I did a 3-day “voluntary psych hold” at the local hospital a week before I went to my inpatient stay. Please be aware that this article might be triggering for mentions of suicide(find resources at the end). It’s raw and from the heart. It does get better; it got better for me. This was 10 years ago, and I wouldn’t still be here today without this struggle.
In 2015, I underwent my first psych hold. Those 3 days at the hospital were absolutely dreadful, but honestly, I think the week after was worse.
For history, I spent three nights in the psych hold in North Carolina. I flew to my childhood home in Louisiana for a few days after. I then flew to Arizona for a 6-week inpatient stay. This is about my journey through the hospital and the week after.
I went to the ER because I was having racing and intrusive thoughts that I couldn’t stop, and they kept telling me I was better off dead. I was well established with a psychiatrist in the events leading up to my stay, but she had been out of the office for the month prior for personal reasons, and then she just never came back. The other doctors in the practice didn’t have space for me, and I didn’t know where to go or what to do. My ex-boyfriend was no help at the time. I had no support system.
I didn’t know how to make them stop; the meds weren’t working, and I was being berated by the same thoughts over and over again. So, I went to the hospital having no idea what to expect. What happened next was awful. They admitted me. The doctors in the ER were very kind. That part was okay, but when they took me up to the Psych Floor, things got a little more real. Once I left the ER, the people were no longer warm and friendly.
I didn’t see the psychiatrist until the next morning. They decided that my original doctor was wrong in my bipolar diagnosis. After talking with me for a very short time. So they took me off my mood stabilizers. No tapering down, just took me off. They also mistakenly thought my Effexor I was on at the time was my depression medication… So they upped it. I’d had a history of multiple episodes of high-dose antidepressants sending me into a manic state/psychosis. In reality, it was used for my narcolepsy to suppress REM sleep at a low dose. Which they also didn’t believe in. They dismissed me and then forced me to take the meds they prescribed. Disclaimer: Some hospitals are better than others. Mine was not great. Please don’t let this discourage you from getting help.
I didn’t sleep the whole time I was there, and they kept telling me I couldn’t leave until I slept. They eventually put me on Ambien, which did nothing for me. I was manic, there was no coming down, and they took away the only thing that would help me. I lied and told them I slept the last night I was there, because I realized this was not the answer I had been looking for. I left feeling like I had no hope, but at the same time. They saved my life. They kept me alive for another 3 days. And they made everyone realize that I needed help, no matter how well I had been hiding it.
So the night I came home from that, we were still in North Carolina, so I stayed at my house with my ex. Knowing I was suicidal, knowing I was at the brink of never coming back, he refused to lock the guns away as my mom had asked. He refused to make any kind of adjustments for me. And basically told me I was crazy. It was not the best time.
That night, my mom found me a bed at an inpatient facility in Arizona. It was a stay for 6 weeks. At the time, and after the previous three days, I was not thrilled. But what other option did I have? My mom didn’t give me a choice and told me I had no other option… I was in no place to argue. So, I went “home” to Louisiana with my mom when she left the next day. I was dreading it, but I wasn’t in a place where I could advocate for myself, so I agreed. I packed a bag and left the next morning.
Remember when I said the doctor changed my meds all around? Yeah. Everything got worse in the following days. I continued to not sleep; I just lay awake, paralyzed by my own thoughts, which were now worse. I also got brain zaps from the Effexor. I was having auditory and visual hallucinations. I can’t remember the other meds I was on at the time, besides the Ambien that they gave me. This was 10 years ago, after all, and I don’t have the best memory (thanks to concussions). So I continued my journey, and I went home for a few days before leaving for Arizona.
Sure, I had a loving family who always “supported” me. But their version of support was monetary; that was the only way they knew how to show love. I am incredibly grateful for all they do and the support they give me. But sometimes, I wish it had been different. My dad has never believed in mental health problems. He was part of the reason I didn’t see my first therapist until I was 13, even though I was showing signs of mental and developmental problems at the age of 7. I didn’t get my narcolepsy or bipolar diagnosis until I was in my mid-20s. I didn’t get my OCD diagnosis until after that. He was also the reason I never went back home except for Christmas. I love my dad, but his understanding of mental health is not something we’ll ever see eye to eye on. And when I was fighting for my life, he didn’t understand.
I have never been a morning person; the battles I have with sleep are pretty severe. All this time, I couldn’t sleep. Every morning while I was in Louisiana, I’d be woken up at 5 am with the intercom phone in my room. My dad would start kind, but as time went on, he became less understanding and more degrading. “You’re just being lazy” was his favorite quote. “You’ve been sleeping for days, how can you be tired?” Things such as that. Meanwhile, I was paralyzed by the racing thoughts, the ones that kept telling me I was better off dead. It was hell. I was so scared to leave my room, because not only would I be fighting the thoughts I was already having, but I knew my parents would add more. I’m sure some of my fears were irrational, but it didn’t matter. They’d come front and center the second I tried to open the door. I didn’t understand how to stop them, though. So I pretty much sat in my room, alone with them. Which was not great. I remember I finally got out of bed and went into the living room one day. As soon as my dad saw me, he started with the “What have you done today to make you look so tired?”. And it only went downhill from there. The thoughts that had only been my own now also took on my dad’s voice.
I don’t remember how I made it through the week leading up to inpatient. I don’t remember most of it. But I’m glad I did. Because the next six weeks were some of the best of my life. The stay in an inpatient gave me my life back when I thought that it was done. I will forever be grateful for the people who helped me on my journey there. I will write about that journey when I’m ready. But I leave you with this: this is my journey to get to inpatient. To get the help I needed. Not everyone’s journey looks the same, but there is often pain. Remember to keep pushing through. It’s worth it to get to the other side.
Important Tools I have now, 10 Years Later:
- Affirmations I actually use: “You are loved,” “Mental illness does not make you weak,” “You are strong.”
- A supportive husband who takes action: sits with me and helps keep our space safe.
- Writing + reading as regulation: journaling to process; books and articles to steady my nervous system.
- A mental-health team I trust: a therapist and psychiatrist who respond and adjust with me.
- The reminder I’m not alone: better takes time, but it does come.
If you’re struggling or in crisis:
- In the U.S., call/text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org.
- Veterans: 988, press 1.
- LGBTQ+: Trevor Project 1-866-488-7386 / text START to 678678.
- Trans Lifeline: 877–565–8860.
- Outside the U.S., see IASP for local lines.
And remember, you are not alone.
Publication note Originally on Medium (October 2025). This is the canonical version.