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Answer Save. Erica P. Hot dog in a hallway In this fun phrase the hot dog represents a penis and the hallway represents the enormous vagina. Extremely offensive!

Deific Blunder. How do you think about the answers? You can sign in to vote the answer. GreenBean Lv 4.

Still have questions? I had one singular outburst when I was down there. How they had treated that outburst sealed it for me that I was subhuman to them.

I woke up from my slumber screaming and crying. It hit me in my dreams that I was going to miss my final, and that I would be about five thousand dollars in debt by the time I left the hospital.

And to be completely honest? I would still value my final more than my own life. Do you want to know what happened when I had a panic attack?

The police who patrolled around the unit stood outside my room and tried to aggravate me more instead of being useful and calling a nurse.

I ended up throwing my medical bracelet at one of them, and the bastard had the gall to pick it up— mispronouncing my name a few times for good measure—to make sure that I was angry and ready to bite.

This is what I mean when I say that part of an involuntary hold is just a power trip, they want to show you that they do have power over you. In my poetry, I am a wolf.

This beast, ugly, raw, and primal. I did throw my blanket at the police officer though, because she was being rude and taunting me for crying.

I never got the promised psych evaluation. I felt like I was being lied to by everyone, that I had actually lost my mind.

That combined with absolutely no form of stimulation had nearly driven me to suicide. It was almost like I was being forced to have a mental breakdown so they could justify keeping me there.

I slept a lot while I was there. The nurses actually kept lying to me about calling down the on-call psychiatrist and were perplexed when I was angry that for the past five hours I was waiting to be seen and was never even acknowledged.

He blamed me for being unresponsive. It happened a lot while I was there, the being lied to about something that could be clarified in a sentence or the being blamed for something out of my control.

When I ripped my ugly paper scrubs in my sleep I was yelled at for being a nuisance by both security and the nurses. I stayed in D-Pod for almost forty hours, mind you.

Some people stay there for weeks. A bed eventually cleared up, and I was escorted from D-Pod to the fifth floor of the Jane Brown building where the psych ward was.

I was right to a degree. Sometimes the nurses there still lied to you, even if you tried to be sincere. Once I got settled into my room at the psych ward, I was reverted to a five year old child.

The five days I spent there somehow became long hours that melded together. There is no comfort in that statement, as one.

While I understand that we had to have routines, because usually that helps people who are mentally ill, it felt downright condescending that there were specific times for snacks and drinks instead of an on-demand basis with a limit of three snacks.

The worst thing about the ward was the lack of entertainment and stimulation. Usually, from my understanding, inpatient usually has group therapies throughout the day,art classes of varying complexity, and other engaging activities.

It was sort of a slap in the face when the only engaging thing you can do everyday was color for an hour.

The only other thing we had in terms of activities was a check-in group in the morning, where we just checked in with each other.

It felt useless considering we were also checking in without psychiatrists every morning. Other than the groups, we had two choices for entertainment: sit and journal with short unsharpened golf pencils or wait for the nurses to turn on the TV.

Some of these patients had been in the Jane Brown building for months, but they just did not know that they could ask for these books, I had to tell them because I was pressing for it and annoying the nurses.

If you were to ask for the paper, despite it being delivered to the rest of the hospital, they would tell you that it was just not possible to get one.

We were essentially cut off from the real world. It was sincerely cruel, especially to those who already had a poor sense of reality like me.

To be honest, everything felt like I was a child again, but in a way where I had no control over anything, and everything I said was either made up or taken lightly.

No one would take my concerns to heart, and when those concerns were a thirty year old man constantly hitting on you, it certainly fucking sucked!

I could describe my five-day stay there day by day, but they all blended into one because of how dull they were, and how exhausting the dullness was.

I felt dread for the next day that was going to be wasted instead of being used productively. It was a prison that forced me to take up less space in the world, and used the fear of being in there for months to force me to repress my emotions.

I had to appear normal and sane, but the thing is, that was something that I could not feasibly do in a few days, not even months, really.

Part of me died in there. I did not come out of this stronger. I came out of this ashamed and mortified. I am a flawed individual, this I know, but this had broken my spirit instead of reinforcing it and giving me the tools to fix myself.

For two nights I could not sleep, and had to leave Providence. I was afraid I would wake up in the psych ward, and have to prove myself all over again.

It was a nightmare looming in the horizon. I had been manipulated, lied to, and gaslit during that entire experience. They portrayed me as a drug addict who had a complete breakdown and was essentially catatonic.

There also seemed to be this other set of lies upstream, where my psychiatrist in the ward was told that I had plans for suicide by jumping off a bridge, which is why I was comitted.

I smacked her hand off my bra, and the police saw me as a threat, something that was no longer human. I felt violated, and the police saw me as an animal that they needed to use force on.

I slouched down on the bed, cross legged and unresponsive. I was catatonic due to the sheer overload of emotions. For a couple of hours, I was just stuck in my stupor.

I had one singular outburst when I was down there. How they had treated that outburst sealed it for me that I was subhuman to them.

I woke up from my slumber screaming and crying. It hit me in my dreams that I was going to miss my final, and that I would be about five thousand dollars in debt by the time I left the hospital.

And to be completely honest? I would still value my final more than my own life. Do you want to know what happened when I had a panic attack?

The police who patrolled around the unit stood outside my room and tried to aggravate me more instead of being useful and calling a nurse.

I ended up throwing my medical bracelet at one of them, and the bastard had the gall to pick it up— mispronouncing my name a few times for good measure—to make sure that I was angry and ready to bite.

This is what I mean when I say that part of an involuntary hold is just a power trip, they want to show you that they do have power over you.

In my poetry, I am a wolf. This beast, ugly, raw, and primal. I did throw my blanket at the police officer though, because she was being rude and taunting me for crying.

I never got the promised psych evaluation. I felt like I was being lied to by everyone, that I had actually lost my mind. That combined with absolutely no form of stimulation had nearly driven me to suicide.

It was almost like I was being forced to have a mental breakdown so they could justify keeping me there. I slept a lot while I was there. The nurses actually kept lying to me about calling down the on-call psychiatrist and were perplexed when I was angry that for the past five hours I was waiting to be seen and was never even acknowledged.

He blamed me for being unresponsive. It happened a lot while I was there, the being lied to about something that could be clarified in a sentence or the being blamed for something out of my control.

When I ripped my ugly paper scrubs in my sleep I was yelled at for being a nuisance by both security and the nurses. I stayed in D-Pod for almost forty hours, mind you.

Some people stay there for weeks. A bed eventually cleared up, and I was escorted from D-Pod to the fifth floor of the Jane Brown building where the psych ward was.

I was right to a degree. Sometimes the nurses there still lied to you, even if you tried to be sincere. Once I got settled into my room at the psych ward, I was reverted to a five year old child.

The five days I spent there somehow became long hours that melded together. There is no comfort in that statement, as one.

While I understand that we had to have routines, because usually that helps people who are mentally ill, it felt downright condescending that there were specific times for snacks and drinks instead of an on-demand basis with a limit of three snacks.

The worst thing about the ward was the lack of entertainment and stimulation. Usually, from my understanding, inpatient usually has group therapies throughout the day,art classes of varying complexity, and other engaging activities.

It was sort of a slap in the face when the only engaging thing you can do everyday was color for an hour. The only other thing we had in terms of activities was a check-in group in the morning, where we just checked in with each other.

It felt useless considering we were also checking in without psychiatrists every morning. Other than the groups, we had two choices for entertainment: sit and journal with short unsharpened golf pencils or wait for the nurses to turn on the TV.

Some of these patients had been in the Jane Brown building for months, but they just did not know that they could ask for these books, I had to tell them because I was pressing for it and annoying the nurses.

If you were to ask for the paper, despite it being delivered to the rest of the hospital, they would tell you that it was just not possible to get one.

We were essentially cut off from the real world. It was sincerely cruel, especially to those who already had a poor sense of reality like me.

To be honest, everything felt like I was a child again, but in a way where I had no control over anything, and everything I said was either made up or taken lightly.

No one would take my concerns to heart, and when those concerns were a thirty year old man constantly hitting on you, it certainly fucking sucked!

I could describe my five-day stay there day by day, but they all blended into one because of how dull they were, and how exhausting the dullness was.

I felt dread for the next day that was going to be wasted instead of being used productively. It was a prison that forced me to take up less space in the world, and used the fear of being in there for months to force me to repress my emotions.

I had to appear normal and sane, but the thing is, that was something that I could not feasibly do in a few days, not even months, really.

Part of me died in there. I did not come out of this stronger. I came out of this ashamed and mortified.

I am a flawed individual, this I know, but this had broken my spirit instead of reinforcing it and giving me the tools to fix myself. For two nights I could not sleep, and had to leave Providence.

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