How I first ended up in a mental hospital. What to do if your loved one is in a mental hospital
***
Psychiatric hospital.
Half past ten in the evening.
They just brought me in.
They gave me two injections of chlorpromazine plus a phenazepam tablet.
But I'm afraid to sleep.
There are no doors to the rooms.
I'm trying to tape a beaded cross to the ceiling with tape.
My brother just gave it to me. Took it off the windshield of my Toyota.
—The priest blessed it along with the car. And here's another keychain. They brought it to me from Jerusalem, they placed it at the Holy Sepulcher. Everything will be fine.
***
-Ir, Ir..You will be mine tonight. We'll be fine here. I will never hurt you again. Because you love me, love me, love me.
--I don't want to die! I'm afraid! I have too many sins.
--Yes. You are my creation. My bitch, I feel bad here without you. I want you. And you will, you will, you will be mine today!
--No! I believe in God! I don't want to go to hell! God, give me a chance! I'll quit drinking, smoking, and whoring. I will go to church every Sunday. I will confess and take communion. I will pray. Just don't take me now. I don't want to go to Lesha. I'm afraid of him.
I'm running to church.
I buy candles, oil, holy water, gospels, psalms, and icons.
The voice of the late husband in my head:
--Get out of there. You're killing me. How painful it is for me! How painful it is for me!
--I will not die.
--You will die. You will die. You will die. Already tonight you will be with me. Bitch, you promised to never leave me. And she quit, quit, quit! For your sake, I set fire to the apartment with my mother. And you, creature, found yourself a new man. Bitch! No fucking way. You are mine! You are mine, mine, mine!
Scary.
I wipe my face, chest, and stomach with holy water.
I draw crosses on my forehead and temples with church oil.
I light the candles.
I recite the Our Father at the top of my voice.
I take the psalter, kneel down in front of the newly purchased icons, read, make the sign of the cross, and bow.
-God, I can’t die now. I need time to improve, to repent. You are so kind, merciful and forgiving. Forgive me, a sinner. For the sake of my daughter, save and preserve me!
-Nothing will help you. I will still be with the one who loves me. And you love me, love me, love me.
--No! Leave me alone!
--Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stop reading this.
--In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit! Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy.
I frantically throw things into my suitcase.
Home.
To Mom. To dad.
They'll come up with something.
They will definitely save me.
I can't die such a sinner.
I will live in the church, even work there as a cleaner. We will go to the monasteries, I will plunge into all the holy springs.
The main thing is to survive.
-What did you come up with? What other monasteries? What other sources? Do you want to kill me a second time? Bitch! Bitch! What a bitch you are!
--Shut up. I'm not listening to you.
-Ir, seriously. Why do you need it? What are you doing? Take away the icons, this book and listen to me. It's all a lie that there is eternal torment in hell. It's great here. I just miss you. Your body, your lips. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.
--Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us!
--I want you! I need you! I can not live without you! I can not live without you. I can't...
My beloved is taking me to my parents.
Before getting into the car, I draw a cross on the door in oil.
--Creature! What are you doing? Reptile. Well, you're going to cry with me today.
Five hours on the road.
I pray out loud.
Lesha alternately threatens and persuades.
When he thought of broadcasting through the speakers of the radio, he had to stop and disconnect them.
Three minutes of silence and again through the ventilation in the car:
-At first I wanted to take both you and my daughter with me. But I was only allowed one person. Can you hear? I choose you. You, you, you. Because you are mine. And you love me, love me, love me. There is very little left. Soon we will be together again!
***
Two o'clock in the morning.
I walk along the corridor of the hospital, struggling with sleep.
There are already a lot of voices in my head.
All familiar, all male.
In my head, one after another, men appear, whom I deceived, humiliated, betrayed.
And everyone is trying to persuade me to fall asleep.
-If you fall asleep before four in the morning, you will die, but we will be saved. If you don’t lie down, then tomorrow neither you nor us will be alive. You owe us.
-How did you get there, into my head?
--We went home and inserted the key into the apartment door. We entered and found ourselves here. Now we are in a cage and only you can free us.
-But I don't want to die. Give me at least one more day. Say goodbye to your daughter and your parents.
-You will die today anyway. This is already a fact.
--No! Don't want! Afraid!
-Don't drag us along with you. Sleep, sleep, sleep.
The voice of a loved one. Swears. Angry.
--Oleg, how did you end up there? I love you, I have never done anything bad to you.
-You cheated on me. You lied to me. And now you kill.
-Forgive me, please forgive me. I agree.
I'm going to the room.
I lie down on my bed, read the Lord’s Prayer for the last time, and ask the Lord for forgiveness and mercy.
And I'm dying...
I really feel how the soul is separated from the body. It hurts a little.
And the voice, again the voice of the late husband.
- Yes, yes, yes, carefully. Be careful, my dear.
It feels like half of my soul is gone.
--Ira. I wish you well. Do what I tell you. Get up, get dressed, put on your shoes, take a towel, a mug and find any door.
There are only three doors in the corridor of the psychiatric hospital.
One to the charge nurse's office, another to the doctor's office, and the main door that closes the department from the hall.
With a towel in one hand and a full mug of water in the other, I approach each door in turn, knock and say five times: “Please let me in, for God’s sake.” Naturally, nothing opens.
--Stupid! You're saying everything wrong. Either you are confusing the words, or the intonation is wrong.
--I can't. I'm tired. I want to lie down.
- Stupid bitch. Go back. You can't do anything on your own. Even prepared to come to the next world.
It turns out that after death we are all given new bodies.
It's like watching TV.
I see myself in line.
Every sin of mine was remembered. In hell. Of course, to hell. To Lesha.
--Like this. Did I tell you that you will come with me today? Said? Said? You are mine! Now forever mine!
Auntie whines:
---Oh, what a shame...
Nurse:
---Stretcher, bring the stretcher. They came to pick up the body.
***
I'm running around the department.
I rush to everyone.
Please call home and tell my parents that I am alive, alive.
I explain that they are now mourning me and preparing for the funeral.
That no one will come for me.
That I will remain in the madhouse forever.
Lesha advises me in my head to set fire to the hospital and escape.
--You just need to find a lighter. Just a lighter.
They fix me on the bed and put me on an IV.
--Don't let them do this. Don't let it. I will die. Do you understand that then I will no longer be able to come to you? Never.
***
Seven o'clock in the evening. I'm listening. My head is empty. My roommates say that my mother came, but they weren’t allowed to wake me up.
I crawl out into the corridor.
It feels like at least three days have passed. It turns out that there are only one, and even then they are not complete.
Aunts are wandering in the aisle.
Different. Ten percent look fine, the rest are a nightmare.
Mooing, singing, with lolling tongues, with shaking hands, bald.
Some are from orphanages who have nowhere to live.
Instead of a toilet, there are three buckets for everyone.
Disinfection of buckets with bleach.
Of course, there are no baths or showers.
There are slimy basins for those who want to wash themselves in the toilet.
On Mondays there is a bathhouse with spat on benches in the company of lousy grandmas that stink of piss and shit.
All rooms have no doors.
Poor smokers are given four Prima cigarettes a day.
Those who overslept got screwed.
Crazy people are ready to do anything for a cigarette.
Instead of nurses, they wash the floors and wash the fucking asses of bedridden old women.
The food is impossible, but they are waiting for it like manna from heaven. Greasy tables with benches, slurping people with drool running down their chins, soup made from water and onions (even without potatoes!), tea mugs that for some reason stink of herring.
We are ready to thank you a hundred times for an ordinary loaf of white bread.
Coffee and tea are prohibited and are immediately taken away by nurses.
There is no hot water.
The old woman lying in the corridor crawled to the “toilet”.
Barefoot on concrete.
She fell and lay there for half an hour next to a bucket of shit, until she came to her senses and crawled back.
Lice.
Half of the squad is bald for this reason.
Their heads are bare and covered in green from scratching.
One woman took a shit in a bucket, wiped her ass with the shirt she was wearing, and put her panties on over her shirt.
They don't even have toilet paper!!!
Theft is terrible.
Thank God, I didn’t have to use these “conveniences” even once during the week.
From the very beginning, I had a staff toilet at my disposal, which was quite decent.
No wonder my parents spent so much money on me.
There are four other people in my room besides me.
A normal woman who lives at the hospital.
In exchange for food and a roof, she helps the nurses clean the premises and wash frail old women in the bathhouse on Mondays.
A woman of forty years old, a virgin.
When they brought her in, she stripped naked, ran around the department and asked for a man.
Then she didn’t believe that she was screaming like a fool: “I want a dog!”
Another auntie.
Her only son, twenty years old, drowned last summer.
She held out for almost a year, and in March she began visiting him at the cemetery at night.
Moreover, she herself does not know how and why.
Doesn't remember anything.
A relative found her at the grave at night and put her in a psychiatric hospital.
And finally, “a ray of light in the dark kingdom” - my Tanyukha.
Twelve years. Beautiful. Third time in the madhouse. She also had voices in her head, with which she lived for six months.
I was afraid to tell my family and friends.
A black man, a homeless man, a teenager and a boy with a charred nose.
She had already gotten used to them, but one day it seemed to her that they locked her in a room and in order to get out the black man ordered her to cut her wrists.
Tatyana, without hesitation, grabbed a kitchen knife and slashed her wrists.
They treated her for a month. The voices have disappeared, but as she freaks out, she loses control.
Twice after that she swallowed pills and cut her veins. This time too.
Yeah, everyone goes crazy in their own way.
Tanyukha was also in a privileged position. Her parents, like mine, spared nothing for their stupid daughter.
***
I've been resting in the yellow house for a week now.
As usual, my parents arrived with grub, which I still didn’t eat, but distributed among the wards.
The doctor came in and, lo and behold, said:
---Pick it up right now. And then she already fell in love with me.
I don’t know why he came to such a conclusion?
Maybe because she knocked on his door several times a day:
---Viktor Nikolaevich, let's talk?
***
Sunday. Seven in the morning. I'm home.
Mom knocks softly:
---Irin, get up, otherwise we’ll be late. The service begins at eight, but we still need to buy candles, light them for all the saints, and order prayer services.
Thank you God for giving me one last chance.
On a February morning, I couldn’t get out of bed. Then all day, evening, night and the next morning. And then to others. I became depressed for the first time in three years.
Text: Lyudmila Zonkhoeva
I was in such a state that I needed help immediately - here and now. The same friends who brought me pills advised their specialists. But their downside was that everyone came to them by appointment, and when I asked what time they could spare for me, I heard the classic answer: “Would Thursday evening suit you next week?” If it doesn’t suit me, I won’t make it.
One of my colleagues’ mother is a psychotherapist, I called her, told her everything, and she decided that I needed pharmacological help, immediately gave me the phone number of a psychiatrist and recommended me to him. Thus, I finally ended up on the psychiatrist’s couch.
I told everything that I had already shared with you (well, a little more), the psychiatrist crossed his legs, asked a few clarifying questions and said that I needed hospitalization. I agreed with him. The doctor took out the phone, called the head of the department of the psychiatric hospital, inquired about the availability of a place, ended the call and answered me: “Well, pack your things, tomorrow at nine in the morning they are waiting for you at the hospital.”
Hospital
March 16, 2016, Wednesday. Psychiatric Clinical Hospital No. 3 on Matrosskaya Tishina in Sokolniki. Across the fence is the pre-trial detention center. The yellow building was built at the end of the 19th century and was immediately turned into a mental hospital. A place with history.
A neighbor friend accompanied me to the hospital. In the paid (my) department there are high ceilings with arched vaults, in the corridor sits Pasha the schizophrenic, who repeats every half minute: “Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes” (once he told me that I don’t belong here , “this is all some kind of disease and a big, big secret”).
The head of the department asked in surprise: “Are you drawing up a contract for yourself?” - usually patients are placed by relatives or other loved ones. The cost of “accommodation” per day in a single room is 5,100 rubles. I was put in prison for two weeks.
I was moved into the seventh ward, across the wall - while the sixth is empty, we share one compartment. The window cannot be opened. The room has a TV, a refrigerator, its own shower and toilet - it looks more like a room in a very cheap hotel, if not for the CCTV camera. You can't go outside. Not at all.
They took my knife, spoon, fork, plate, mug and shaving razor. In exchange, I was given towels, liquid soap and shampoo. Thus began my new life.
In our paid department there were patients of different sexes and with different diagnoses: from neurosis to schizophrenia. Age - from 20 to 75 years. The first week I didn’t meet others: I bumped into each other in the corridors and the smoking room (you could smoke in the common toilet for patients, where schizophrenics sometimes relieved themselves, others preferred their own, in the wards).
One day a big man in checked hospital pajamas came into my room, extended his hand and introduced himself: “Dima Kolobok.” To confirm the nickname, he shook his belly in front of my face. He asked what I was reading. “Flaubert,” I answered. "Pythagoras?" - he asked again. Then Kolobok rolled along the corridors and shouted: “I am the king!”
A 20-year-old guy from the sixth ward knocked and asked: “Was that breakfast? Or dinner? Honey, I'm lost in time." It turned out that he went on a pilgrimage and hitchhiked from Komi to Adler. Since he was traveling without documents, he was detained in Adler and returned to his parents, who decided to put him in the hospital.
I met some of my neighbors at a group therapy session (the so-called pre-release therapy, where they learn how to live with their illness after hospitalization). A schizophrenic who told stories about how in a past life he was a secular journalist. An Azerbaijani who ended up there after a quarrel with his parents. Grandfather with depression. A devout lady with schizophrenia teaches drawing and architecture to children in Sunday school. History student with social phobia. A guy with a walker (heel fracture after falling from a window). A girl with a birth injury tried to commit suicide. A girl with psychosis from St. Petersburg, who recently gave birth, is making a documentary. Family psychologist with personality disorder.
A psychiatrist came to see me every day. Due to the fact that he is young, I did not particularly trust him. First he listened to the story of my life and stated that I lived cheerfully and cheerfully. Then he was interested in my well-being. The problem is that they couldn’t find antidepressants for me: I had nightmares after Valdoxan and Amitriptyline; after mirtazapine there were mood swings and inadequate perception of space (doors seemed more convex than they are).
The psychotherapist came almost every day. The conversations with her were more relaxed than with the psychiatrist, not about me: “Lyudmil, do you know the writer Dmitry Bykov, whom I would characterize as a synthonic schizoid?” To one of the sessions she brought an album from the Tretyakov Gallery and showed Surikov’s works: “And this is how people of an authoritarian-intense nature paint. Epileptoid personality type."
In the middle of my “term” I had a conversation with the head of the psychiatry department of the entire hospital to clarify the diagnosis. In fact, this is an exam with a commission of five experts: for an hour you tell strangers about how bad you feel and answer their tricky questions like: “Weren’t you lost in childhood? In a store, for example? As a result of the conversation, the neurologist prescribed me phenibut.
One of the last days I underwent a psychological examination. It is mainly aimed at identifying schizophrenia: arrange the cards with pictures into categories, combine the categories and leave only four; name the similarities and differences between two things. One of the hallmarks of schizophrenia is a lack of associative response. Ideas and words that should be connected by analogy in the patient's brain are not connected, and, on the contrary, those that normal people do not associate with each other at all are connected. But there was also a simple personality test: “Draw a non-existent animal.”
I passed all the tests, had an ECG and encephalography, and saw a gynecologist, an ENT specialist, a therapist, and an ophthalmologist. I had an x-ray of my nasal cavity and chest to treat my cough. I was taken for examinations through other departments, where the general wards and the percentage of terrible diagnoses are higher than in the paid ones. It was scary.
For the first two days I slept off because I was intensively given phenazepam and a powerful drip (I don’t know what was in it). Over the next almost 12 days in the hospital, I answered urgent calls for work, did consultations by mail, edited a couple of texts, read about 12 books and gained three kilograms on bad food. On Sunday, March 20, my friends brought me paints and paper, and in between reading I drew (I hardly watched TV).
I didn’t tell my parents that I was in the hospital. But friends visited me almost every day. They sent me a bouquet of flowers from work, and when I was discharged home, they sent me a giant cardboard cat.
My treatment did not end at the hospital: there I was brought out of critical condition. I will have to take a number of medications for six months, plus I must work in parallel with a psychiatrist and psychotherapist. Time must pass before we can find out whether I have fully recovered.
Not mine. but I really liked the story.
This was when I was in a mental hospital.
Then I just got into the “observed” ward. It differed from others in its large size and good range of fire from the orderlies' post. Every hour the nurse checked what the patients were doing. By the way, there were no doors in the room, and there were bars on the plastic windows.
In general there were several chambers. The most populated ones were called “Zoo”, “Cemetery” and, in fact, “Observed”.
In the Cemetery lay “normal” or almost normal people - with delusions of grandeur, agoraphobia, under tranquilizers. It was quiet there. The observed shelter sheltered various rabble - suicides, alcoholics, idiots and simply those from whom it is not clear what to expect. There was chess in Observed. And even cards, until a kleptomaniac stole them.
The noisiest of all the wards was the Zoo. I think he is still like that to this day. There are psychos there. Low caste - inferior, rickety, violent, hydrocephalic, out. Most of the Zoo has completely (or almost completely) lost contact with the world. I remember Baba Katya, an elderly nurse, lamented out loud: “Before, you smell paint, you pump it out, you wash it - you can talk like with a person... But now the paint has gone bad, it’s chemical, it blows the roof off once and for all...”
The zoo got its name because of the special sounds that come from there at night. Howling, crying, screams, creaking, grinding, knocking... The background sound of a monkey enclosure, with rare interspersed human speech: requests to untie.
Yes Yes. Many were tied up at night, because if they weren’t tied up, they could hurt themselves. Or another. In the dark. The duty officer, of course, is sitting - but you never know...
Free exit from the Zoo was prohibited. They walked tied under themselves into the ship.
The guy I want to talk about was lying in the Zoo. To myself, I called him Jesus - because of the specific pose in which he was almost always: legs together, knees sloping to the side, arms apart. Naturally, this position was recumbent - the boy could only walk with the help of others. He didn't pay much attention to the world around him at all.
One morning the orderly Oleg came to see me. One of the young ones, a trainee. We knew each other quite well (sometimes I, as the most adequate one, helped the medical staff), and asked for help. It was necessary to take Christ for an x-ray. Or rather, take it. All movement within the territory outside the building was carried out exclusively by car.
Any exit to the street, and in general a change of scenery, is already a joy. I agreed.
In the car they also held him by the elbows so that he wouldn’t splat on the floor. At first they were silent. Then I asked:
And what happened to him?
Hydrocephalus. Fifteen percent is brain, the rest is water.
From birth?
Yes... - the orderly checked the accompanying papers, - Yes, from birth. By the way, it's his holiday. Today he is fifteen.
I looked at the indifferent Jesus in shock. The boy looked to be ten, maybe eleven years old.
Why does he need an x-ray?
Lungs... People like him don't live long. And everyone gets sick. That's real - everyone. He appears to have tuberculosis. So he would have died at twenty-five years old, but he would probably burn out at seventeen... I wonder if his relatives will even come to him today? Oh, that's it. We've arrived...
We unloaded Jesus from the car and dragged him for an x-ray. On the giant cold board, he immediately took his favorite pose - his legs are sloping, together, and his arms are apart, and so he froze. Suddenly I noticed how exhausted he was. The skin is white, transparent, the ribs are visible right through, the legs are not intended for walking at all, the arms are like straws...
We took the boy off the table and sat him on a bench in the corridor. Oleg looked at me conspiratorially and asked me to promise that if he moves away, I won’t kill myself against the wall during this time. I promised. Oleg nodded and disappeared somewhere for about three minutes.
Will you stay with him? I'll be back soon.
I looked at the boy. He sat with an absolutely blank expression and unfocused gaze, leaning slightly on his left side.
Well, does he really have water instead of a brain?
You understand me?
Jesus showed no sign of life.
Pa-aren. Aw. Nod if you can hear me.
Suddenly Jesus felt convulsed. He fell forward with almost his entire body (naturally, without extending his arms) and shook his head. I barely managed to catch it ten centimeters from the floor and almost panicked. What if he has a seizure? And there is not a single doctor nearby! And if you call me, I’ll set Oleg up!..
But the “attack” stopped as quickly as it began. The boy sat quietly again, staring at the wall. His face did not express any emotion.
And then I thought. Or maybe not a seizure.
Do you hear me? Nod again.
He was again bent into a terrible epileptic arc, but this time I was ready, and kept the boy on the bench.
Are you bored? I'm back! Come on, let's take it back to the car...
Relatives have arrived. Or rather, one relative - mother. She brought the boy something tasty, it seemed like sweet buns. Jesus ate detachedly, with the same facial expression with which he consumed millet and buckwheat. Pieces of bun fell out of my mouth.
And when, late in the evening, I looked into the Zoo to check on Jesus, I found Swan at his bedside.
The swan is the embodiment of evil. I am not kidding.
Lebed (that's his last name) was slowly taking away food parcels from the downs and cripples. He stole everything that was bad. In particular, he stole public cards. Although what should one do with them?.. The swan beat everyone who seemed weaker to him. Those who seemed stronger did nasty things on the sly. And in the eyes - he sucked up with all his might. His own parents abandoned him and sent him to an orphanage. The orphanage also abandoned Lebed, handing him over to psychiatry a month later. Psychiatry also did not want to keep Swan for long, and floated him back at the first opportunity. Lebed made two or three such “flights” a year.
Among other things, he tortured the sick. Even those who did not understand what was happening at all. He twisted his nipples, broke his fingers, and pinched his nose. For some time Jesus became his favorite toy. Because he didn't react to pain. No way. At all.
This created problems - Swan tortured him quietly, and it was quite problematic to notice that something wrong was happening in the zoo.
I began to tear Lebed away from the patient. The swan resisted. Baba Katya, the one who was lamenting about the paint, looked into the room because of the noise. The swan immediately calmed down and came out on its own. Baba Katya is the power, there is no need to quarrel with her, an extra mattress and an extra portion of casserole depend on her.
Katya came up to Jesus and me. Asked:
Why is it tormenting you again?
I nodded.
Katya shook her head, covered Jesus’ outstretched legs with the edge of the blanket, and said thoughtfully:
It's strange. When they beat him, he doesn't cry. When he falls, he doesn’t cry either. And at night she cries...
What to do if your loved one is in a mental hospital.
The first thing that happens to you is shock. You knew a person, and then he suddenly turned out to be a PSYCHO. Previously, psychos were out there somewhere, scary and incomprehensible. And then his own, dear man, took it and went crazy.
My friend said it was worth writing an article about what to do in this situation.
Firstly, you definitely need to visit the person. Typically, visiting hours in public hospitals are strictly regulated. You need to find out when you can visit the patient, and be sure to come. The support of loved ones is very important, it is advisable that at least someone come to every “date”.
Secondly, you don’t need to treat him like a terrible beast who doesn’t know what he’ll do next. Imagine that he got drunk - it’s not scary and understandable. The person is just sick. A sick brain does not make him a different person, does not make him a monster, he will not throw out his knees - in a completely insane state you will simply not be allowed to see him. While a person is “violent”, he is in the first ward. There's a nurse watching at the entrance all the time, they don't turn off the lights, they take away glasses, pens, and everything else they can. Therefore, if a person is poorly sighted and is in the first ward, bring him lenses. The worst thing is to sit in the first ward under the screams of the violent and not see anything. At first, absolutely everyone sits in the first ward. The calm ones are transferred to a regular ward within 24 hours.
Of course, if you are used to arguing with a person, then you shouldn’t do this. He's already too vulnerable. The main thing is not to be afraid of him, and to understand that this is the same person you knew, he’s just not feeling well now. When I was sick, it was terrible for me to see how some of my loved ones looked at me in horror, as if I had grown horns. And they hid it carefully. But you can see it in the eyes. And it just finishes off. I was supported by those who communicated with me as usual. It's like I'm normal. This is what pulled me out.
Third. What to bring.
When you enter the department, your bags will be checked. Are the juices open (so that alcohol is not smuggled in). I advise you to bring drinks, lots of drinks. The medications make me constantly want to drink. Ideal - mineral water (in plastic).
Also, be sure to grab a pack of cigarettes in your purse or back pocket of your trousers, even if your loved one does not smoke. Cigarettes are the “currency” in a mental hospital. You can exchange a lot of food or anything else you need for one cigarette. If a person smokes, give some of the cigarettes to the nurse at the entrance, and sneak some in quietly. 5 cigarettes per person are provided per day. They may not allow smoking at all. But in fact, almost everyone smokes there. And bring a couple of lighters. A lighter is also valuable. Sometimes nurses take away lighters from patients so that they can smoke under supervision on a schedule. In this case, a lighter is just a salvation. And yes, this is not the time to quit smoking. Believe me. Quitting smoking is stressful, and the patient does not need stress right now.
It’s also worth bringing all sorts of goodies. You can’t bring in meat, and you can’t bring in dairy either – they spoil. Fruits are also good. More chocolate. In prison conditions, which is our Russian idiot, chocolate is a great joy.
What else can you do?
You can ask your doctor what better medicines you can buy yourself and bring. By the way, non-psychiatric medications should be given to medical staff. All kinds of laxatives were smuggled in, and the patients hid them so as not to constantly beg the nurses.
If a person is not released for a long time and he is already normal, you can write a statement addressed to the manager, based on the law on psychiatric care, and then he will either be released or a commission will be assembled that will decide that the person will remain in the hospital. Sometimes doctors keep a patient just to be on the safe side, or to increase statistics. This also happens. Then the statement helps.
If you are a close relative, then you can give yourself a pass to see the patient at any time. For example, a mother or husband may go to the hospital during the day, outside of the visiting schedule for everyone else. We also allowed friends to join us for a walk in the courtyard with barbed wire from 13 to 14. It depends on the hospital.
You can also bring something that makes a person happy. For example, one girl was constantly drawing in the hospital. The other one was reading. The third one wrote poetry. There is a lot of free time in the hospital and there is not always good company. Therefore, we need to think about the patient’s leisure time. You can write letters - it's very cool to read them and re-read them when the person leaves the date. Toys, cards and other gifts are great. All this supports in this hell.
The main thing is support. Moral. Forget all your quarrels and just support the person. Surround with love and support. Being in our mental hospital is like being in prison, only you still live according to a schedule. It is a huge stress for a person to suddenly find himself “one of those” and he is very sensitive to how others perceive him. Try to communicate as before. Understand that madness doesn’t change anything, it’s like being drunk for a long time - the person is still the same, he’s just out of shape now. And don’t be afraid that he will do something, in this condition - they won’t let him out of the hospital, the doctors will be held accountable for this.
When a person leaves the hospital, it is worth reconsidering your relationship with him if it was tense. There is no need to control his every step, he did not suddenly become a child. Try to be more careful with the person, he is very vulnerable and sensitive. Don’t provoke quarrels again, take care of him and yourself. In general, some hospitals have courses for relatives of patients (at the 6th State Hospital of St. Petersburg there is one), where they talk about the disease, medications, treatment, and so on. I highly recommend going to them; relatives of patients share their experiences there and doctors and psychotherapists tell a lot of useful things.
In general, psychiatric illnesses must be controlled with medications, and it is very advisable to combine this with psychotherapy. Be prepared that the person will not work for a long time. Psychiatric illnesses last a long time, at least for several months. In the first episode, it is recommended to take the medication for at least one and a half years! The selection of medications itself can take place not only in a hospital, but also in a day hospital - the patient goes there every day, and drug therapy is gradually selected for him and his condition is monitored. During exacerbations, this is an ideal option, since a psychiatric hospital is not the best place for any person, this is a completely extreme case, if a person is really dangerous to himself or others, this is always a shock and stress for the patient.
Many people, after hospitalization and the onset of illness, cannot work at full capacity as before. I advise you to find a good psychotherapist, preferably with first medical education, this helps a lot. If you are offered disability, it is better to agree; this is a good safety net for the patient in case he is unable to work for a long time.
In general, psychiatry is a serious matter; for those for whom this is a one-time episode, it is a story for several years. For those who stay in it, it’s their whole life. And both your loved one and you will have to live with this.
Everything in life happens, someone likes something, while others will not be delighted with it. One author in the spring, perhaps rashly, but still wrote to me:
You're in a mental hospital with your boring multi-Syrian crap. This is the wish of several readers.
Soon you will probably destroy Pakistan with your 20-30 units. And at the same time tell fellow travelers about Stalin.
I can't write about Pakistan. Pakistan. Ch-1. Lahore. First impressions. History Museum - Pakistan. Ch-30. From Ayun to Islamabad. Conclusion My “boring multi-episode crap” couldn’t be summed up in a nutshell.
But the “wish of several readers” regarding ending up in a psychiatric hospital is already a serious matter. The reader must be respected!
The most important thing is that I really wanted to go to a mental hospital for a long time. For a long time, I periodically called there and asked that my friend and I be received there. But the psychiatric hospital staff kicked me off under various pretexts.
Several months passed at the pace of a waltz. I went to Pakistan and during the trip I made another friend - Igor. We didn’t really talk about Comrade Stalin, so I didn’t bother my fellow travelers with this topic. However, after talking with me, at the end of the trip Igor also wanted to go to the psychiatric hospital....
When I returned, I began to persistently call there again, voicing my requests again and again. In response, I again heard standard excuses. And then, finally, one day, they told me - come to the checkpoint on Friday at 11 o’clock in the morning, they will meet you and take you where you need to go. The only thing was that only two people were allowed to come. Therefore, Igor, if you are reading, do not be offended that I did not take you with me to psychiatric hospital No. 1.
So, what is a mental disorder? We can say that this is a mental state that is different from normal, from healthy.
According to WHO, every fourth to fifth person in the world has a mental or behavioral disorder. The causes of many mental disorders are not completely clear. There are a number of signs and symptoms that, if they occur, experts recommend seeking professional help.
For the sake of fairness, we note that some scientists are seriously considering the version that mental illness is a variant of human mental evolution.
Primitive medicine was based on the assumption of a supernatural cause of illness, namely the malicious influence of evil spirits or sorcerers. Therefore, treatment consisted of magic spells, incantations, chants and various complex rituals. Evil spirits had to be scared away by noise, deceived by masks or by changing the name of the patient.
In ancient Rome it was believed that madness was sent by the gods. In some cases, it was seen as a sign of chosenness (epilepsy was called a sacred disease).
Subsequently, science developed, and along with it, people received medical knowledge.
Hippocrates proposed treating mental illness with decoctions. Paracelsus owns the following phrase: “...Nature produced the disease, but she also provided a remedy for it...”
The first mentions of mental disorders in Russian history can be found in literary sources of the 9th century, during the time of Kievan Rus. To help sick and infirm people there was a special “tax” - a tithe (10 percent) of national income.
In Rus', it was customary to keep fools and fools in rich houses, but if the mentally ill were treated, then this happened in monasteries. But there were some peculiarities here.
The sick were divided into two categories: those who praised God, did not blaspheme, were classified as godly people, and they received patronage in monasteries or at their place of residence; Those who cheated, blasphemed, or criticized the prince were given punishment.
During the reign of Peter III, attitudes towards the sick changed. He superimposed his resolution on the decree on the table of ranks, which read: “The mentally ill should not be in monasteries, but in special “special” houses, which should be built in the manner of foreign countries.” In pursuance of the decree, a commission was created in 1762 under the leadership of Müller, and the first legal document on psychiatry was issued. Subsequently, in 1772, he issued a decree that stated that every county must build a hospital for the insane, which was named in the German manner: Dolgouz. (Toll is crazy, crazy, and Haus is home).
I heard that under Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich, the mentally ill were sent to the stake, however, I did not find information about this. In any case, if we compare the attitude towards the mentally ill among Orthodox Christians and Catholics, the former look more humane compared to the latter.
In medieval Europe, the mentally ill were considered accomplices of the devil.
Special baskets have been developed to contain aggressive ones. During the French Revolution, Dr. Pinel ensured that the chains and shackles were removed from the mentally ill. At the same time, Philip Pinel himself almost fell into the guillotine. And if the Spartacus uprising did not abolish slavery, then in France after 1972, instead of chains, the mentally ill began to wear sedative jackets. A little later, British psychiatrists decided to act on the contrary. Restraint jackets and beatings were replaced by good conditions of detention. As it turned out later, peace and comfort gave a much better result.
Let's go back to the hospital. Alekseeva. More recently, she bore the name Kashchenko. Muscovites call it Kanachikova Dacha. I think the history of this place is worth telling in more detail.
Once upon a time, the current Zagorodnoye Highway (Yakunchikovo Highway) was a highway leading to Moscow. The nearby lands belonged to the Danilovsky Monastery, which leased them out.
At the end of the 18th century, one of the plots of the monastery land passed to the merchant Beketov, who built a dacha and sold it to the merchant Kanachikov in the 1830s. It was from those times that the name of the pond adjacent to the hospital remained - Becket.
At the end of the 19th century, the population of Moscow increased significantly, and there was only one hospital for the mentally ill - on Preobrazhenka. In order to build a new hospital with the direct participation of the mayor N.A. Alekseev, the city authorities bought his dacha from the merchant Kanachikov.
N.A. Alekseev went down in the history of the city as one of the most prominent governors. Surprisingly, he was appointed to this position at the age of 32! Under Alekseev, the city received water supply and sewerage. Museum of Water - a museum of the history of the Moscow water supply system Alekseev centralized and moved the meat slaughterhouse - the current Mikoyanovsky meat processing plant - outside the city. Under him, 30 city schools were built in the city. Red Square began to acquire its ceremonial appearance precisely under Alekseev. The emperor, speaking about this mayor, said that he would not even steal a penny from the treasury.
The psychiatric hospital, which would later become Alekseevskaya, began to be built taking into account the advice and wishes of the psychiatrist V.R. Butske (1845-1904). The doctor at that time carried out his medical activities on Preobrazhenka.
Butzke laid down the plan for the hospital on the principle of pavilions (later, in 1905, A.F. Meisner participated in the project of expanding the hospital buildings). Butzke understood that the violent ones needed to be separated from the quiet ones, the calm ones from the restless ones, and the men from the women. Let us note that the worldview of men and women differs in some way, and the latter, in cases of mental illness, attack the former much more often.
There is a legend that Ermakov told the mayor: “Bow at your feet in front of everyone - I’ll give you money for the hospital.” Alekseev did so - and received 300 thousand.
(((The position of mayor requires a lot. I would like to tell you another case, which I know from the words of an eyewitness. Around 98-99, Yuri Mikhailovich, with his retinue, came to Borodino near Moscow. There he visited a church, where a local priest asked for help with the repair of the temple. Borodino is a Moscow region, therefore, the budgets are different. Apparently, understanding this, Yuri Mikhailovich left the church, took off his cap and sat on the porch. His retinue, coming out after him, as if jokingly, threw a decent amount into his cap amount. Here, of course, one can be indignant that officials carried wads of money in their pockets (now credit cards), but one can also appreciate the creative thinking of the mayor.)))
The fate of Nikolai Alexandrovich Alekseev is tragic. In March 1893, a mentally ill man came to see the mayor and shot him in the stomach with a revolver. This happened right in Alekseev’s office (later the Lenin Museum was located in this building). The best doctors fought for Alekseev’s life, but they could not help. Three days later the mayor died. Let us note that Art. m. Alekseevskaya was also named in honor of Nikolai Alexandrovich, whose cousin was K.S. Stanislavsky.
The new psychiatric hospital opened in 1893, after Alekseev’s death. The main hospital building was built in brick eclectic style. There was a church on its second floor.
A house was built next to the main building where the doctors lived, and the priest also moved here. Let us remember that Dostoevsky’s father worked in a hospital, and their family lived directly in the hospital.To prevent mentally ill people from becoming agitated, they must be distracted from their obsessive thoughts at all times. The main method of treating mental illness is occupational therapy. That is why a large number of various workshops were set up on the territory, which functioned until the early 90s. There were 20 types of wicker baskets alone. Women who were undergoing treatment took their clothes for repair. In winter, men sawed ice at Becket Pond and sold it. Note that the reservoir itself was then much larger.
If patients were discharged and had nowhere to go, the hospital sent them to patronage villages: Belyaevo, Konkovo, Yasenevo and Troparevo. People were there under the supervision of special families, where they helped their owners with their work. The latter received a small salary from the hospital. Once a month, a visiting doctor examined his patients.
In the 30s of the last century, the Bolsheviks dismantled the foster care system with family accommodation. A patronage hospital was created in Troparyovo, where patients lived and underwent further occupational therapy treatment on the collective farm.
So, if the reader does not understand, I will explain - there is a Museum of Psychiatry at the psychiatric hospital, which I was extremely curious to go to. It operates in a semi-closed mode and receives on average no more than 650 people per year.
The contingent of visitors consists of students. Sometimes, extremely rarely, people from outside are admitted. In this case, a tour of the territory is provided. The museum staff tells the story of the hospital, many of whose buildings have the status of city historical monuments. Then they invite you to see the museum.Passing by such establishments, I have repeatedly noted that a strict access control regime is observed at the entrance. Here at the checkpoint there is only a barrier for cars, while people can leave and enter without hindrance. The hospital area is landscaped, and if you don’t know where you are, it can be mistaken for a park. The only thing is that you need to take pictures in a special way - without people.
A patient may get into the frame, and it will not look ethical.The pride of the hospital is the chapel, the first brick of which was laid by Patriarch Alexy. His instruments are now kept in the museum.
The first director of the clinic, V.R. Butske, was a supporter of liberal methods of treatment. The slightest unreasonable rudeness on the part of the staff towards the patient was punishable by dismissal. The basis of his treatment was comfort, a friendly attitude and the constant employment of patients with entertainment, work or creativity. This bore fruit. For example, M.A. Vrubel, when he started drawing, he immediately felt better.
When the film “Ivan Vasilyevich Changes His Profession” was being filmed, the filmmakers asked the doctors to give them a straitjacket for filming. It’s a paradox, but at Kanachikova’s dacha there were never such shirts. Straitjackets were banned from the hospital's first day of operation.
True, we note that under Butsk, in the most exceptional cases, such a method of removing aggression as a wet wrap was used. As far as I understand, the essence is as follows. The violent patient is wrapped in warm, damp sheets. He lies there and cannot move for 15-20 minutes, after which the patient is turned around and doused with cold water. In this case, the aggression goes away. The method was developed by German physiotherapist and Catholic priest Sebastian Kneipp.
Under Butsk, the management of the hospital was carried out by the Medical Council headed by the chief physician. According to our guide, doctors still try to observe the tradition. And therefore it is not at all surprising that the entire Moscow bohemia, if a crisis occurred, at all times tried to be treated here.
Vysotsky mentioned Kanachikov’s dacha in his songs. The poet has been here several times. After Lolita was discharged, she invited the doctor who treated her as a second presenter on her television program. The famous brain scientist Andrei Bilzho worked here as a doctor for some time.
However, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's go back to the beginning of the 20th century. After Butske, P.P. Kashchenko came to replace the director of the clinic. Pyotr Petrovich led the hospital for only 2 years. But as a socialist by conviction, he first of all drew attention to the plight of the staff.
While at the museum, I looked at hospital menus from 1894 and 1910. These days the dishes described are not inferior to an expensive restaurant. The patients lived as if in a good hotel, used the library, played musical instruments and billiards, and their rooms had elegant, expensive furniture.
There was one nursing staff member for every three patients (now a ratio of 50 to one nurse), but in any case there were no staff members. If doctors were specialists of the highest category, then nannies and caregivers were recruited from the village, who lived with their families at the hospital, worked 15 hours for a meager salary, and often did not understand how to treat the sick.
Kashchenko achieved improved living conditions and salary increases for his employees. A school was opened on the territory of the hospital for the children of employees in 1904.
Then the hospital was headed by Pyotr Borisovich Ganushkin.While the heart, stomach, bones and skin are well studied by doctors, the human brain is still a mystery. How to understand where character traits are and where mental illness begins? Scientists studying the brain continue to make more and more new discoveries.
It was here that Ganushkin developed and substantiated the concept of borderline psychopathy. Subsequently, it was on his initiative that a system of psychoneurological dispensaries was created in Soviet Russia.
As far as I understand, a healthy person will not immediately go crazy like this. Before this, he will have a certain borderline period, which can be treated. But if a person goes crazy, he will never return to normal. Subsequently, he will be forced to monitor his health by periodically using medications.
Selecting a drug is the greatest art, because the same pill can act completely differently on two people. Accordingly, when treating borderline neuroses, the doctor must have extensive experience, intuition and knowledge.
After the outbreak of the First World War, work for psychiatrists increased.
In 1917, a kind of revolutionary committee was created here, after which the chief doctor was forced to leave. After 1917, women and men were no longer kept separate from each other. During the Civil War, there was a catastrophic shortage of money, provisions, medicines, as well as doctors themselves. The remaining psychiatrists were gathered near the violent ones, while the quiet ones lived next to the employees, growing fruits and vegetables with them. This is how we were saved.
After 1920, the first women doctors appeared in the hospital. Before this, women were not taken to psychiatric hospitals - it was considered dangerous. In the museum you can see photographs of that time, medical extracts, and medical histories. The nurse's robe is curious. In the upper left corner there is a small pocket where there was always..... a whistle.
Many drugs and treatments for mental illness have been discovered somewhat by accident. Until the early 1950s, patients were treated using the malaria infection method. The man fell ill and lay in bed with a high fever. But when he recovered, the mental illness subsided (in the 20s there was a surge in syphilis, which, along with gonorrhea, was treated with a similar method).
It is interesting that the infectious-febrile method of treatment at the end of the 19th century in Odessa was developed by the Russian psychiatrist A.S. Rosenblum, who was sent to Siberia for exceeding his authority... And 50 years later, Western psychiatrists received for this method of combating schizophrenia Nobel Prize.
In the old Soviet film "Confrontation" there is a scene where the fascists in a concentration camp treat our traitor with an electric shock for stuttering. A similar method has been known since the 5th century. But there was no electricity then. The Byzantines used stingrays. By the 1940s in Germany, electroconvulsive therapy was a fairly common method of treatment. Our specialists met him during the war. In the local museum you can see a special device, assembled on the basis of a telephone, which Soviet psychiatrists used at the front.
By the way, it is believed that there are much fewer side effects from electroconvulsive therapy than from medications. A similar method is still used in medicine.Participants in combat operations are in the first risk group. During the war, many hospital employees went to the front. Nowadays they don’t like to write about this, but during the Second World War psychiatrists had more work than ever before. Doctors helped the sick right in the trenches, while simultaneously identifying those who killed them. Many hospital employees died during the Second World War.
And if the potential of mentally ill soldiers during the war was directed towards the enemy, then it became much worse for them after, when the war ended. The entire Soviet people overcame this difficulty!It has long been known that doctors have extremely illegible handwriting. In the 60s, a special device was developed that saved time. The doctor dictated the medical history, while the typists then wrote it all down beautifully. It’s a pity, but the device has not taken root in medicine, perhaps because of its bulkiness. A similar rare device is presented in the museum.
In any case, the 60-70s of the last century were the best time for Soviet, and possibly for Russian medicine. At that time, our country recorded the highest life expectancy.
Medicine developed, scientists found more and more new medicines.
- What are you talking about, Zin.
Come on, Zin.
Come on, if chlorpromazine.
Aminazine is a horror story in psychiatry, and it was developed almost by accident. Aminazine relaxes muscles, turning a person into an amoeba. However, after its use, patients began to experience severe side effects. We reduced the dose and everything returned to normal.
And here again I would like to clarify - mental illness, like the common cold, does not have a single method of treatment. Each person is individual, and accordingly, special treatment must be applied to each person.
Now I would like to say a few words about the museum. It is located in one of the old buildings. Here you can see black and white photographs of the hospital, medical records, as well as patient products.
In previous years, mentally ill people were overloaded with work. In the present, everything has become much more complicated.But I was very pleased that the former Moscow Head was in the hospital named after. Alekseev is remembered and his memory is honored. A large number of materials are dedicated to Nikolai Alexandrovich in the museum.
When Alekseev died, a mask was made on his face, which is now kept in the local museum.And yet, coming to see a museum is one thing, while constantly communicating with unhealthy people is completely different. An experienced psychiatrist can see his patients a mile away. An unhealthy psyche creates unhealthy images in art, which can be both funny and disgusting, and there are a great many examples of this.
In Soviet times, our Western colleagues often accused our psychiatrists of hiding dissidents in their hospitals, as if in prison, under false pretexts. It's funny, but when they began to be sent to the West, Western psychiatrists began to send letters to the Union asking them to send them the medical history of this or that dissident.
In the 70s, psychiatrists learned to recognize their potential patients by their creativity, handwriting and speaking style. In the early 80s of the last century, Kashchenko’s doctors analyzed the paintings offered to them, from which they determined the inclinations and character of a person. One of them was diagnosed - the author is schizophrenic. Afterwards there was a terrible scandal caused by the British.
The fact is that the picture was painted by a famous French communist, and Soviet psychiatrists, not knowing about it, diagnosed him. But these are doctors. Ordinary people do not have such experience and knowledge.
My advice is, if you are walking down the street and you come across a dog with foam pouring out of its mouth, you need to avoid contact. If a car on the highway is not moving according to the rules, in this case it is advisable to let it pass - let it pass, no one knows who is driving there. On Moscow roads you sometimes see manifestations of terrible aggression.
Well, how can we not ignore the Internet! If the road has its own rules, and life has its own, then the Internet also has its own unspoken rules. One of them is that if the reader disagrees with the author on something, 3-4 comments are quite enough to express his position. Let someone’s comment be impartial. What to do, how many people, so many opinions. The reader wrote - the author answered: question - answer, question - answer, question - answer.
But! If the so-called reader cannot stop, and from empty to empty writes, writes and writes, wanting to hang his comment last - in this case the author should think about it. My advice is don’t mess with fools. Stubbornness, as Zheglov said, is the first sign of stupidity, and stupidity itself can be a borderline stage of any disease.
If an anonymous person wrote a comment to you, in this case you don’t need to pay attention at all. Well, if one of the authors writes and writes and writes under the material, look at what, how and where he states.... After reflection, you will be able to understand whether it is worth entering into a discussion. An inadequate person will definitely talk about some kind of fight with his participation, which arose out of nowhere, he will definitely trample across the border in the wrong place, or without realizing it, he will reveal something else about himself that would be worth keeping silent about. ..
Let me give you an example from life. As a student, I did an internship at the Mechanization Department, where there was a great variety of construction equipment, and each machine had its own driver. Behind the wheel of the truck crane sat a man of near-retirement age, who constantly pestered the chief engineer and the boss with his rational proposals for improving the technical characteristics of the truck crane.
The guy was a little weird, but he had been working for a long time and there were no complaints about him. In a word, everyone got used to the weirdo a long time ago, and the bosses brushed aside his rationalization proposals as if they were an annoying fly.
M. Gorbachev had just come to power and announced Perestroika. The Soviet system was still strong, like the trunk of a 70-year-old tree, but some conversations and criticism had already taken place.
The driver of the truck crane felt that the local authorities were not giving way to his ingenious inventions, and therefore decided to go to the Ministry of Motor Transport. There he somehow got an appointment almost with the minister, where he unfolded his drawings.... The minister looked, saw all this nonsense, and wrote down the coordinates of the mind where the walker came from.
The next day, an order was received from the ministry: to remove the driver from driving and conduct a psychiatric examination. The weirdo was lured in some cunning way to the hospital, where doctors diagnosed him with schizophrenia.
Like this! And the man worked, lifted and lowered loads and rode around Moscow on his truck crane. Another year and he could quite easily retire. It was necessary to sit quietly, but such characters do not understand this.
But the task of a psychiatrist is precisely to identify an inadequate person as quickly as possible, and completely different techniques can be used here. While the investigator's methods have been described many times in the literature, psychiatrists are in no hurry to reveal their secrets.
I remember when my peers and I were drafted into the army, all the guys as one noted the inadequate psychiatrist Kolya from the Pervomaisky military registration and enlistment office. Kolya could take a brick out of the nightstand, quietly and calmly put it on the table, and then pretend that he was about to throw it at the conscript, or perform some other prank. Everyone just talked to each other about how they had been examined by a psychiatrist.
Why did the psychiatrist sculpt these humpbacks? Now, after 30 years, it is clear to me that the doctor was trying to cause stress in those who came to his office, so that an unhealthy person would not end up in the army with us - inadequacy is best manifested under stress.
Later, in the military unit, they read out reports to us several times about how, somewhere in the vast expanses of the great and vast Motherland, someone shot someone on guard duty. Later, psychiatrists began to examine the killer and found schizophrenia. It turns out that the person was drafted into the army, but no one detected his illness?!
So it turns out that the psychiatrist Kolya pretended to be a weirdo, but he did not do it for his own sake. The doctor stood guard over state interests so that an inadequate person would not get a weapon.
And here an epilogue suggests itself. What is the main idea of the article? Why did the author waste time and describe all this here in detail? The idea is very simple. If in Soviet times there was compulsory treatment, then in our happy today coercion is prohibited - I want to be treated, but I don’t want to. Accordingly, an unhealthy person one way or another from time to time splashes out his aggression or quiet stupidity on those around him.
Friends, if you are on the road, in life, or simply on the Internet, you observe an inadequate person, or simply doubt his adequacy - try to stay away from him. In this case, the rule must apply - keep your distance!
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