From 10 West to 7 West

Things I used to take for granted: Sweat pants with draw strings in them. My over sized hoodies. Conditioner. Showering without the the wedge of an ugly, fluorescent, nurse's "crock" in the door way.

From the emergency room I was taken to a rehab facility, 7 West. This was a far cry from the energetic, chaotic dorm of 10 West up in Boston. I was not Harriet the college student. At 7 west I was Harriet with clinical depression. Harriet with general anxiety and panic disorder. Harriet who was at high risk for suicide, bulimia, anorexia, alcoholism...

Needless to say, this transition was not easy. The first few hours there were terrifying. My fellow patients eyes followed me as the doors to the ward unlocked and an alarm sounded. I had arrived! It was not the prettiest procession of my life. Two men rolled me in on a stretcher as my nurse and social worker introduced themselves and jogged to keep up while briefing me about where I was, why I was there.

As I slid off the stretcher in to a chair in the lobby, I felt aware. Out of my drugged haze, I was starting to notice the little things. The tight grasp of the blood pressure cuff on my arm, the blinding glare of the freshly buffed linoleum,the sterile scent.

An hour later after intake, I was left alone to "collect my thoughts" and "get acclimated". I cried in the tiny bathroom. Thoughts of "One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest" would not leave my mind. How did I end up in this position? Mental illness has such a stigma. Patients end up here because they have lost it, they are crazy, they are "psycho."

I was there because I needed help. In order to get better you have to leave your shame and pride behind. It is important to write about my experience so others can learn about mental illness. I have not lost it, I am a work in progress just like everyone else.