Invisible Wound

My favorite quote about mental health is from Laurel Hamilton that says: “There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.” What I love about that quote is that it talks about mental illness in a way that makes you truly understand a person who has something going on in their mind. It makes you understand that even though it may not be visible, that does not mean they are not hurting. 

I am a person who was diagnosed with bipolar disorder 1 last December of 2023 and someone who went through the most life-changing experience last February. I was admitted to the neuropsychiatry ward. Up to this day, I can still picture how eerie that place was. I can still remember the creepy multiple-lock doors, the cold feeling, the clean smell that lingers in the air, and the fluorescent lights. 

In society’s perspective, I would be deemed “crazy” or “mentally deranged” for being in a psych ward. I can’t really blame them because that is how it is shown in movies: people having to be sedated for being too aggressive, people talking to themselves, and people endlessly screaming. It is not to say that that is not the truth for some as it truly is, but it is not like that for most, or at least from where I was admitted. In the ward, it was more like living with strangers, or as some people would call it, “Bahay ni Kuya." The only difference is that you being evicted means a good thing. We would do karaoke, cooking and dancing to zumba together.

As I was admitted, I was faced with different patients with different backgrounds. There were people with behavior problems, people with dementia, and people with Alzheimer’s. And though I have never seen so many mentally ill people in one room, I still felt alone and different. I was the only bipolar person there. I could not relate to anyone else, not to mention that I was the youngest among the other patients. But that did not stop me from creating new friendships. I was certain they were not friendships that would last for a lifetime, but I knew they were friends that would help make me feel less alone. 

One thing I learned from that experience was how lucky I was to have a support system such as my friends and my family. There was this one patient in their 80s who would, on a routine basis, go to the nurse’s station and place a chair in front of it. He would pull out a piece of paper from his pocket with all the contacts of his family members and would dial each one of them and hope that someone would answer. He was left hanging as no one would answer his calls. I later found out that he has been in the ward for 40 years and that no family visits him. If I had one reason to go back to that traumatizing hospital, it would be to visit him. 

I entered that facility with no guarantee that I was going to get any better. You’d hear from stories that some only got worse and that it made staying there a living hell for them. Another thing I did learn is that it was not up to the medication. It was not up to the doctors if I were to get better, but it was all up to me. It was whether I’d like to get better or not. It was whether I’d help myself or not. And I did. After what felt like a lifetime, I was finally able to get discharged. The day I heard the news from the psychiatrist, I was filled with joy that I just had to share it with the other patients. Once I told them I was finally going to leave, I could see they were delighted for me, but at the same time I could see how bittersweet it was for them. They couldn’t help but feel envious of me. 

As I was about to leave, a newly admitted patient was welcomed to the ward. She was closer to my age. I overheard a conversation she had with one of the nurses, and from there I found out she was bipolar like me. It was like my antennae raised when I heard that, as I have never met a person with the same condition as me. I approached her later that day, and we shared our own experiences as people with bipolar. It was like looking in a mirror, as she was exactly like me when I first entered the ward—afraid and lost. She asked me if it would get any better, and I just told her, “You should never lose hope that things will soon get better because they will.” If there is one thing I learned from that girl, it is that we are not crazy as some people would like to think.

This experience has ignited a spark in me to become a psychiatrist. The last thing I heard from a patient before I left was the statement, “You give us hope.” I couldn’t help but wish I could give that same hope to many more people in the future and make other people feel less crazy.