It was three weeks into a new antidepressant regiment, and I didn’t think much of it. My friend, Paul, was visiting me at my house. We didn’t see each other much—probably about once every several months. But, this time, our visit would be very different.
Paul told me that I wasn’t acting as I normally do. “Of course,” I explained, “you only see me every couple of months. There is no normal behavior for me.” Paul wasn’t convinced.
Our time together transitioned into myself getting a headache and feeling upset. Again, I didn’t think much of it, because I do get occasional migraines. I knew my scheduled improv class would be the right thing for me to do!
Paul was so worried about me that he convinced me to talk to one of his friends (who is a psychiatrist) on the phone. The conversation was long, and the psychiatrist concluded that my antidepressants were having a severe negative reaction on my system, and that I should go to the emergency room immediately.
I acknowledged that the drugs were a little wonky. I even created a metaphor explaining how it was like “a rollercoaster ride in the dungeon”. At this point, I felt well enough to go to my improv class.
Paul said, based on the direction of the psychiatrist, that he would be forced to “force” me to go to the hospital, if I didn’t comply voluntarily.
Resistant, I took on that this was “tough love” and allowed Paul to escort me to the hospital.
We waited, and Paul’s friend (the psychiatrist) arrived shortly afterwards. Then we all waited together for hours.
Finally, we were escorted to a room and I was given something called a “Form 1”.
I couldn’t see/read the “Form 1”, so I was told that it basically meant that I had to stay in the hospital overnight.
For the next twenty minutes, I pleaded with everybody in the room—Paul, his friend, and two doctors. I was well, and I was trying to prove it. It seemed that the hospital staff were not going to change their mind, so I stood up and walked towards the door in compliance.
Right beside the door there was yet another person that I had not seen. In fact, it was a big person. And, he was wearing a police uniform, with handcuffs, gun and all!
In that moment, I realized I would have been kept in the hospital by force, if necessary. Had I known there was a police officer standing at guard, I would not have argued for twenty minutes! What a waste of time that was!
It took two attempts with various sleeping pills to finally put me to sleep. I woke up with very different people surrounding me.
When I had later researched the “Form 1”, I realized that the medical establishment had complete legal control over my body. I had a right to a lawyer, but I didn’t know that I did. Did they follow the proper protocol considering I had accommodation needs in order fully read the “Form 1”?
Everything happens for a reason, and everything seemed to get back to normal and fall into place. Still, I can’t help but feel that I had little choice in the matter, and that I have little control in what happens to me in my life.