Two Years in Psychiatric Treatment Facilities: A Troubled Adolescence

Many teenagers have problems, and many are rebellious. Some have deep emotional wounds that lead to problematic, self-destructive behavior. This is when outside help from a mental health professional should be sought. I was one such teen in need of such help. Though in my case it turned out to be more of a pawn-off than a genuine interest in my well-being.

At the age of 15 I was removed from the custody of my mother by the Department of Social Services of the State of Massachusetts. My mother was a self-centered alcoholic, myself as well. I was what is considered an "out-of-control teen." I came and went as I pleased, practically living with my 18-year-old boyfriend and I hardly ever went to school. The school attendance is what eventually got the State involved in our lives.
I was terribly depressed and angry, having spent considerable time pondering suicide.

My mother did not contest the State's action to remove me from her custody. For her it was like finding a willing babysitter, and she could go about her life with me out of her hair. The social workers on my case determined me to be in need of psychiatric treatment due to my suicidal tendencies, depression and heavy drinking and substance abuse.
Without any say in the matter, I was admitted to Westwood Lodge, a locked psychiatric hospital on a ward with other adolescents. I was placed on medications for depression, anxiety and who knows what else. I was familiar to the medication routine, having been through it a few years earlier.
At the age of 12 I had been given Ritalin for the ADD I did not have, and a year later given Lithium for the manic depression I did not have. At any rate, the lifeless lump effect was achieved, which I am certain was the goal at the time.

This psychiatric hospital was an environment a world away from what I was used to living. The rules and restrictions were certainly rigid, as they must have needed to be in order to keep a herd of mentally disturbed teenagers in line. The slightest infraction would result in the loss of the few precious privileges we had, the most precious to me by far was my privilege to smoke. Looking back, it seems odd for smoking to have even been allowed since the legal smoking age was 18, but it's possible this establishment just picked its battles wisely.

The kids on this unit were required to participate in a regular schedule of group and individual therapy led by various psychologists and licensed therapists. It seems this should have been a good course of treatment for what plagued so many of these youths, but I cannot remember any of it. My interest became simply getting out of there, my energy poured into "playing the game" and displaying the behavior those in control wanted to see. There was also the important task of socializing, and most importantly: the opposite sex. More of a mess than one adolescent with serious issues is the merging of two.
Needless to say, my attention was not on anything that would be of any of help to me. And I did not care.

When it became apparent to my doctors that my substance abuse problem was more than they could treat there, I was transferred to a drug rehabilitation facility. It was the acclaimed Spofford Hall in New Hampshire. My parents had good insurance, and these people were determined to use it. While I'm sure Spofford Hall has a decent success rate as rehabs go, all I knew was that it must be close to what basic training in the military is like. The rigidness of the previous hospital did not compare to that of this surprisingly nice, posh treatment center. But awaking abruptly while still dark outside to participate in rugged outdoor survival exercises sort of overshadowed the cushy accommodations.
It wasn't long before I began starving myself out of sheer rage and the fact that I had control over not one thing in my life. Well, this place was not designed to treat eating disorders, so off I went on another transfer to another psychiatric treatment facility, this one to Holliswood Hospital in Queens, New York.

Of all the facilities, this was by far the worst. Old and dingy, cold and lonely, it was hard to believe this place offered compassionate care for mentally sick people. The common thread of a strict, rigid system continued here. This time, slight infractions would result in 24 to 48 hour isolated room restriction-a horrible punishment when contact with others, a room with a TV and a cigarette are priceless treasures. I tried my hardest to never break rules here.
One night, my roommate and another girl decided they would break out, something we are all desperate and tempted to do. Not wanting to be a 15-year-old girl alone in New York, I passed on the opportunity for freedom.

They planned to take a heavy wooden chair and use it to break the thick Plexiglass window of our bedroom. This would also have to include barricading the door from the inside so they would have time to deliver several blows to the window before staff members intervened. Since I did not want to participate in this escape, I was also not going to be on that side of the barricade, so I left the room and let them get to work. Within a minute tremendous bangs echoed through the halls, and I looked on as alarmed staff members rushed to the room where the sounds were coming from, but could not gain entry.

By the time staff members penetrated the wall of furniture on the other side of the door, the room was filled with the cold air of the Northeast winter blowing through a gaping hole in the window. Glass littered the table and floor. While my friends had stolen their freedom, I was given 48 hours room restriction. I regretted not just putting myself in danger and at the mercy of the big, cold city. I should have gone with them. It had to be better than this, I thought. Though I never quite knew why, a week after this incident I was transferred yet again. This time to a group home for troubled teens called Wayside in Marlborough, Massachusetts.

I was excited. This would be the first non-locked place I'd live after months with no freedom. There were some very troubled teens living in this home, many of them came from backgrounds where sexual abuse had occurred. Many, like me, were angry and depressed with substance abuse problems. The home was an old mansion converted into this center that would house 16 kids at one time, with a staff office where the front foyer would be.
Staff workers came and went in shifts, and there was a program director. Again I just remember socializing being the most important thing, right along with taking advantage of the unlocked doors.

I ran away several times and went back to my home town to reunite with friends and the previous boyfriend, always being picked up by police days later. I was running out of straws, and before long it was the last one. But before being booted from the group home, I remember a scandal that at the time I did not grasp the gravity of. There was a female staff member who seemed more interested in making friends than anything. She figured that troubled youth made good pot-smoking buddies and brought it to work several times and smoked with several of us. I don't know if she ever got caught, but I was off to yet another facility--another locked one.

My final placement was at McLean Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts. This was also an acclaimed facility, part of Harvard Medical School. Singer James Taylor had spent time there years earlier, as did other well-known personalities. This stay was probably the most disturbing for me. At the age of 16, there was no separate unit for adolescents, nor were patients grouped by what their illnesses were. So I was on the same floor as a 50-year-old paranoid schizophrenic who yelled all day at people no one else could see. There was a pyromaniac man who once set fire to the curtains in his room, which was right next to mine, at 3:00 in the morning. There were people who would fly into unpredictable rages, and we all watched as hoards of staff members would overpower, medicate and strap a patient to a board with leather restraints and carry him off to an isolated cell. This was a normal occurrence, and after a while I got used to it.

Probably the most pathetic aspect of the 15 months spent on this hospital ward was that it became home to me and I loved it. I did not want to leave. I celebrated my 17th birthday here. One could earn privileges here and gain access to the sprawling grounds of the campus. There was a cafeteria with really good food, with real cooks. I had favorite staff members, favorite friends and a doctor who I really could talk to. This was a safe place, for once and it was home, which I had not experienced in so long.
It began to sour though, as one of my favorite staff members took advantage of a good friend of mine who had terrible self-esteem by convincing her to perform oral sex on him on a regular basis. She thought this meant that he held her in high regard and was greatly flattered. I was sickened, and turned him in. He was fired. People I was close to would go home. I was always left. That good insurance was a thorn in my side, as everyone else's insurance would only allow for 1-3 months of inpatient treatment. Mine seemed to never run out.

Finally after 15 months at McLean Hospital, and 23 total months away from my mother and home, she went into a detoxification and treatment program for her alcoholism. This is what was required of her in the beginning if she wanted to regain custody of me. It just took her this long to do it. So a few months shy of my 18th birthday, I was sent back home to live with my mother, now in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. This didn't even last long, as before I turned 18, she sent me to live in Texas with my sister. It only got worse from there.

So while spending this time in all these facilities offered my mother a pass on parenting, it did nothing to bring healing to any of my emotional wounds and problems. That did not come until years later, and at the hands of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.