Lost in my Mind (Part II): The Battle

“Everything you can imagine is real.” — Pablo Picasso

Let’s rewind a little bit. I know my parents must’ve been terrified. Can you imagine getting one of those phone calls… “Hi. Yes, well, you see your daughter isn't right. She’s talking about a voice and is doing some really strange things… you just need to come here to get her.” Now, I don’t claim to know exactly what was said in those conversations, but I do know my parents received several calls from concerned friends and then from my resident’s assistant and the dean. This girl (me) was standing up in church, was telling people she was hearing God and scaring the living daylights out of her friends, acquaintances and strangers alike. I wanted to follow the voice, do what it told me to do… as a result, I seemed like I was a potential danger to myself; other people certainly found me to be threatening too, at least to their own understanding of reality. It was uncomfortable to be around me; I knew this, but I couldn’t reign it in.

My parents had questioned who I was with, wanted to know where I had gone and what I was doing before all of this happened. My dad was constantly telling me to “Slow down, you’re trying to do too much.” This sentiment wasn’t brand new though. I’d always done “too much”, and arguably overextended myself. But this was different. I was talking in circles to whoever would lend an ear. My parents thought taking me home to a comfortable, familiar environment would maybe do the trick; that way I could ease back into reality after a good night’s rest in my own bed. Maybe just being home would help me calm down and get a grip.

I’m sure the strangers we encountered on the drive home wondered if I was in fact on drugs. I was dressed haphazardly, not coordinated or put together like my usual self… I was a complete mess physically, because I was completely and utterly preoccupied mentally. At least the theory of being high on drugs would’ve explained some of the wild behavior and sensitive mood swings more than anything else. What else could’ve possibly explained this? Did I just snap? Was I hyper-involved to the point of a mental break? I think my mom thought someone had slipped me something. That would’ve explained the behavior, at least it would’ve been traceable. 

But no, that was far from the case. The truth was I’d never had an illicit drug in my life. I’d never smoked anything or tasted more than a sip of alcohol… so, no this was far from induced by a hallucinogen. But that night after we were back at home in Louisville, my mom, in a desperate measure to help me, gave me a prescription sleep aid and I hallucinated so badly I cried. I saw neon dragons and snakes coming out of my walls, creatures with multiple heads hissing at me; I felt engulfed, sinking in these threatening images. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. I cried into my pillow and pleaded with God that I could just sleep, to make all of this go away. “My God, where are you?!” I thought. “You were just telling me how I would be used by you, explaining details about my future and reciting pieces of human history, but why can’t you just let me sleep?!”

Seeing that not even a prescription sleeping pill couldn’t bring me down, it became evident we were in over our heads. I could not quiet my mind. At that point it was close to a week without sleep. I felt like I’d been graced with information that wasn’t made plain to others around me. I had information— messages— that were unique to me, but I didn’t want to keep it all to myself either. I told anyone who would listen about what I was hearing. Now, I was saying some wild things, trying to draw connections between what I was hearing and what I was consuming in real time. I couldn’t stop talking, trailing off in a million directions almost all at once because it was so much information and I was trying to make sense of it all, verbally processing most of my thoughts out loud. I extrapolated on what I was hearing, trying to connect the dots through conversation, but I wasn’t getting any feedback so my imagination took over.

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It’s worth noting, I was both being educated by this voice directly, but the voice would also point me to scripture. I was being told to read things about prophets and about end times— how the book of Revelation was near. I felt like I had something to tell the world, but I didn’t know how to go about it… The voice told me, “I have big plans for you; I will use you to make my name known.” This seemed like a big pronouncement, but not necessarily outside the realm of possibility. I was no Biblical scholar but I did believe and see scriptural evidence of unlikely people being used by God in unimaginable ways. How I imagined that to be actualized, though, well that was a fantastical realm I was exploring as I combed through every verse in that final book of the Bible. I, Kelsey, was using my heightened creative power to dream of ways this was going to play out… that’s where what I was saying got sticky.

In my sleepless stupor, I couldn’t always discern between what was only in my mind versus reality. As time passed, I was having trouble distinguishing between my inner voice and this omniscient voice… they were almost running in tandem, making it very challenging to decipher the language swimming around in my mind. I knew I had heard a voice calling itself God. But no one believed me, not really. I mean it would’ve been hard to believe someone who wasn’t behaving normally in the slightest, but, then again, nothing about the situation was normal. I was losing my composure and poise, left feeling restless and convicted that I had a job to do and/or a message to deliver. I knew my reality wasn’t shared by those around me, but I didn’t understand why. Why was this happening to me?

I was connecting meaning to almost everything. It was like I was desperately trying to communicate things to those around me, but I knew they weren’t following. My speech and my behavior grew more disjointed and peculiar by the hour. I remember watching television, the news in particular, and thinking these were, in fact, the end times… almost like God was also using these headlines and numbers to reiterate that, and to point out what to do next.

Then the voice dissipated somewhat, but it had brought a whole new awareness to this world I’d never even thought about before.  I read anything and everything feverishly and with a fervor like it was the secret key to unlocking a bigger mystery. Everything was fascinating and offered its own sort of significance. It was like I had been given some sort of revolutionary information, like I was cracking the code to why we're here and the times we’re living in. I kept tuning in, diving deeper to how everything felt interconnected. Again, it was like I was building a puzzle without the picture of what was being assembled.

I began cutting things out of magazines and books, stashing notes and drawings and business cards in folders and notebooks; almost like little highlights of the reeling mental chatter I was trying to sift through. I was trying to organize all of these new concepts and recognize the patterns. From an outsider looking in, it appeared I was just making more messes, more nonsensical observations. My attempt at synthesizing these pieces only diminished any fading chance that I had at expressing an even remotely, fragmented mental astuteness.

While my mind continued to unwind in every direction, my free-spirit & carefree heart followed suit. I became increasingly nervous and anxious, even paranoid. Nervous about what would happen next and about this voice that I couldn’t turn off. Anxious about how people were perceiving me, but knowing I wasn’t able to control that even an ounce. Things weren’t getting better… I wasn’t just declining mentally and physically, I was emotionally wrecked— agitated and scared at that point. How had I gotten here?

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I remember looking for my phone to reach out to someone, anyone, but I couldn’t find it. I think my parents took it afraid of what I might say if I did reach out to someone. I don’t blame them. The next day after arriving home, a friend from Samford came to visit me, wanting to pray for me and expressing grave concern. I remember looking out the window as my dad stood on the front step looking at this group of strangers. I can’t say if I were in my dad’s position I would have agreed to letting these strangers I didn’t know pray for my daughter who was apparently losing her mind. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but I could tell my friend and the group of friends he’d brought with him desperately wanted to be permitted to see me. My parents, being understably suspicious and on edge were fearful of any outsiders, were definitely not going to let that happen. It could go without saying then, that I was not allowed to go outside to greet my friends. I cried from my bedroom window, feeling frustrated couldn’t see them, and trapped without a way out. I felt abandoned and estranged from my own family to a degree. Like no matter what I said, I couldn’t make them believe me. They couldn’t experience what I was experiencing and it was driving a wedge between us. I was desperate for prayers and for someone to sincerely entertain what I was so desperate to share. 

Because no one else was taking me seriously, or was even considering entertaining my ideas, I began to get bothered easily. If I was met with any real opposition or challenge I could easily lose my cool. I hated that I did that, but no one was listening. I could tell I was becoming a source of entertainment, and maybe even intriguing those around me watching, but nothing I said was taken with any gravity or merit. I was becoming laughable.

Some people, including my parents, just went along with me after a while, and started to just agree with me when I categorized people who “get it” and observed that others “didn’t get it”. This was nice in the moment, feeling like what I said was being met with some sort of approval or recognition, but was very confusing for me after the fact when I realized it was all an act to get me to stay as calm as possible. Later, I thought to myself, “Did they ever understand what I was saying or was it all an act to protect me and themselves?”

My mind was becoming both battlefield and a playground for forces I’ll call supernatural. I was the pawn in this mad game of chess, this war between holy and unholy, angelic and demonic. Or, you could think of it as tug-of-war and each side had an army pulling back and forth... I was the middle of the rope. This was a war in my psyche that extended into the physical realm. I was ready to battle, but I needed spiritual armor and I was not fully prepared. I don’t think that even crossed the minds of those around me— that this was quite possibly a severe case of spiritual warfare. 

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It felt like a week had passed but in reality it wasn’t more than 36 hours of me being home, that my parents decided to take me to a private hospital. My dad was loosely familiar with this facility, but didn’t quite know the extent of their abilities to treat this type of behavior. They packed a bag for me, knowing I would be staying once we arrived. Again, I didn’t have the slightest clue where we were going. When we arrived at the hospital, I thought we were at an old school-- that’s what it looked like at least. There was a long driveway leading up to the building with ponds full of geese and rolling green grass as far as I could see. This looked like a safe enough place, a haven almost. I was honestly just glad to be out of the house and in the world, so there was even a little excitement at first, but that faded as quickly as it came when we walked up the sidewalk toward the entrance.

I remember as we walked in, there was a heaviness in the air, a sense of shame and hopelessness. I could sense it. As we approached the blue doors and rang the doorbell, I became befuddled and disoriented as it became obvious this wasn’t optional; I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I was being left here. It was implied that they were expecting me by the way we were greeted at the door. I was quickly ushered into a small waiting room with documents on clipboards, a phone and four chairs. 

I sat down, and began to weep as my parents and someone else working there sat down with me. They asked me to sign the papers so I could stay. Again, I had no idea where I was or what was about to happen. It was never stated that we were at a mental hospital and I needed to be here to “get better” or anything of the sort. So, why was I being told to stay here? I felt trapped and like I had done something terribly wrong. Were they (my parents) going to leave me? Why couldn’t they stay? How long did I have to be here? Who was this woman who seemed to know my parents and what did she have to do with this? I questioned everything that the intake counselor was saying, from her credentials to her motive. 

What should’ve taken 30 minutes took upwards of three hours. They were my admission papers. It was a bunch of legal jargon around consent to treat that I was set on reading through in its entirety but couldn’t understand at all. As I cowarded back into a corner, sobbing, pen shaking in my hand, I felt more estranged from my family than ever before. How could they do this to me, abandon me like this? Did they not want me because I was scary or too difficult to deal with? Where was I?! I was not convinced this was a good idea, but my parents were pleading with me to sign these papers. Not wanting to disappoint them more than I already had, I finally caved; I signed my initials and consented to a bunch of things I did not understand. It was instantaneous, once I signed, I was official-- I was a patient of Ten Broeck Hospital. Patient number 291261 to be exact. 

I was taken by the arm and escorted between a set of wooden doors where I wouldn’t see a soul I knew— other than for a brief hour long visit— for about nine days. From 2/24/09-3/5/09 I was a patient of the adult psychiatric ward by my admittance and a signature I did not comprehend. I had just signed my life into the hands of total strangers but was clueless as to what it really meant. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I crumbled on the floor and sobbed, wailing, crying out for someone I knew even though I knew no one was coming. I didn’t know what was going on around me, but I knew I was in trouble. Nurses and technicians began to crowd around me. I didn’t feel safe. They were coming at me so aggressively, demanding I calm down and stop crying. All eyes were on me as I laid lame on the floor, practically convulsing from crying so hard. 

Because I could not collect myself, I was then wrestled onto my stomach and restraints were holding me in place. I was very quickly stretched out like a martyr on a gurney because I appeared inconsolable and was disrupting the milieu. The technicians and nurses stripped me of my jewelry and clothes in the main bath off the central corridor; I was dressed in a hospital gown and wheeled to a dark, padded room. As I was wheeled back, still sobbing, I was utterly confused and felt like I had been left for dead. Was this one of those movies where they take someone acting crazy and they never get out? Was I going to live here forever? 

When they took me into the “quiet room”, I still wasn’t showing any signs of calming down— I was absolutely terrified. I screamed for help, for someone to hear me. I was the most desperate for help I’d ever been. Very quickly, I got a shot to the hip and started to get really dizzy. The door closed and I could hear the lock click. I started hallucinating again, seeing little lights and feeling like I was spinning so fast that I was going to puke. No one was coming to rescue me. I eventually fell asleep, slipping into a subconscious that would prove hard to wake from. I later found out I was given an antipsychotic.

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Let’s sidebar this story for a moment and go one step deeper though, just for a moment. If you were me, how could you not cry after being left because you were too difficult to deal with, because you didn’t make sense and weren’t the perfect picture of a daughter you’d grown up being. Now, I know that’s not really why… my parents frankly weren’t sure of how to handle this, and wanted to protect me— I’m confident of that. But that’s what it felt like; like I wasn’t perfect anymore, I was suddenly challenging and disruptive, so I was outcast. It was like all of my actions and words were perceived as an act of rebellion.

The reality was I was taken to Ten Broeck because no one knew what to do with me but they knew something had to give. Let me be clear, I do not blame my parents for making this difficult decision. Even in that moment I think I realized how challenging that must’ve been, but it didn’t make me feel any less abandoned or less lonely.

The thing was, I still didn’t understand why no one believed me, and my experience of hearing God was annihilated by everyone else’s fear. I couldn’t say anything without being judged or accosted with demands of my behavior or my words. On one hand, I was displaying some very concerning behavior and sounded irrational and nonsensical. But the reality was I was and innocent kid who was as confused as the next person both about why I was hearing God and why I wasn’t able to sleep. I understood that something needed to be done, but this was the best solution?

I’d grown up reading about God talking to people in the Bible. How was this so drastically different from that? I prayed to be used by God in big ways throughout my upbringing, for the past ten years of my life, and now He was talking to me, telling me where to go and sometimes speaking on my behalf. This was weird to me, too, but I believed it was possible, that there was a chance that this was the Creator’s voice and not some imposter. I believed it was possible not just for me though, but for anyone who shared the belief that this was possible. I knew the majority wouldn’t buy it, maybe not even my own parents. Surely I wasn’t the only one who could’ve ever experienced this… or at least believed in the possibility of this type of thing, even if it didn’t all make complete sense.

______

Back to the hospital though. Fast forward probably 13 hours to when I woke up from this drug-induced stupor. I was in a different room, still alone but this one has a window and two beds plus a bathroom. When I woke up, I was still seeing tiny green lights dance across the cinderblock wall in front of me. It was like little bugs were making a pattern, coming into a formation. But my skin was crawling too, like they were on me. Obviously, I was startled, and I stumbled my way out of the bed and into the hallway that led me to the central desk… all I could hear was the laundry room. I didn’t see another soul, and, honestly, I thought the world had ended. I thought I’d been left in a bunker in the end of the world and everyone else had fled or died.

I saw a bunch of names on colored paper slips attached to a white board, and a round station like I assumed to be the “motherboard” of sorts. There were papers and binders everywhere. I saw a long hallway straight ahead and double doors to my left and right. I didn’t remember when I got here. I also didn’t see another human for what felt like ten minutes… which, in that state, was an eternity.

A few people slowly started trickling in from outside. I remember walking into one of the main rooms— “Dayroom I” to be exact— and seeing a man dressed in a grateful dead t-shirt, long wavy hair, a darker complexion, and he was just smiling at me… I thought, “Is this Jesus? Am I dead?” 

I remember being new and being the spectacle of the unit. Everyone was guessing why I was there, what drug I must’ve been coming off of. I was wearing a tattered dress, no shoes, more lost than anyone else seemed to be. I went and sat next to this Jesus-looking man. There was a Bible on the table. I picked it up and began to flip through it, looking at the maps mostly. A few people introduced themselves, and asked me why I was there. “I don’t know,” I answered. They mostly laughed, or said things like, “Well, you’re about to find out.” 

I looked around this room and there were puzzles, games, paper and pencils. I thought, well at least I can be entertained a little bit, but what am I supposed to do? Different people would get up and leave the room, and nurses would come in asking to see certain people. I walked out into the hallway and stared at this cork board with at least 10 different folders with copies of what seemed like random papers. One of the folders had a bunch of colorful papers that had “Adult Psych Schedule” typed at the top. I learned by observation that I was with this group; the people who went to these classes & groups were less rowdy and seemed more intellectual. The other option was “Dual Schedule”— I tried following that one too, because they got more recreation time. I think my following either schedule, alternating between the two, confused the nurses. At least until they drug tested me and realized I wasn’t coming down off anything, just my own mind.

As I came to meet other patients on the ward, I realized most people were there because of suicidal thoughts, depression, severe anxiety, schizophrenia or drug or alcohol addiction, or a combination of the two. I was an anomaly but I think everyone else thought I was “coming down” off something. I remember being moved to a different room with a pretty picture over the bed with a camera to videotape my every move because some of the clinicians thought I was a danger to myself and/or others. I wasn’t, I can say that for certain. I was singing a lot then, too. I remember singing a praise song with my door shut, and the nurses came and knocked on my door (which was not locked) and asked me to stop. I kept singing anyway (it was one of my only comforts) and they quickly barged in with a needle the size of my hand. I got stuck in the butt with that needle and faded fast into a deep slumber, again waking with no recollection of what had happened. It was like the drugs were sedating me, but erasing my memory in the process.

There were constant meetings, groups about different topics from self-care and emotional well-being to recreation classes like elementary school PE classes… a free-for-all in the gym. Sometimes we would even go on little “field trips” to feed the geese at the pond up the drive, or be allowed to take walks in the field across from the main building. We were allowed to watch movies at night in the dayrooms, but everything was on a tight schedule. Every five minutes was accounted for, and there was something to be done between 7 a.m. and 11 p.m.

The thing was, no one told you where you were supposed to be, they just observed where you would go… but most patients seemed to know where to go and why they were there. I just knew I had said a lot of weird things and scared a lot of people, so I was there on timeout basically. I tried to mind myself and attend the groups where there was writing or drawing, but I think I confused the milieu staff because I just hopped from one activity to the next without knowing why I was there at all. Everyone else seemed to have a purpose, a plan for their days in the ward even if they didn’t like it… but me, well, I was just as confused as the next person for why I was there. Sometimes I sat too close to someone during a group, or made comments that seemed off-handed, or got visibly upset by something. As a result, I was prohibited from participating in some meals in the cafeteria with the rest of the unit. They still fed me, but I had to eat in the milieu. 

After a day or two, I definitely had enough of that, so I tried to figure it out quickly. Every morning, we would wake up around 7 a.m. We had to be in the “Dayroom” for “community” where the ward’s rules were read and everyone was accounted for before going to the cafeteria for breakfast, lunch or dinner. I learned quickly that if I read the rules of the milieu I could be first in line and go eat faster, so I offered, almost every time. I soon discovered too, that if I wanted to be allowed outside I had to have the excuse of needing to smoke cigarettes. So, I bummed off a man named John who smoked American Spirits. He looked like a wise, old sage Native American man, and walked with what looked like a rain stick. I asked him why he smoked that kind, and he detailed a very long, thoughtful answer on why these were the only “trustworthy” cigarettes being produced… to which I believed and became a fan of for nearly a decade into the future.

As I adapted my behavior to learn the ways of the adult psych unit, I also learned to hush my announcements of what the voice would tell me. I stopped sharing every new thought or new observation, and reverted back to “normal” behavior to some degree. I’m sure the medicine was kicking in. After every meal, we would ride the elevator back up to the unit and I would hum and sing songs. This was welcomed by some other patients, but agitated others. I found that I was the polarizing person across the halls… there were those who enjoyed my presence, and those who definitely were opposed to my increasing joyful nature. 

I prayed a lot during this hospitalization-- internally and out loud in my room. I could feel forces at work beyond me… like that presence I had felt at my parents’ house. Sometimes the halls, certain patients, and even my room felt weighted down with a darkness and ominous feeling that felt impossible to shake. So, I did the same thing, I would command this presence to leave in Jesus’ name, but it was like it had grown stronger and more powerful than before. I recited scripture aloud in my room. One night it was like I was being mentally assaulted as I tried to lay down to sleep. I got up, crying, and in agony feeling plagued by this evil presence, I tore my shirt. It was like as I was given more and more antipsychotics to help stabilize my mood and help me sleep, I was getting more sensitive, moody and more agitated… almost like, they were having adverse effects. 

When I told the doctor about this voice that told me it was the I am, God, in my head and my standing up in church, he just nodded along. Occasionally he would ask, “Well, what did the voice say?” and I would explain; he would write feverishly, scribbling who knows what symptoms into my chart, a permanent record. He never told me what he was writing or what he thought was “wrong” with me. He would just listen and then send me to the nurse’s station to take my medicine.

It was not stated what it was I was taking. Unless I asked, there wasn’t any overt communication about which drugs were which and I why I was being prescribed each one. It was more, “Take these, you’ll feel better. If you don’t, we’ll have to say you’re non-compliant and you’ll be stuck here even longer.” I didn’t want to be there any longer than I had to, so I learned quickly to take, swallow, rinse & repeat. 

I met one-on-one with other practitioners during my stay too. Mainly I remember seeing a psychologist who interviewed me one day about my entire life history… had I been mistreated, abused in any way, neglected… it seemed like he was mining for evidence of something, some reasons to explain my peculiar speech and behavior. Later on, I realized he was probably looking for evidence of any trauma in my life, any reason to associate my strange actions with symptoms of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). I was nervous, and essentially answered all of his questions with, “No” or “I don’t know; not that I can remember.”

The hours passed and days came and went. I was adapting to my surroundings to a certain degree, but also not. I refused to go to bed a lot of nights. I would stay in the dayroom because the dark and ominous presences seemed to be lifted there; they were worse whenever I was alone in my room. Sometimes I would walk the halls, humming songs of worship music or some popular song to distract myself from the depressing reality that I was on lockdown. 

Days went by, and my mood was tempering, neutralizing. After increased dosages of some heavy antipsychotics, I was eventually able to sleep. Not just through the night, but after breakfast I would curl up in my room and fall back asleep until lunch sometimes. I was sleeping through groups and activities, and was growing more apathetic and downtrodden by the hour. My mind wasn’t on fire anymore, it was like it had frozen over completely. This reality that everyone else was living in was awful. I was depressed. I didn’t want to get up; nothing seemed important enough to do. I would wake up every morning feeling like I had been run over by a semi truck— I was exhausted all the time. I stopped talking, stopped doing almost everything. Everything became half-hearted and passionless.

About a week into my stay, my psychiatrist told me I would be able to go home soon. I’m sure after watching me settle into a consistent zombie-like state that looked acceptable to the onlooker, he thought to himself, “Another classic manic episode.” I mean I had told him about not sleeping, losing my appetite, hearing a higher power, and I was talking nearly incessantly… tick, tick, tick, tick… yup, bipolar I it is. 

_______

I remember getting out on March 5, 2009, just a week before my nineteenth birthday. I was completely different. I couldn’t think straight, or hardly at all. My imagination was shot, and my joy was nonexistent. I felt an unspeakable sadness because I was so stifled, so inhibited by these new drugs. Everything I had just experienced was chalked up to a manic episode. On my exit paperwork, the psychiatrist wrote “10 sessions; symptoms consistent with mania and bipolar disorder; needs to see a psychiatrist for medication management; should only take a 12-hour course load.”

It felt so nonchalant, like, “Oh yeah, this is normal for a nearly 19-year-old to experience. Nothing new here.” I had never needed to take medication for anything other than a headache or an acute sickness in my life, and I sure wasn’t keen on the idea of being permanently medicated for the remainder of my adult life. I felt entirely outside of myself. Emotionally, I was crushed. Physically, I was a shell of a human, just skin on bones with a brain that couldn’t think or function beyond what I was doing at that moment. Mentally, I was “sound” now, but it came at the expense of my spirit; my soul was battered and  deeply bruised. My world had shattered, but, unbeknownst to me, that wasn’t my lowest point of that year… I was not fully broken, not yet.