doctor has seen me. I was admitted on Friday, saw the doctor on Monday, and it's now Thursday. My week has been wasted sitting in a hospital. Not that time matters right now. I'm unemployed. Once I get on disability, I'll be living the dream. Officially retired. I'm going to learn French and how to play the piano. But I might not get out of here for weeks. In the meantime, I'm getting fat. Too much food. Too many sweets for snacks. That's the hospital for you.

With little to do, food is the only thing to look forward to. I count the hours on the clock, waiting for mealtime to be called. The meals are the only thing worth boasting about here. Breakfast consists of a hard boiled egg, a muffin, and a bowl of cereal. You also get a fruit of your choice. I always get a banana. There's also the complimentary cup of decaf coffee.

Lunch and dinner always come with dessert. My favorite is their brownies from Sarah Lee. Plenty of calories. We have snack time at 8 pm. I always get a package of Oreos, a bag of Sunchips, and cup of yogurt. Sometimes they add ice cream. I'm definitely getting fat.

I made a friend here named Zach. He claims he lost 30 lbs. in five weeks. He's been here for five weeks. He hears voices in his head that tell him he's Goku from Dragon Ball Z. He's the only person I've met whose story is worse than mine. Hospitalized 25 times and he's only 22. He's been in jail and rehab. His mom died from an overdose. I feel guilty because I find comfort in knowing someone else's life is more fucked up than mine. We're both bipolar. I don't want to be here for five weeks though. One is long enough.

Which brings me back to waiting on my doctor. I'm on a lower dose of medication than what I was on before I came here. I'm going backwards. This is why my faith in psychiatry is shaky at best. They base their diagnosis on any real science, but rather the story you tell them and any symptoms they can actually observe. Hard to do when they occur in the mind. Hell, even their bible, the DSM, a comprehensive guideline for diagnosing all the mental illnesses, is voted on. Imagine if doctors voted on what qualifies as cancer. But that's that the state of mental illness in 2013. Snake oil, placebos, and limited research. This makes me lose hope.

St. Luke's Roosevelt is a shining example. They feed you, but they don't cure you. They waste your time. I refuse to just sit here and believe their medication is going to make me better. I have too much faith in cold science to believe it. Medicine won't help until a doctor can say scientifically what bipolar disorder is. How is the brain affected? I'd trade this disorder for diabetes in a heartbeat. At least I can take comfort in knowing science can explain that one.