Adventures in Mental Health Land, Part 1
Those of you who know me, and not even particularly well, may know that quite a number of things have happened in my life in the past few months. There are a lot of factors that play into the situations and circumstances; but needless to say, it’s been a long, hard few months; and the clouds are only recently beginning to break.
It started, for me, with a breakdown. I’m not sure how much to share about this, since it is upsetting, but I had a breakdown. A really good friend of mine had died, my husband had been diagnosed with cancer, and had started chemo and radiation, and my job was being eliminated. The stress of all these built, and built up, until finally I cracked.
It wasn’t pretty.
My first stop was a lovely stay at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Burbank. I use the word lovely only a little sarcastically, because my stay there was not bad. It certainly wasn’t fun, and nothing I want to repeat any time soon. There is only one picture of me at this time:
At the time, I was urged by my husband to talk to a social worker about the things I was going through, and since I wasn’t going anywhere soon (it turned out), that’s exactly what I did. I believe her name was Dawn, but don’t quote me on that. After talking to her at some length, she put me in touch with a doctor from a psychiatric group in Burbank. He came and sat with me, and we discussed pretty much the same material as with Dawn. At the end of this discussion, he put me on a super low dose of Zoloft, and that was that.
After I got out, I ended up going to the same psychiatric group that the psychiatrist came from. I have a psychiatrist, Dr. R, but I can tell you a singular truth I have learned about psychiatrists; namely, they’re basically pill-pushers. I think I had a somewhat romanticized view of them and their profession as the result of seeing many on TV, but the current reality is much different. I don’t mean to speak ill of the profession; it’s just that it was exactly what I expected.
Now, when I got out of the hospital a few days went by, during which time I got a case of cellulitis in my upper arm (and pretty much freaked OUT about that!); and my friend C, whose mother is a therapist, suggested I go to a PHP. I had to look that up, because I didn’t know what that acronym even meant.
PHP stands for Partial-Hospitalization Program, which is essentially a very intensive and directed therapy for people who are experiencing severe symptoms, but not symptoms requiring inpatient hospitalization. I have never been able to figure out why ‘hospitalization’ is part of the acronym, since I wasn’t actually hospitalized, but the sessions happened at a hospital.
In my case, the hospital was Aurora Las Encinas, in Pasadena, generally just called ‘Las Encinas.’ There’s no especial significance to the hospital or its location; I found it by searching for PHP programs on my insurance company’s website. Also it’s in Pasadena, which is an area I don’t find difficult or threatening. Still, it’s ALL about the insurance, don’t you know?
Las Encinas is, in fact, a beautiful campus, not very hospital-like at all. It is mostly bungalows, with lots of trees and grass and greenery. Apparently it was built in the early 1900’s and was always a mental hospital. It has full services, including a lock-down ward and a hospital with beds. I never saw either of those (thank GOD!), but I saw only the outpatient services portion, which begins with a larger white bungalow, and has a number of other smaller brown ones scattered around it. I’d post photos of it, but taking photos was regrettably forbidden, and I can certainly understand why.
So, on a lovely Friday morning, I got up and drove with my arm in a splint, over to Pasadena for my assessment. I met a very nice nurse to sat me down in a room off the main lobby and asked me a bunch of questions. At the end of our time, I was scheduled.
And thus, on the Monday of Thanksgiving week, I found myself in a rather cold, white room at a mental hospital.
It started, for me, with a breakdown. I’m not sure how much to share about this, since it is upsetting, but I had a breakdown. A really good friend of mine had died, my husband had been diagnosed with cancer, and had started chemo and radiation, and my job was being eliminated. The stress of all these built, and built up, until finally I cracked.
It wasn’t pretty.
My first stop was a lovely stay at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Burbank. I use the word lovely only a little sarcastically, because my stay there was not bad. It certainly wasn’t fun, and nothing I want to repeat any time soon. There is only one picture of me at this time:
At the time, I was urged by my husband to talk to a social worker about the things I was going through, and since I wasn’t going anywhere soon (it turned out), that’s exactly what I did. I believe her name was Dawn, but don’t quote me on that. After talking to her at some length, she put me in touch with a doctor from a psychiatric group in Burbank. He came and sat with me, and we discussed pretty much the same material as with Dawn. At the end of this discussion, he put me on a super low dose of Zoloft, and that was that.
After I got out, I ended up going to the same psychiatric group that the psychiatrist came from. I have a psychiatrist, Dr. R, but I can tell you a singular truth I have learned about psychiatrists; namely, they’re basically pill-pushers. I think I had a somewhat romanticized view of them and their profession as the result of seeing many on TV, but the current reality is much different. I don’t mean to speak ill of the profession; it’s just that it was exactly what I expected.
Now, when I got out of the hospital a few days went by, during which time I got a case of cellulitis in my upper arm (and pretty much freaked OUT about that!); and my friend C, whose mother is a therapist, suggested I go to a PHP. I had to look that up, because I didn’t know what that acronym even meant.
PHP stands for Partial-Hospitalization Program, which is essentially a very intensive and directed therapy for people who are experiencing severe symptoms, but not symptoms requiring inpatient hospitalization. I have never been able to figure out why ‘hospitalization’ is part of the acronym, since I wasn’t actually hospitalized, but the sessions happened at a hospital.
In my case, the hospital was Aurora Las Encinas, in Pasadena, generally just called ‘Las Encinas.’ There’s no especial significance to the hospital or its location; I found it by searching for PHP programs on my insurance company’s website. Also it’s in Pasadena, which is an area I don’t find difficult or threatening. Still, it’s ALL about the insurance, don’t you know?
Las Encinas is, in fact, a beautiful campus, not very hospital-like at all. It is mostly bungalows, with lots of trees and grass and greenery. Apparently it was built in the early 1900’s and was always a mental hospital. It has full services, including a lock-down ward and a hospital with beds. I never saw either of those (thank GOD!), but I saw only the outpatient services portion, which begins with a larger white bungalow, and has a number of other smaller brown ones scattered around it. I’d post photos of it, but taking photos was regrettably forbidden, and I can certainly understand why.
So, on a lovely Friday morning, I got up and drove with my arm in a splint, over to Pasadena for my assessment. I met a very nice nurse to sat me down in a room off the main lobby and asked me a bunch of questions. At the end of our time, I was scheduled.
And thus, on the Monday of Thanksgiving week, I found myself in a rather cold, white room at a mental hospital.