Surviving the Mental Health System: A Lifelong Journey
For over fifty years, I have been caught in the labyrinth of the mental health system, enduring its failures, abuses, and fleeting moments of hope. My journey began at Friends Hospital in Philadelphia in 1979 when I was just 18 or 19 years old. Like so many before me, I entered a system designed to “help,” only to find myself subjected to toxic psychiatric treatment, involuntary commitments, and a revolving door of hospital stays that felt more like imprisonment than healing.
The Early Years: Friends Hospital and the Struggle for Agency
At Friends Hospital, I was thrown into a world I did not understand. The Morris Unit became my first exposure to psychiatric hospitalization, where I was subjected to heavy medications like Haldol and Thorazine as a default treatment. The side effects were unbearable—my body stiffened, my muscles locked, and my vision blurred. One episode became so severe that I needed an antihistamine injection to reverse the effects. That moment cemented my resolve never to accept such harsh treatment again.
Over time, I learned how to navigate the system. I followed the unwritten rules, attended mandatory groups, and gained “independent” status so I could escape the suffocating walls of my unit for brief periods. A fellow patient, someone who became a mother figure to me, introduced me to doctors she believed were better. In hindsight, I regret listening, but at the time, I had little else to go on.
The Reality of Psychiatric Commitment
Years later, Friends Hospital forcibly committed me in what I now understand was an illegal hearing. My psychiatrist, who also held a law degree, manipulated the process, and before I knew it, I was trapped for three months in the Morris Unit. ECT treatments were forced upon me, staff held me down for injections of unknown substances, and my medications were changed at random, leaving me disoriented and powerless.
Somehow, I managed to contact someone in the Philadelphia District Attorney’s office through a payphone—a small act of defiance in a system designed to silence patients. Fear paralyzed me, and I never followed through, but that moment made me realize the depth of the system’s corruption.
I left Friends Hospital forever, but my journey through psychiatric institutions was far from over.
Sheppard Pratt: A New Low in a Broken System
Decades later, after multiple hospitalizations throughout Pennsylvania, I found myself at Sheppard Pratt in Maryland. Drawn by glowing reviews, I thought this facility might be different. It wasn’t. It was worse.
For two consecutive nights, I lay awake listening to the screams of patients and staff alike. Violent outbursts, scuffles, and verbal abuse filled the air. I asked if I could be moved to a calmer unit, only to be told that my current environment was among the “better” ones available.
One night, I witnessed a deeply unsettling scene. As I passed a patient’s room, I saw nurses surrounding a still and pale patient. Towels were being removed from the room—though, contrary to my initial impression, they were not bloodstained. The eerie stillness of the patient, combined with the hushed atmosphere, sent a chill through me. I muttered to myself about the possibility of death, only to be met with a warning from a nurse: “Never mention it again, or you’ll end up in a worse unit.”
That night, I sat in the dry shower stall of my room, fully dressed, hugging myself and rocking back and forth in silent tears.
I was only able to leave because of an unlikely advocate—someone outside the hospital who fought for my release. My family didn’t believe the conditions I endured. They wouldn’t even visit the unit when dropping off my belongings. And when I finally made it home, I faced yet another financial blow: a $20,000 medical bill, despite being reassured that my insurance would cover it.
Looking Back: A System in Need of Overhaul
Reflecting on my life in the mental health system, I see a cycle of mistreatment, coercion, and trauma disguised as care. My early years were shaped by a psychiatrist who declared I had schizophrenia and would never get better—ensuring my permanent disability status before I even had a chance to fight for my own recovery.
I volunteered throughout my life, refusing to work for pay out of fear that my benefits would be stripped away. The system cornered me into a life of dependence, despite my capabilities and aspirations. And when I sought treatment, I found institutions that cared more about control than healing.
Mental health care in America remains a “snake pit.” For all the supposed advancements, patients are still silenced, mistreated, and discarded. My journey is not unique—countless others endure similar horrors every day.
But I refuse to be erased. I am here. I survived. And I will keep speaking out until real change happens.
To those still trapped in the system: You are not alone. And you deserve better.
An older clients dying days mental health journey musings.
