Mental hospital diapers


  • ‘No Shower, Wearing Diapers, Laying There For So Long’
  • Sheila’s Story
  • My stay on a psychiatric ward for PPD inspired a new career
  • ‘No Shower, Wearing Diapers, Laying There For So Long’

    I put on a green t shirt,jeens and sandles. I arived. I saw other surendes. There were men and women. I had to regester. Although shakles were used at arest. At processing ,they tried not to use restraints unless they had to. We had to remove all footwhere. The footwhere was put into a pile and burned. We borded the buss. I sat next to a young women. She was cute. While i should be concerned sense despite her prety face she could be a hardenedd criminal ,these stations were for non violent ofenders.

    My seat mate seamed uncomfortable. She was skirming. He suspected that she needed to pee. He was fine. It was a two hour trip to the prison. There was an in buss movie. It was little mermaid. When we arived,some were asleep. It seamed more like a tour buss then a prison transport. The buss parked in a gerage.

    We were all asked to leave. Many needed to pee. I woundered if that was part of the plan. If every one had to pee they would be distracred from trying anything. We were taken to a room. Inmate canot use the bathroom. Incontinence is part of the punishment. When you are convicted,continence is something you loose. They said you canot remove your cloths until the nurse does.

    You must soil yourself. You must stay in your soiled cloth until changing time. This is what we call unpoty traning. I was horified. As a child i feared bed weting. The thought that i would have to pee my paints was downright revolting. We were free to move around the prison. We could drink whatever we wanted to. We were encourage to. I saw several orther inmates had sircombed to the bodily need.

    I saw a female inmate who tried to cover up the pee stain on her jeens. I started to need to pee. I tried but it just was not coming out. I started to skirm. While i laid down on my bunk,it came out. It started slow then gushed. It did not stop. I was in my soiled cloths for three houers. I felt so weird. I pied more. Finally we were alowed to go to be changed. It took a while for it to be my turn. I was told to get on the changing table.

    I did so. The nurse removed the jeens. She pulled of my shirt and underware. She gave me a spunge bath. I was then given a hospital scrubs and a diaper. I was told i could ware some or all. I decided to put on the shirt but no pants. Many wore just pants or shirts. Some naked. Peing was not bad.

    I got use to it. Even looked fowatd to it. The first time i pooped i felt so awfull. I was determined not to be diapered. I changed my mind after my first poop. I wore a diaper after that.

    I felt unusually different and played soothing music for comfort. Strange things happened from that point on that are hard to explain.

    When I can say is that I experienced a transformation! In fact, all the music I listened to took on a spiritual tone…coming from God. I was so faithful that, while riding my bike to class, the wind led my way! Pretty soon everything got out of hand. I ran down my dorm hallways knocking on all the doors proclaiming the Second Coming was here!

    The end of the week came and so did my sanity. The RA tried to give some pizza to eat but it was too spicy; all my senses were heightened. I would lie in my Papasan chair thinking I was the mother earth, consuming bottomless glasses of water.

    I could have died being in this senseless state of body and mind. My family brought me to the hospital. But when I said I saw Jesus, I was admitted. As the doctor brought me into the locked psych ward, I could hear screaming coming from the ward, yet the patients were supposed to be sleeping!

    I thought they were the sounds of demons crying for mercy! The staff had me sign a paper and in the morning they started to administer medications.

    Pretty soon the medications started to do their work. I drifted out of insanity and into a cold winter of consciousness. The faces that I had become too accustomed to in the ward had become distant souls. I was terrified of them. I soon was sent to a less restrictive ward this one not as interesting and then eventually found freedom on the outside.

    My cold winter had suddenly started to choke me; there was too much fresh air out here! My family immediately enrolled me back in school. Sadly, my so-called friends kept me a stranger. I tried to fin in but nothing worked. I was a stranger in a world that used to embrace me. I dropped out of the U of M. My family kept me busy. No brain-taxing activities, just good work. It all began when I encountered my first cyclical manic attack. Slow to come at first, the day came when I messed up the register at work, credit card payments and all!

    I was sent home. Not long after, I was hospitalized, released, and returned to work. As you can imagine, they divorced me from the register and had me on cleaning duty. When I finished wiping down every last shelf they told me to do it all again! My brain was back and I was good to go at the register, but they denied me this privilege.

    So I quit my job and walked out the door with what was left of my dignity. In my whole life, I had never experienced depression before this. My grandma kept nagging me to get out of bed and do something constructive. To me, just getting dressed was torture. At least Christmas was coming and I kept busy wrapping gifts.

    The whole time I thought the sadness would never end. At night I worked on a jigsaw puzzle, something I would normally have the patience for. It kept me focused and I eventually got it done. To this day, my grandmother has it framed in her bathroom. I drooled and suffered with incontinence, needing to wear Depends diapers. I worked part-time during the day and it served as my salvation! I dressed nice, looked nice, learned to be an associate, and never told a soul that I was living at a group home.

    Oasis was good to me and I stayed there for about a year and a half. I learned responsibilities doing house chores, enjoyed many freedoms and made friends. When I finally got accepted into the Section 8 program, I moved into my very own apartment.

    Then, to make a long story short, I got laid off. I soon dropped out of school again and attempted to work at a job downtown but was fired within two weeks.

    I tried again at the U of M, got employed at the Law School, but it lasted only two months. I was literally crushed and could fill the Minnesota lakes with my heartbroken tears. By this time I had enough. I was in bad shape and so was my self-esteem. It was a pain-staking few months but when all was in place, I took steps in my life that made a whole world of difference. I also become a facilitator of the very support group I had been attending!

    In the beginning, I spent every waking hour on homework with no leisure time for myself. This was the death of me because I got burnt out, felt great anxiety, and considered quitting. Yet, I learned to manage my time and I eventually was capable of handling a demanding academic load. And what about my life in the mental health world? Working to help enrich the lives of the mentally ill and educating society about mental illness is an investment I enjoy to make.

    What have I learned about living with mental illness? I have learned that working with my psychiatrist and psychologist provides mental health. Without their guidance and support, I would very well be stuck in some lonely, undesirable place — both in my head and in my community.

    I think the mentally ill know this all too well! I have learned that life is a true test of character, and if I work hard to reach my dreams, life gets easier and becomes very rewarding. Learn More.

    In fact, all the music I listened to took on a spiritual tone…coming from God. I was so faithful that, while riding my bike to class, the wind led my way! Pretty soon everything got out of hand. I ran down my dorm hallways knocking on all the doors proclaiming the Second Coming was here! The end of the week came and so did my sanity.

    The RA tried to give some pizza to eat but it was too spicy; all my senses were heightened. I would lie in my Papasan chair thinking I was the mother earth, consuming bottomless glasses of water. I could have died being in this senseless state of body and mind. My family brought me to the hospital. But when I said I saw Jesus, I was admitted.

    As the doctor brought me into the locked psych ward, I could hear screaming coming from the ward, yet the patients were supposed to be sleeping! I thought they were the sounds of demons crying for mercy! The staff had me sign a paper and in the morning they started to administer medications.

    Sheila’s Story

    Pretty soon the medications started to do their work. I drifted out of insanity and into a cold winter of consciousness.

    The faces that I had become too accustomed to in the ward had become distant souls. I was terrified of them. I soon was sent to a less restrictive ward this one not as interesting and then eventually found freedom on the outside.

    My cold winter had suddenly started to choke me; there was too much fresh air out here! My family immediately enrolled me back in school. Sadly, my so-called friends kept me a stranger. I tried to fin in but nothing worked. I was a stranger in a world that used to embrace me.

    She was released from a period of solitary confinement, and had access to more therapy groups, Mills said. Her records show that she continued to harm herself. On Jan. The next month she was sentenced to a year in segregation after being accused of assaulting an officer.

    Despite some improvements, punitive responses to mental illness have continued in Illinois prisons, he said. Baldwin, released in June. When asked why so many people with mental illnesses were in segregation, Dr.

    A year-old man with mental illness died in October after he swallowed two plastic sporks and was denied medical care, according to the report of the second court-appointed expert in Lippert v.

    Even though a correctional officer witnessed the man ingest the sporks, the patient was not evaluated by a doctor. About two and half months later, the man, who had lost 33 pounds, told a nurse practitioner that he needed the sporks removed. When he was found unresponsive, he was sent to the hospital, where he died. His mobility became so limited that he needed a wheelchair. He was mistakenly given a medication that further decreased his white blood cell count.

    He was incontinent and confused. The patient was finally sent to the hospital after suffering from severe hypoxemia a low level of oxygen in the bloodabnormally low blood pressure, and tachycardia an abnormally rapid heart rate. He was severely malnourished, and his body was covered in pustular lesions. After a nurse found the patient unresponsive, he was sent to the hospital where he was diagnosed with bleeding between his skull and brain.

    A note was put in my chart about past sexual assaults, and that was it. Everything in our reproductive health care system is built around keeping the baby safe and healthy. Pregnant people have about 16 prenatal visits during their pregnancies, versus one follow-up during the postpartum months. A lot of it has to do with the history of gynecology and obstetrics —rooted in sexism and racism—and how much it costs to care: blanket advice and lab tests are faster to implement.

    I had just finished my Ph. If I wanted a full year with my baby, like all my Canadian friends and family, I knew I would have to put my career and paycheck on hold. I was lucky that my husband could support me, but my pride took a hit. I rationalized my isolated situation by telling myself I loved solitude. After all, babies nap, right? Obviously, I had no idea. The birth was shaykh kamaluddin left shaykh zulfiqar but uneventful.

    I laboured for 18 hours, pushed for less than 30 minutes, and then they put my daughter on my stomach.

    She was beautiful, healthy, pink and screaming. And I felt nothing. As they stitched me up, I watched this squirmy alien being wiped off by gloved hands. I worked hard to make it work, the same way I had done everything in life: by pushing through. Photo: Ariane Audet, Faces of Postpartum. Motherhood was indeed hard, as everyone had told me it would be. I assumed my feelings of despair and utter panic must be part of the deal, too.

    My stay on a psychiatric ward for PPD inspired a new career

    Months went by and blurred into each other. Does she sleep on her back? Not in your bed, right? To live became a threat. Then one afternoon, four and half months after her birth, it happened.

    My husband was upstairs with our daughter in her nursery. He was changing her, and they were both laughing. Just die already. Call it providence, but she had given me her phone number, urging me to text if anything happened.

    Something had definitely happened. The following week, the intrusive thoughts came rushing at me, more frequently and more violently. After four days of trying to fight the beast on my own, I finally gave in. This life was no longer safe for my daughter or me: It was time to go to the hospital. At the timethere was only one perinatal psychiatry inpatient unit in the U. With five beds. There are four million birthing people each year in the U.


    Mental hospital diapers