In my previous posts, I describe how my psychiatrist mother who struggled with MSbP behavior first treated my family (and all of Cape Cod) for “Lyme disease” by writing OxyContin prescriptions, then began poisoning me with heavy doses of psychiatric drugs for “bipolar disorder” which I didn’t have.
Now, as a teenager, in addition to the drug cocktail, my mother used her influence in the medical system to get me hospitalized in places that should not exist in the United States, which is what I write about in this post.
Fast forward a few years from my pre-teen phase where I’m fighting with my mom over being doped up with Depakote and Seroquel, and now I’m a full-fledged teenager. At this point, I had already been medicated for years, and had endured several psychiatric hospitalizations for various matters.
My Most Traumatic Psychiatric Hospitalization
I think the most traumatic hospitalization happened when I was 15. I had just been given a one-way ticket to Florida to live with my mother, courtesy of my father, after I went missing for a week. So I was living in an apartment, Las Palmas, in Orlando with my mother and I had come home 15 minutes late from my “curfew” which was enforced based on her mood.
I guess this particular night she felt like enforcing it, so when I began walking up the stairs to the second story, she was there waiting for me. Before I could finish my cigarette, she grabbed me by the arm, her long nails digging into my flesh. Yanking me up the stairs by my arm, I protested and told her to wait a minute. This infuriated her, and being Puerto Rican and bipolar, she did have a temper!
I was rushed into the apartment and told to take my meds. This was always the case; when I disobeyed her, I was “acting out” on my “bipolar disorder” so I needed to take my meds. Well, I didn’t want to take them and I told her so. She didn’t like this answer and went to grab them herself. She then shoved her hand into my face and sternly told me to take my meds. Again, I refused and she proceeded to pry my mouth open and shove them down my throat.
To prevent her nails from further piercing my face I smacked her hand away and the precious pills, the chemical restraints, rolled under the fridge. I then proceeded to walk out the door and almost in an instant my mother placed herself in front of it, preventing my escape. I guess she had strategically grabbed the phone as well, because as I tried to open the door, with her against it, she had placed a call to the police saying she was having a problem with her “out of control teenage daughter”.
The Police Come to Take Me Away
I considered jumping off the balcony. The second story wasn’t that high and I could call my boyfriend and he could catch me or help me escape in some way. As I was internally contemplating, and flirting with the idea of really jumping, I was met with a police officer at the door who cuffed my hands and escorted me to the police car.
Before being sat down in the car I was told to keep my hands behind by back and as I was sitting there watching my mother hysterically crying to the officer, as an act of defiance I worked my arms right out in front of me. I’ll show them! Now I was the one sobbing hysterically sitting in the back of this stupid police car like some kind of criminal and I was escorted right to the psychiatric ward for a 72-hour evaluation. That’s called being “Baker Acted” in Florida.
I arrived to the hospital at some hour in the night and I was given a pair of maroon scrubs and a room with chicken wire and a plastic mattress. I guess this is what I get for being 15 minutes late and refusing to take my meds.
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