“I am ill, I am here for treatment.” “Great, hands on the wall, feet on the yellow line.”

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This was the first account I wrote in detail of my experience at Doctor’s Behavioral Health Center in Modesto, CA.  From August 28th.   I will let it speak for itself. 

L. Christopher Bird
August 28

A more detailed update, taken from my handwritten journal will be forthcoming, but in the meantime, now that I am home for the night, and can type on a full-size keyboard instead of on my phone.In brief, the intake process was damaging to me, it has introduced trauma that will take time to recover from, on top of the issues presented by my illness. In short, the first part of seeking treatment for my illness, was an injury.

The first staff I interfaced with after the receptionist was a security guard. The first procedure I was subjected to, was a feet on the yellow line, hands on the wall pat-down, described by the guards as “for our safety”. At this pat down, my wallet and cell-phone were confiscated.

I was then, a mere hours after contemplating, researching, and taken initial steps towards suicide, deposited in a featureless room, with no stimulus. I spent hours in this room, unattended. A couple hours before being sent to the ER and many more hours, after being medically cleared, and driven back in an ambulance, with the my requests to do so in my own clothes. At the ER I was put in a gown to be examined, and my clothes were kept from me for and after my return despite assurances they would be given back to me.

Kept in a featureless room for hours, with uniformed security guards in the hall, nearly all my autonomy taken from me, I exercised what I could. I took off, and folded neatly, the hospital gown I was issued, and sat in that featureless room in my underwear and socks — the only clothing I walked in with that I still possessed. Once I had done so, my shirt and pants were produced and brought to me.

While in that room, on more than one occasion I was weeping openly, with body racking sobs at my situation. At one point, I saw a security guard peer in the window in the door, snarl, and look away, disgusted, while I continued to weep, cold, alone, and unattended for hours.

There is much more, 45 pages of handwritten notes detailing them, but it will have to wait. Of my experiences, this was the most traumatic, but not the last of the continued humiliations, degradations, and dehumanizing practices I was exposed to, because I was an ill person seeking treatment.

More to come, true believers, but I need some rest.

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