I have been in lockdown 4 times in my life; I strongly don’t recommend it. The first, when I was 22, was by far the scariest. A little history might help in understanding why.
It was 1975, and many state’s mental institutions were still alive, well, big, and full. Ours was called Connecticut Valley Hospital (CVH), and was complete with its own cemetery; the graves had no name markers, only numbers. CVH needed its own cemetery because CVH was the last home of many of its “residents”. Anybody deemed a danger to themselves or others, and that weren’t convicted of a crime, ended up in CVH, frequently comitted by their families or doctors (yes, that shit really happend).
I was seeing a psychiatrist at the time, Dr. “L”, for “chronic depression”. Depression was the diagnosis made by the psychologist at the university I was attending in ‘73, Back then, a psychiatrist was frequently your psychologist/therapist, too. Dr. L was one of these. I had been having what were diagnosed 2 decades later as panic attacks. During this time, I started having frequent (again, undiagnosed) autistic meltdowns. It was this combination of panic attacks & meltdowns that started making my shrink, and the married woman I was seeing (Mrs. M… it was a long time ago, and I’m a different person today), a little more than concerned. My lady friend had wanted to see a shrink, so I recommended Dr. L. He wasn’t totally thrilled about the possible conflict of interest that might arise because of this triangle of relationships (Dr. L, Mrs. M, & me). As it turned out, this triangle wasn’t as much a problem for Dr. L as it was for me. They started comparing notes about my strange behavior (PD & meltdowns). Eventually, the two of them convinced me that I needed to have a complete physical work up, but didn’t fully explain why. They both met me one morning at the entrance of what was then the Memorial Unit of Yale-New Haven Hospital. Dr. L said that everything was all set and that they both could escort me “upstairs”. On the 10th floor, we went to a closed door, and Dr. L announced himself, and we were “buzzed” in. I thought it was a little strange, but by the time I figured out the door was locked, it closed behind me. I wasn’t sure what the place was, but I knew I didn’t want any part of it. I tried to leave, but the nurse wouldn’t open the door. After a short conversation, I realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. I yelled, pleaded, and tried to bargain. I didn’t have a panic attack, but I was panicking. Dr. L and Mrs. M left together around this time. I never saw Dr L again. I finally accepted the fact that I wasn’t getting out, when two guys in white backed me into the corner by the door. They held up, no joke, what is commonly referred to as a “straight jacket”. They didn’t put it on me, my struggle to get out that damned locked door was over. I think I just kind of oozed to the floor.
They had lied to me. The two people in my life that I trusted above anyone else (including my family), had betrayed my faith in them. I had no one. No one else even knew where I was. I hadn’t told anyone, with the exception of my manager at IBM, that I was going anywhere. I felt so screwed!! I remember being curled up on a bed in an almost dark room; I don’t remember how I got there. Someone in white was holding a small cup of what turned out to be Thorazine, and a form for me to sign. The person said that the meds would help me, but I couldn’t have any until I signed the form. It didn’t matter a whole lot what the form was, but I knew two things: I couldn’t leave, and if anything was going to help me get through this, I had to sign this form. So I did. And I got some god-awful huge dose of Thorazine. Sometime later, Mrs. M dropped off some clothes for me that I had left at her house (I was friends with her husband… yes, I was a louse).
Over the next few days, I found out just how deep my problems were. In my first group, I had to state my name, and why I was there. I said my name and said I was there because of depression. The nurse running this happy little group of about a dozen inmates admonished me about honesty, and how important it was to be truthful in group. She then announced to the group that “Fred is not here because of depression, he is here because he is suicidal and homicidal”. I freaked! I never thought of killing anybody!!! She called for the gentlemen in white because I would not sit down, or calm down, or stop yelling… I don’t remember why. I just remember those two guys.
Evidently, I needed to prove to these people that I wasn’t homicidal. This process, I found from other inmates (most were there voluntarily), could take weeks… even months(Barney had been there for more months than any patient could remember)! After a few days, I heard rumors about something called a “10 day paper“. What it turned out to be was a legal form, that if I signed, forced the hospital to make a decision, within 10 days, to either release me or commit me to CVH. I decided to sign. So the biggest chess game of my life was about to begin.
My sole mission in life became proving to the staff that I wasn’t homicidal. If I couldn’t do that within ten days, I was going to be transferred to CVH! Let the fun begin. The next 10 days were very difficult, and horrifying. It was very much like the movie “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest”, which I didn’t see until many years later. Upon the 10th day, there were a few meetings I had to attend. I had to agree to certain terms: who I would see, who I would not see, what help I had to seek out, etc. I signed all of it, I grabbed my stuff and left.
The 2nd, 3rd, & 4th, lockdowns all occurred in the span of 2 months.
In 1994, the division I worked in was being dissolved. I had job offers with the same company, but all out of state. I decided to take a package, and become an independent contractor. The severance was more than generous, and I kept my pension. The contracting thing was slow in coming. One particular company was quite interested in my services, but couldn’t afford the $$ of a consultant. So, they offered me a job, with great benefits & reasonable salary. Best of all? I didn’t have to report to anyone but the CFO.
The 2nd time I was in lockdown was thanks to my dentist. I went to my dentist for some tooth-hole digging. While I was in the chair, I started having what was later diagnosed as a panic attack. It was difficult to speak & the sweat started. The dental tech saw that I wasn’t quite right, so she took my blood pressure & pulse. She left without a word. My dentist came in and told me that he couldn’t give me any anesthetic because my pulse was way too fast, and my blood pressure was way too high. He asked who my GP was, because he wanted to call an try to get me seen. As it turned out, my GP was a neighbor of my dentist. He called, came back, and asked if I thought I could drive… “yeah”. I drove to my GP’s office, which wasn’t far. I was starting to come down from the mild panic attack when I got to his office. They took me in before I could sit down; this didn’t bode well. The panic came back full steam when I sat on the exam table. Again, with the pulse & pressure. By this time I was in full panic mode. My panic attacks resemble seizures in that I can’t speak, every muscle is flexed, and I sweat so bad that my clothes get soaked… right down to my underwear. My GP calmly said “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, Fred. But whatever it is, it’s killing you.” He left the room. The nurse stayed, and I think she was rubbing my back, as they had helped me remove my sweat-soaked shirt. In the ~10 minutes the doc was gone, the panic attack started to die slowly. When he returned, he said made arrangements for me to see a psychiatrist as soon as I could get to the shrink’s office. He wanted to get me a ride, but I said I would drive. They asked me to wait until I “felt a little better”. After some unknown amount of time, he let me drive off to the next doctor of the day.
By the time I arrived at the psychiatrist’s office, I had dried out and straightened up a bit. My GP had, evidently, told him of my visit and my “condition”. The shrink was young, but compassionate and kind. We talked forever; history, when did this start, blah-blah. He said that I had Panic Disorder, along with the depression and anticipatory anxiety that accompany PD. Time for beaucoup meds! He also wanted me to check myself into a psych ward at a nearby hospital, for a week. I was reluctant, but he insisted. He made the arrangements, and I was to go the next day. Again with the buzzer-opening door! As I was checking in, the nurse seemed a bit surprised. She said “We were expecting you by ambulance, or with a police ‘escort’.” This, again, was not entirely a voluntary check in. Evidently, the hospital staff was supposed to notify my shrink, if I didn’t show up. He was going to have cop come and bring me to the ward! Sweet creepin’ Jesus! Here it comes again. The week turned into 10 days of fun & games (what’s with this 10 day crap?). They even had an A.A. dude come in to talk to me about the fact I had, over many years of practice, turned into a classic alcoholic. The meds I was now taking made abstinence an imperative. Oh joy. Panic Disorder, anxiety up the wazoo, depression, and now I can’t self medicate to help it all fade away into a bottle. This is feeling like I’m looking into the abyss, as usual, but now the abyss is looking back. After the 10 days of a lovely vacation, I get home to find that it was all just too little way too late; my wife is divorcing me. I completely understood intellectually, but emotionally? Not so much. I had slowly killed her love for me with all the booze and the fact that she just “…can’t stand the craziness anymore”. Life just keeps getting better by the butt-load.
The 3rd lockdown came just a few weeks after the 2nd. I had been a good boy about booze, just a trunk-load of non-alcoholic beer. I finally met the sheriff when he showed up at the house, as expected, with divorce forms. He said he was deeply sorry, but it was his job. I don’t remember crying, but I’m sure I must have. Time for a lawyer. He said I really needed to move out of the house. I let me CFO know that my phone number was gonna change. He was cool, so I told what was happening. The company paid for me to move into a local Residence America. I never even saw the bill. I made myself comfortable; set up the PC I stole from my kids because I needed it for work. One night, after work, it all seemed to crash on me. Time for a 5th of vodka, and real beer. I got stinky drunk. I never did know when I went to bed, but I didn’t show up at the office, the CFO called. I was still pretty drunk, and not happy about anything, especially work. I told him some stuff I don’t remember, but remember telling him to “…take my job and shove up his rosy red rectum” and I hung up. I didn’t even get out of bed. I was asleep (passed out?) when I heard pounding on the door, and somebody yelling. I guess I forgot that I had told him about my shrink, and all that… along with my shrink’s name. Dragged my butt over and opened the door. The first one in was a local cop who wasn’t in a good mood. He was followed by two gentlemen pushing an ambulance gurney through the door. They didn’t speak. I told them all to “Get the fuck out!!”. The cop said I had two choices, and only two: I could lie down on the gurney, or I could go with him. I flopped onto the gurney. Off to the nearest hospital, where I was locked in a windowless room with just a bed. Before the door closed, the hospital doc said I had .3 blood alcohol at 9:00 in the morning! He mentioned something about God, what my alcohol level must have been when I finally passed out last night. As he was closing the door he said something about being “…lucky to be alive”. After several hours, I was plopped unceremoniously on another ambulance gurney. Another ambulance ride to a hospital in a city that my shrink had admitting privileges. Another damn lockdown for another ten days!!!! This was becoming a ritual. One interesting thing, though: My CFO talked to my shrink, and the hospital, about springing out for one day. This was because I had previously scheduled a company shutdown in order to perform a static inventory. I had temps in to augment company staff in the inventory counts. We needed to make this happen on a Saturday. Everything was in place, except me. I was the only person who knew how to get the inventory counts into the company’s operating software. The damn computer ran the entire service business. Sooo… Saturday morning the CEO & CFO show up at the ward and sign some forms that put me in their custody, and that they would have me back by 7pm. The desk nurse said if I wasn’t in the ward by 7p, there would be warrant for my arrest issued. Damn! I really screwed the pooch this time. We did the inventory, and I entered the counts in the software that ran the company. I was back by 6:30pm. I finished my ten day stint, without ever seeing my shrink. When I got back to work, the CFO let me know that now that everything with the inventory was hunky-dory, they had to let me go. He said that the board didn’t like the idea of a suicidal lunatic in control of the company operations. I set things up on the servers so they would pretty much take care of themselves. The CFO & CEO were so grateful for what I did for the company, that they would still foot the bill for the Residence American for as long as I needed it. I ended up going to stay with my mother, until I found an apartment.
My 4th, and hopefully last, lockdown came a few weeks later. The reason for this lockdown is explained in Sarah “Jamie” Everett & Frederick Symington. While I endured another 10 day lockdown, my shrink was seriously pissed off at me for making him look like he didn’t have control of his patient. He would barely talk to me. While I was in lockdown, Jamie visited every day. We became quite close. When they were finally gonna let me out on day 9 (Christmas Eve), Jamie, my mother, my brother, and my sister, had to show up for a meeting in the hospital. My shrink explained to them that there was a 50% chance that I would do the suicide thing again, and that I wouldn’t fail. With that knowledge, they were told not to “walk on eggshells around me” because it would have no effect on the outcome. I was finally free.