(no subject)
I cannot believe what an awful, traumatic experience I had at The Outlook at Westchester.
I was supposed to begin my stay at NY Presbyterian's inpatient eating disorder program this past Friday. I finally got my mind around it being something that I could accomplish as a preventative measure, so that I didn't get to the ridiculous point I had two years ago, forcing me to drop out of school and do a four week inpatient stay in NJ. So I went, woke up bright and early Friday morning and got there around 10:30 am with my mother. Intake and evaluation went really well, even though it took forever, and I was feeling really optimistic. The staff seemed really awesome and friendly, and there was this seemingly cool girl doing her intake with me.
Then I got on the unit.
My mother was still with me, and we walked side-by-side into the double-locked unit, our ears greeted with blaring, Chopin-type classical music, making me feel instantly like I was in a legitimate looney bin. We were asked to sit in the hall way and wait for my therapist to arrive to talk to us. So we sat and waited, and one of the patients introduced herself to me. She was positively emaciated, as were the majority of the other girls I saw walking around the unit. I asked her how old she was and she responded, "Oh I'm 21, but I'll be turning 22 soon. If I make it, anyway. That's why I'm here." Beyond triggering. When my therapist finally arrived, neither my mother nor myself even looked up to acknowledge her because she was so thin that she looked like she should be a patient herself. I did not want someone like that treating me. She rambled on incoherently, I suppose about what should be expected during my stay, but I really couldn't understand her until she asked me if I had any questions. "Yes, the last place I stayed at worked their meal plan with exchanges, and I understand it doesn't work that way here, so could you explain to me how the meal plans would be working?"
More incoherent mumbling, and I got the impression that everyone ate at different times and different places depending on what "level" you were on. Not having received a clear answer on something I was really concerned about, I started to freak out. My mom asked the therapist if there was any way I could see my nutritionist right away to talk to her about it, and as she agreed, a nurse walked up and asked if she could speak to me in another room.
Still freaking out, I walked into the dining area and sat down with this nurse to answer her questions, and I right away told her that the music would be a problem. That it would have a negative effect on my mental state, and that there was no way they could play that all day, every day. Her response: "Why? It's just classical music." I stumbled over some response about how I had negative associations with it and that it made me very nervous. She told me I should be evaluated for Bipolar Disorder. I told her the place was really disorganized, because she was asking me the same questions that five other people had already asked me. She told me she was just doing her job. The nutritionist poked her head in the door and asked if she could speak to me for a few minutes since she heard that I was upset about not knowing how the meals worked and she had to leave in a little bit. The nurse gave her sass and attitude about how she and I were already talking and the nutritionist would have to wait. I jumped back, crying more, exclaiming that I couldn't do this if the two of them were going to argue over me in such an unprofessional manner. The nurse gave in and let my nutritionist talk to me in private.
The nutritionist was the only nice, polite, caring person I spoke with while on the unit, and she was the only one who could get me to calm down in the slightest. She sat down and asked me if I had received my sandwich. "Uh... no. What sandwich?" "Oh. We had ordered you a sandwich for lunch, it was supposed to be up here by now. I wonder what happened to it." So I, the anorexic, missed lunch because of the disorganization of this eating disorder unit.
I asked the nutritionist to give me a tour of the place, because no one had, and she did, eventually leaving me in my room to wait for my doctor to come see me.
So I sat with my mother in my room and as the minutes passed, my heart and my thoughts started to race at a similar pace to the piano that was still blaring over the speakers throughout the unit. I tried to talk with my mom about how I didn't think I would be able to stay there, that I didn't feel safe in the environment and I hated the staff and most of the patients triggered me like crazy. And the more I talked, the more I freaked, to the point where I was having a full blown panic attack. Unable to control my breathing, shaking, crying, feeling like I was about to pass out. My mother went down the hall to get me a glass of water, which took about fifteen minutes, and I found out later on it was because the first two people my mom went to and said, "My daughter down the hall is having a panic attack, can I get her a glass of water?" said simply, "That's not my job," and finally the right person said, "Hold on, let me find out if she has clearance for that." CLEARANCE. FOR A GLASS OF WATER. Nevermind the fact that I couldn't breathe, and during that whole time not one nurse who walked past my room asked if I was okay.
So I call my therapist and tell her I'm about to leave. That I don't feel safe and I would only get worse if I stayed there. She got me to agree to wait until she could make a few phone calls and get someone in my room to talk to me asap. By this time I had already been sitting in my room for an hour, crying nonstop. Another half hour passes, and I hear nothing on the phone from my therapist and my doctor still hasn't shown up. In the mean time, one nurse pops into my room with a clipboard and announces, "Room check!!" all cheery, and my mother asks her if someone can get me my anxiety medication or at least a nicotine patch because I'm seriously bugging. The nurse jumps back and says, "That's not my job, I'm just doing room checks." Another nurse stops by and says she's there to take my vitals, and I manage through my choking sobs that I don't even know if I'm staying yet, and she walks away without saying anything or going to get help. I finally get a text from my normal therapist saying that she's still waiting to hear back from my hospital doctor or therapist, when my hospital therapist walks by my room. My mom jumps up and says, "Hey, Betty? (i wasn't going to use names because it seemed inappropriate, but this woman seriously needs to get fired) Have you heard from Valerie's therapist at all?" Betty says, "Oh, I don't know. But even if I had it wouldn't matter because I'm officially off duty at 4:30."
That's when I officially started packing. The general attitude that place took about taking care of me left me totally disgusted, and there was no way I was going to entrust my recovery with them. Betty finally brought me the papers to sign myself out, and I told her that I would never ever give anyone a positive recommendation about that place. And I actually said, to her face, "And by the way, I'm a fucking anorexic seeking treatment. I really would've appreciated some lunch."
I think that sums it up.
The best part of it all was that this place used to be notorious for being one of the worst places to do an inpatient stay for eating disorders. So they shut down for a year in order to revamp and get new administration in and try and tackle things from a better angle. They openned again in the beginning of December and IT STILL SUCKS.
No one ever go there. Ever.
I'm leaving this public just in case it could possibly save someone from the terrible experience I had. I'm not ashamed about seeking help for my eating disorder, as no one should be.
I was supposed to begin my stay at NY Presbyterian's inpatient eating disorder program this past Friday. I finally got my mind around it being something that I could accomplish as a preventative measure, so that I didn't get to the ridiculous point I had two years ago, forcing me to drop out of school and do a four week inpatient stay in NJ. So I went, woke up bright and early Friday morning and got there around 10:30 am with my mother. Intake and evaluation went really well, even though it took forever, and I was feeling really optimistic. The staff seemed really awesome and friendly, and there was this seemingly cool girl doing her intake with me.
Then I got on the unit.
My mother was still with me, and we walked side-by-side into the double-locked unit, our ears greeted with blaring, Chopin-type classical music, making me feel instantly like I was in a legitimate looney bin. We were asked to sit in the hall way and wait for my therapist to arrive to talk to us. So we sat and waited, and one of the patients introduced herself to me. She was positively emaciated, as were the majority of the other girls I saw walking around the unit. I asked her how old she was and she responded, "Oh I'm 21, but I'll be turning 22 soon. If I make it, anyway. That's why I'm here." Beyond triggering. When my therapist finally arrived, neither my mother nor myself even looked up to acknowledge her because she was so thin that she looked like she should be a patient herself. I did not want someone like that treating me. She rambled on incoherently, I suppose about what should be expected during my stay, but I really couldn't understand her until she asked me if I had any questions. "Yes, the last place I stayed at worked their meal plan with exchanges, and I understand it doesn't work that way here, so could you explain to me how the meal plans would be working?"
More incoherent mumbling, and I got the impression that everyone ate at different times and different places depending on what "level" you were on. Not having received a clear answer on something I was really concerned about, I started to freak out. My mom asked the therapist if there was any way I could see my nutritionist right away to talk to her about it, and as she agreed, a nurse walked up and asked if she could speak to me in another room.
Still freaking out, I walked into the dining area and sat down with this nurse to answer her questions, and I right away told her that the music would be a problem. That it would have a negative effect on my mental state, and that there was no way they could play that all day, every day. Her response: "Why? It's just classical music." I stumbled over some response about how I had negative associations with it and that it made me very nervous. She told me I should be evaluated for Bipolar Disorder. I told her the place was really disorganized, because she was asking me the same questions that five other people had already asked me. She told me she was just doing her job. The nutritionist poked her head in the door and asked if she could speak to me for a few minutes since she heard that I was upset about not knowing how the meals worked and she had to leave in a little bit. The nurse gave her sass and attitude about how she and I were already talking and the nutritionist would have to wait. I jumped back, crying more, exclaiming that I couldn't do this if the two of them were going to argue over me in such an unprofessional manner. The nurse gave in and let my nutritionist talk to me in private.
The nutritionist was the only nice, polite, caring person I spoke with while on the unit, and she was the only one who could get me to calm down in the slightest. She sat down and asked me if I had received my sandwich. "Uh... no. What sandwich?" "Oh. We had ordered you a sandwich for lunch, it was supposed to be up here by now. I wonder what happened to it." So I, the anorexic, missed lunch because of the disorganization of this eating disorder unit.
I asked the nutritionist to give me a tour of the place, because no one had, and she did, eventually leaving me in my room to wait for my doctor to come see me.
So I sat with my mother in my room and as the minutes passed, my heart and my thoughts started to race at a similar pace to the piano that was still blaring over the speakers throughout the unit. I tried to talk with my mom about how I didn't think I would be able to stay there, that I didn't feel safe in the environment and I hated the staff and most of the patients triggered me like crazy. And the more I talked, the more I freaked, to the point where I was having a full blown panic attack. Unable to control my breathing, shaking, crying, feeling like I was about to pass out. My mother went down the hall to get me a glass of water, which took about fifteen minutes, and I found out later on it was because the first two people my mom went to and said, "My daughter down the hall is having a panic attack, can I get her a glass of water?" said simply, "That's not my job," and finally the right person said, "Hold on, let me find out if she has clearance for that." CLEARANCE. FOR A GLASS OF WATER. Nevermind the fact that I couldn't breathe, and during that whole time not one nurse who walked past my room asked if I was okay.
So I call my therapist and tell her I'm about to leave. That I don't feel safe and I would only get worse if I stayed there. She got me to agree to wait until she could make a few phone calls and get someone in my room to talk to me asap. By this time I had already been sitting in my room for an hour, crying nonstop. Another half hour passes, and I hear nothing on the phone from my therapist and my doctor still hasn't shown up. In the mean time, one nurse pops into my room with a clipboard and announces, "Room check!!" all cheery, and my mother asks her if someone can get me my anxiety medication or at least a nicotine patch because I'm seriously bugging. The nurse jumps back and says, "That's not my job, I'm just doing room checks." Another nurse stops by and says she's there to take my vitals, and I manage through my choking sobs that I don't even know if I'm staying yet, and she walks away without saying anything or going to get help. I finally get a text from my normal therapist saying that she's still waiting to hear back from my hospital doctor or therapist, when my hospital therapist walks by my room. My mom jumps up and says, "Hey, Betty? (i wasn't going to use names because it seemed inappropriate, but this woman seriously needs to get fired) Have you heard from Valerie's therapist at all?" Betty says, "Oh, I don't know. But even if I had it wouldn't matter because I'm officially off duty at 4:30."
That's when I officially started packing. The general attitude that place took about taking care of me left me totally disgusted, and there was no way I was going to entrust my recovery with them. Betty finally brought me the papers to sign myself out, and I told her that I would never ever give anyone a positive recommendation about that place. And I actually said, to her face, "And by the way, I'm a fucking anorexic seeking treatment. I really would've appreciated some lunch."
I think that sums it up.
The best part of it all was that this place used to be notorious for being one of the worst places to do an inpatient stay for eating disorders. So they shut down for a year in order to revamp and get new administration in and try and tackle things from a better angle. They openned again in the beginning of December and IT STILL SUCKS.
No one ever go there. Ever.
I'm leaving this public just in case it could possibly save someone from the terrible experience I had. I'm not ashamed about seeking help for my eating disorder, as no one should be.