Experiencing One of the Best Psychiatric Hospitals in the World

A Return to McLean Hospital, Massachusetts

I just ran around McLean Hospital. It’s funny; a new running path led me toward an old, familiar place. My arrival to the McLean “campus” this time, however, was one filled with jubilation and euphoria — unlike my last adventure in October 2016.

McLean, or The Pavilion unit to be precise, is emblazoned in my life as a reminder that it’s possible to accomplish the seemingly impossible. But it was a grind.

In 2016, my grandmother generously footed the 5-figure bill at the premier facility because my family is privileged and capable of doing so. Names of the rich and famous were divulged in an attempt to lure patients by the promise of a diagnosis after two weeks of intense tests and sessions performed by only the very best doctors money could buy.

I couldn’t tell if I was staying at the Ritz or if I was trying to survive a stay in an insane asylum. There were no bars on the windows, no crickets in my sandwiches, or handcuffs locked to bed frames. The campus looked like a country club with manicured lawns, pristine woods and inviting patios that promised the perfect location for catching rays and reflecting on life. Appointments with psychiatrists were scheduled daily. Sporting bow ties and sleek suits, the prestigious doctors occupied offices with expensive artwork and resembled what I imagine Freud looked like back in the early-1800s.

Day Dreams of Dark Days

I believed McLean was desirable, offering everything one might want, and believe, to be a place of recovery and hope.

I remember being dropped off by my mom and dad, all of us expecting that in two weeks, I could make it through the day without wanting to commit suicide. I remember trying to watch a movie the first night in my room but being fixated on the clock. I remember being confused why time was moving so slowly as if somebody had slipped me a tab of LSD. I remember standing in the mirror looking back at myself, confused why I could only see a stranger. I remember reaching out to friends who had struggled with mental health, frantic that someone would say something, anything, that could lift the weight of pain from my body. I remember sobbing.

I remember staring at the pills my nurse would give me in that little white Dixie cup, praying to a god I wasn’t sure I believed in that the chemicals would either save me or kill me.

I remember sleeping like a baby and waking up as a zombie. I remember punching myself in the head repeatedly until the counselors had to restrain me. I remember the five-hour psychological testing I did with a PhD. student, jealous of his job that I never actually wanted.

I remember selecting my meals for the day, but not giving a shit because I had no appetite and thought each meal might be my last supper. I remember starting to feel better, and working to become friends with everybody, because if I could do it, so could they. I remember working with a psychiatrist who felt more like an investigator than a supporter. I remember Harvard Medical School being tattooed on every sign, and every business card as if they were the ones who lifted Jesus from the grave.

I remember the beautiful flowers that surrounded the campus and the dark stormy days that only existed in my mind. I remember feeling terrible because I had the best support system, yet I felt worse. I remember food lost its taste, and love became a myth.

I remember petitioning William & Mary to return to school, but not caring at all because I didn’t want to see anybody. I remember being my own ghost and feeling sure that I could see ghosts. I remember the compliments I had no energy to return, and the hugs I didn’t notice and couldn’t embrace.

I remember running through the woods, feeling physically fit, and mentally strained. I remember running through the woods and believing I would never get better.