Restrained!

What does it feel like to be in restraints? Everybody asks me. It only happened once, and I probably deserved it. I threw a hardcover book and it hit the wall with a resounding boom right over the head of the mental health worker who was supposed to be watching me on one to one. She was reading a cheap romance, and, for some reason, that annoyed me greatly. First the nurse came in with a little pill in a little cup and encouraged me to take it. Actually, it was more like verbal coercion since he was tired and irritated with me and he really wasn’t given a choice.

I had just arrived, and my roommate was a thin older lady with nervous eyes. She refused to stay with me, so they moved me into a room by myself. Private room. Not bad.

There is no sound in the world like the snap of rubber gloves. It brings to mind visions of hulking orderlies and nurses with hypodermics. I sat on my bed with my back against the wall and my knees pulled up to my chest, planning to fight to the death, as the room filled with people, apparently the largest ones on duty.

Arms all around, hands all over, picking me up, turning me over, hands on holding my arms and legs tight against the bed, my body, my neck, my head, so that I couldn’t move a single muscle in my body. The sting of a shot in my hip. Then they pulled the bed linens up around me, like a human burrito, tight, and altogether, picked me up by the bed linens and carried me to the seclusion room where there was an iron bed frame with a thin mattress covered in a fresh white sheet. Again, hands all around, held face down, shoes and socks off, ankles buckled in thick leather straps. Then my arms pulled behind my back, also strapped, and a thick nylon web over my torso, buckled down.

In a way it was soothing. There was absolutely no way to fight, so I didn’t bother. The shot probably helped. A woman was stationed beside my feet, making circulation checks every fifteen minutes. The nurse, this time not so annoyed, came in with another shot.

And that was really it. They let me up to go to the bathroom, people all around standing guard, but by that time the prolexin had me meek and mild. Then back on the cot, straps back on. My shoulders started to hurt. First just a little, from the angle of my arm. Then more. I worked my hand out of one strapped and moved just enough to relieve the pain. It worked for a while, until the woman noticed and put my hand back through.

After three hours, the nurse returned, once again, with a needle. If I let him give the injection without fighting, they would let me up. But if I started fighting, at all, then back in restraints. By this time I couldn’t have fought anyone even if they demanded me to.

I stumbled like a drunkard back to my room, where, lying on my bed, I decided that I liked the way I felt. I liked it very much. I would later find myself drug-seeking, throwing chairs just for a shot. It was my method. If you asked for a pill, they called it drug-seeking. If you started acting agitated or angry, they would offer you a pill. If you took it, they called it drug-seeking. They key was to refuse, so they would be forced to give you a shot, which was better than a pill anyway, and since you refused they didn’t call it drug-seeking.

Recently my psychiatrist offered me a tranquilizer when I was particularly anxious. I started laughing. I’d get addicted, I told him. I wasn’t going to give you enough for that, he replied. You don’t understand, I said. I love tranquilizers. If I took one, then I would do whatever I could to get more. He just nodded.

My restraint experience was mild. I’ve heard of much, much worse. Far worse for me is chemical restraint. When I was in high school, in the hospital, my doctor placed me on heavy doses of antipsychotics. I got The Look. Something in the face, around the eyes and the mouth, a droop of sorts. I’ve recognized it on many faces around me. I also had the jitters. I would feel like all my muscles were moving at once even though I didn’t want them to. I had to move around but it didn’t help. The only thing that helped was the cogentin that dried my mouth horribly. Once I would try to overdose on Navane, one of the medicines I was taking. Two days later I felt all my muscles contract against my will, all at once. I couldn’t straighten my arms and could barely walk. I begged more than anything to die. A doctor later told me that you can’t overdose on Navane. I believed him. I also began referencing the PDR when I was planning to overdose on my meds.

In Arkansas when I ended up in a General Practitioners office babbling about voices and a competative debate I obviously would never make, he ordered a shot of haldol and called my mother. Since there wasn’t a psych unit anywhere nearby, he offered to admit me to the hospital as a general patient and keep me heavily sedated until further plans were made. She took me home, along with his prescription for those pills that knocked me into next week. I ended up dropping out of school that semester.

And, finally, my worst experience with chemical restraints. Heavily medicated on antipsychotics, I felt my brain slowly turn off. Single words floated through gelatin to a mouth that could hardly speak, a tongue that could hardly move. I sat and stared for hours. I was a shell, the nerve firings silent, a body doing nothing but occupy space. But I could still feel, and I felt so sad. The hurt was incredible. My family doctor, the same one who delivered me, found out what I was taking and urged my parents to pull me off of all of it immediately. It was like coming alive again.

Once I refused to eat or take my medicine for several days while in the hospital. I expected the doctor to order the meds by injection, but I was surprised when he came to my room, sat in a chair by my bed, and talked to me. He told the nurses to leave me alone, that I was intelligent enough to make the right decision. And I did. I began to pull myself out of the fog and started back on the mood stabilizers that would enable me to leave the hospital. Imagine that. He was able to do with words and compassion what others would do with rubber gloves and needles.

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Discussions

Dianna (Nov 16, 2003): While the article "Restrained" by Melissa was very painful to read, it was also a relief. I spent plenty of time in restraints but have never written about it in detail like Melissa. It does help to share our stories and relieve some of the pain of the past. Moreover, it helps to know that I am not alone and others have experienced the same things.

Others who have lived "on the outside" all their lives, never locked up,
never overmedicated, never at the mercy of doctors, nurses and orderlies,
can not possibly understand what many of us have gone through. This is why a website such as this is so important. And why support groups are important.

I was once in restraints for 2 weeks straight in what they called a
geri-chair. When I was sane, it was humiliating. When I was psychotic, it
wasn't so bad because I felt safe. That was about 10 years ago and I have a
fantastic life now thanks to meds, support and a fabulous job. Don't ever ever ever ever give up...

George (Nov 18, 2003): I work as a psych attendant and want you to let readers know that in the story about being restrained, a one to one assigned staff in a hospital is absolutely not supposed to be reading a novel! The patient is well and good normal to be upset by such neglect but of course can not expect to throw things at or threaten the 1:1 staff. Also, 3 hours is no longer accepted as reasonable for a restraint. An hour is more like it. Additionally, meds should actually be used first and given a chance to work and supplemented with more meds given another chance to work and even again and again if possible. Then, if needed, treatment should be supplemented with mechanical restraint. any patient treated otherwise has been abused and neglected and should complain to the office of recipient rights (congresses watchdog- its there money so they watch!), the local federal and state elected representatives and senators and any and all mental health support group available. hospitals are doing this kind of abuse to save on spending and will not stop unless pressured politically and via lawsuit. It's not just you they abused!!!!

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Melissa

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