It is unfortunate, and somewhat unfair that Bronson
Behavioral Health Hospital is only receiving a one-star rating from this former
patient. However, while I am not at all a religious person, a quote from the
Bible came to mind when attempting to formulate the proper words to say:
Galatians 5:9 (NIV) says "A little yeast works through the whole batch of
dough."
This under-staffed hospital is tragically poisoned with “yeast”
throughout the entire enterprise, which has made it nothing more than a containment
unit, or a warehouse for human beings.
Before saying anything more about the crushing realities
that are currently taking place within this institution, please allow me to
mention by first-name, the names of some EXEMPLARY employees who are sincerely
trying to change lives in a loving, patient, genuine manner. With regret, I
will not recall all of the individuals who deserve to be mentioned, but those
that I can remember by name, I will list with utmost respect and gratefulness
for their positive force, efforts, and energy, with which they are able to
paint colorful blips of beauty within a world of otherwise gray nothingness.
- Emilee
- Tonya
- Kara L.
- Mark from Down Under
- All of the cafeteria employees, who I sadly do
not know by name. Sorry I did not eat your food, but I just had no appetite.
But you were all so friendly, and tried to get me to eat.
- Kaitlyn (Sorry if my spelling is incorrect)
- Charles/Chuck (but says he prefers not to be
called Chuckles)
- Dan in Recipient Rights
- MANY of the patients, none of whom I will name,
for their absolute privacy
Not wanting to blatantly mention the name of the doctor that
was assigned to me, within this document, he will solely be referred to as “DJJ.”
All who work at Bronson Behavioral Health Hospital will surely know who he is, and
a simple Google search would reveal his identity, but I do not want to
completely or vociferously dox him (although there is admittedly a part of me
that would be delighted to do just that).
At the time that I was first placed under his care, I had no
reason not to trust him, and he seemed to actually want to spend more than just
a couple of minutes with me, which was unexpected, unusual, and somewhat
pleasant. I had resigned to the fact that I was being held in this hospital
against my will, and told the doctor everything. I held back no details, and
did not leave any of his questions unanswered, to the best of my ability.
Near the end of our first conversation on Tuesday
(12/12/2023), I made sure to interject that it was of ultimate importance to me
that I was able to attend my youngest daughter’s medieval dinner themed choir
concert on the approaching Saturday, if possible. I had purchased two tickets,
and had been planning on attending the holiday event with my oldest daughter as
my treasured guest.
Without expressing a single bit of hesitancy, the doctor
asked me what time the concert started on Saturday. Not knowing the exact time,
I told him that it began sometime in the evening. Without skipping a beat, and
immediately planting an unexpected seed of hope within me, he all but said “Yes.”
He said that he thought that he could make it happen, and he wanted me to know
that it was a priority for him to make sure that I could be there. It was
actually very surprising to me, how confident he seemed that this was not a
problem, even after everything that I had told him, and knowing that the dinner
was only days away.
With just a miniscule-slice of newfound optimism, I was then
able to call my daughters and tell them what the doctor said, leaving them a
voicemail. I was happy to be able to tell them something positive, since I was
so humiliated and saddened by the hospitalization, and imagined that they were
probably in a similar situation.
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday were now just speed bumps,
and although it was most unpleasant being in the hospital, I focused my sights
on Saturday night, when I was allegedly (likely) allowed to still spend an
enjoyable evening with my favorite people on the planet.
On Friday morning, I knew that I would be speaking with DJJ,
at an unspecified time, probably in the mid-morning. (A daily meeting with a
psychiatrist should be expected, I was told upon admission to the hospital).
With anticipation about the meeting, in which I would be informed about the
doctor’s discharge decision, I began the necessary steps of the day –
breakfast, medication, and group therapy. While in a group on that day, DJJ
came in and asked to meet with me privately.
After following DJJ to a private side-room within the Unit, we
sat down and began talking. He started our conversation by telling me that he
did not think that it was a good idea to discharge me on the following day, and
that he wanted to see how I would do over the weekend. All of the oxygen could
have been instantly sucked out of the room in that moment, and it would have
been less gut-punching, less soul-crushing than the mortifying news that he had
just communicated.
Like a cold, naked prisoner in a deep dark chasm, lined with
impossible walls of smooth, wet stone, I was grasping desperately for any
possible hand-hold or footing that was available. In distress, clawing at the
cavern barriers, but knowing that it was my psychosis that was being evaluated,
it was clear that I could not seem desperate; but I was desperate, and
even in my most convincing, logical, non-emotional moments of last-minute
negotiation, I was unable to get DJJ to return to his original position of
allowing me to attend the dinner with my daughters.
In quintessential buck-passing fashion, DJJ shifted much of
the responsibility of his decision to other individuals – saying that his staff
had told him that I was not ready to leave the hospital yet. (The same
blame-shifting was of course done in reciprocation by his staff on other
occasions, stating that they do not know why the doctors say certain things to
patients, or that the doctors do not tell them anything, etcetera).
In a final attempt at gaining my freedom, I told DJJ that I
knew for a fact that he could make the final decision and still allow me
to leave on Saturday, if he so desired. Though this was only a stab in the dark
and a desperate statement made in complete ignorance, he acknowledged that this
was in fact the case.
Like a flickering candle suddenly appearing in a room that
is completely deprived of light, DJJ took a mental step back in my direction,
it seemed, when he then asked if I had anybody on the “outside” that he could
talk to, to discuss my situation, and ask some questions to. With no
social/personal support system to speak of, I quickly and thoughtfully sifted
through the options that he could possibly contact, and solidly landed on the
mother of my children, my ex-wife, a very good person. She is a loving mother,
a kind, generous person, and we get along very well.
Fortuitously having her phone number in my hospital folder
at the time, I gave it to him, and DJJ said that he would call her at
approximately 1:30pm that day and discuss things with her. Before our meeting
was completely adjourned, I asked him point blank: “Will I see you again
today?”, to which he confidently and affirmatively said that I would see him again
before he left that day.
After calling my ex and leaving her a voicemail, letting her
know that a doctor would be calling her to ask her some questions, and
apologizing for getting her involved, all I could do now was wait.
At approximately 4:30pm that day, after not seeing DJJ for
quite some time, I went to the front desk of the Unit and inquired about his
possible location. In a nightmarish scenario that was all too real, I was told
that he was gone for the weekend, and would be back on Monday, maybe around
10am. After explaining my situation to the first person whose attention I was
given (I believe it was Kara L), they said that they could check the computer
system for notes from the doctor, to see if he had said anything about what was
taking place.
There was a note, but it only talked about how he did not
want to discharge me, and it did not say anything about making a phone call to
my ex-wife, or the conversation that had taken place that day. It was later in
the evening that I was able to confirm that he had not even attempted to call
her, as she had zero missed calls or voicemails, and had been expectantly
waiting on his phone call.
On Saturday morning, a super-hero of a nurse (Emilee) said
that she would “Message him [DJJ] immediately,” after she heard about what was
happening. Later that day after giving it some time, I went to find Emilee and
see if the doctor had replied to her message. She said that yes, he had
replied, and said that he would call my ex that day around 1:00pm.
In yet another instance of blowing smoke and not following
through, this 1pm phone call never occurred. [Note that he did not actually call my
former wife for the first time until Monday, December 18, in the morning
when she was working and could not talk. He then called back and spoke to her
that night at around 7:00pm.]
With mere hours remaining before my daughter’s medieval
dinner/choir concert was set to commence, it became painfully clear that with
my physical location, my bodily unpreparedness, and my most-unhelpful doctor,
it would be a definite impossibility for me to attend. The only thing for me to
do was to be there imaginatively, and in a zone of my own, I spent Saturday
evening in mental misery. Simply typing these words is generating new tears to
flow, as if I were still in isolation, and was just coldly informed for the
first time that I would not be able to be with my daughters for that unique,
memorable occasion.
After some Trazodone, and an Adavan (for sleep) at 8pm,
which is the earliest that the hospital will serve nighttime medications, I
tried going to bed early, and mentally checking out as soon as physically
possible. The rest of the weekend was just waiting to see DJJ again on Monday,
and trying not to be spiteful, hateful, and angry.
On Monday, Dember 18, after he had not seen me, spoken to
me, or evaluated my condition at all in days, DJJ came into a group therapy
session that I was attending, and asked to speak to me privately. This time I
followed him, but not so eagerly, and not with the strength of optimism as the
last time, but as one who had been broken, emptied, and was prepared to hear
anything – feeling as though I may never leave this hospital, because I had no
hope of getting any better.
Today, after his weekend away, and with me feeling no
differently than when I arrived in his hospital, DJJ announced that he thought
I could be discharged the following day, Tuesday, December 19, 2023. This I of
course did not protest by any means, but I did ask what was different today,
than three days prior, and why was I now allowed to leave, but not then?
DJJ does spend time with his patients, but in my experience,
he spends much of that time on rabbit trails and tangents about topics such as
student financial-aid repayment guidelines, hypnotism, the book How to Win
Friends and Influence People (Carnegie, 1936), or other non-pertinent subjects.
(Things that may be quite interesting to discuss if we were out having coffee
together, but not when we have limited time, and we are there to deal with a brewing
mental health crisis.)
The tangent that he went on after I asked him why he was releasing
me today, but not last Friday, had to do with different theories of suicidal
ideations, and how some schools of thought contend that it is more likely that
someone might kill themself after a memorable or special event, and that the
medieval dinner may have triggered me to want to commit suicide afterward, if I
had attended. This was an obvious on-the-spot, bullshit-excuse of a deviation
though, as he would have been privy to the aforementioned studies/schools of
thought the previous week, and if this was truly his opinion, he never should
have inspired any anticipation of attending the dinner at the outset of our
time together.
Instead, he brought me up and let me down like a toy yoyo;
unapologetically exploiting my emotions and my sense of hope in a quasi-abusive
manner, on a repetitive basis.
Upon the hours before my discharge on Tuesday the 19th,
DJJ wanted to meet with me one final time. I was absolutely not going to say
anything to influence him to reverse his decision to allow me to leave, so it
was very brief, and I did not try to extract any explanation regarding his ghastly,
catastrophic, medical maneuvering while under his “care.”
He did actually want to do a brief hypnosis exercise during
this final encounter, but I politely, firmly declined. This is something we had
done once before in one of our first daily meetings. It lasted maybe three
minutes, and was a very basic relaxation/breathing routine. No fireworks, but
no harm either.
This time when I declined, he asked if it had been helpful
at all the last time he had done it. Frankly, I told him that it had not really
done anything at all, and that at one point during the exercise, he had said
that he was going to lift my left arm and let it go – but then he lifted my
right arm instead, and that this had been a major distraction for me.
Furthermore, I was not sure that I was even supposed to notice that he made the
“error,” or if perhaps it was done intentionally, to test my cognitive
awareness. This seemed to throw him off for a few seconds as he thought about
what I said, and he muttered something to himself about how he thinks he has
maybe been doing this incorrectly all along, with other patients as well.
After this final, brief encounter with DJJ, a social worker
who somehow knew better than to think that I was meaningfully and mindfully
transformed from one week earlier, in a way that guaranteed my safety and
preparedness for discharge, pulled me aside into a private room for what felt
to be a final lurching attempt from some (well-meaning) staff members who
thought that I should stay at the hospital. The social worker told me that she
was concerned by one of my responses in a group that had met either that day or
the day before, in which I had commented something about feeling like just
another number, not a person, when it came to the way the hospital was operated.
This made her want to ask me a final segment of questions, and
although she acted nonchalant about this last-minute session, there was no
doubt in my mind that this could be a deal-breaking interview for me being unbound
from the walls of this god-forsaken holding tank. Therefore, as I had already
determined days before, I was done saying that I was either suicidal, or that I
ever wish that I could go to sleep and not wake up. (These are some of the
questions that are monotonously asked of the patients, by many of the staff at
the hospital, on a daily basis.)
Living with varying degrees of depression that is seemingly
unaffected by any medication, if I am perfectly honest, there has probably not
been a single night that I have gone to sleep and not wished that I could just
stay asleep, or a day that has gone by in which I was just a little bit
suicidal. All along I had been 100% honest with all nurses, technicians, and
doctors who asked me such questions in the hospital. But just days before my
release, I was told by one of the staff members that I would need to have at
least a couple of consecutive days in which I could answer that I did not feel
helpless or hopeless, before I could be discharged.
This information made it painfully clear that in order to
have a prayer of leaving the hospital before Christmas or New Year, I could no
longer be transparent. Lying is so foreign to me, but I prepped myself mentally
and verbally, and made sure that no matter how the hell I was feeling from then
on, I would say that I did not feel suicidal at all, did not feel helpless or
hopeless, and did not wish to go to sleep and not wake up. Salvation from
captivity, personal freedom, and longing to hold one’s own children can be
enough to morally compromise even the strictest of standards that stand in the
way of deliverance, and restoring those sacred rights that were swiftly blown
away like a plume of smoke in a sudden gust of violent wind.
The last-minute social worker interviewer clearly and acutely
knew that what was being said was not consistent with things that had been
stated merely days before, and her mannerisms seemed to proclaim my utter fraudulence. But her sheet
of paper said that I was ready for discharge, since she had heard all the
“correct” responses to her inquiries, and from there I was quickly processed
through the necessary formalities. Clothing that had been worn upon arrival at
the hospital was returned, valuables were unlocked from the safe and
inventoried, and forms were electronically signed.
Other than lying to get out of the hospital, I also confess
that I smuggled a large orange juice (with pulp), with excellent, small ice
cubes from the cafeteria, back to the Unit, nearly every day that I was there. This
was achieved simply by wrapping the cup in a crossword puzzle sheet that
generously covered the beverage receptacle, placing the cup within the front
pocket of my scrubs, and always having my green hospital folder with me in my
right arm to cover any direct view of the pocket. Only once was I caught by an
astutely attentive technician, who will only warmly be referred to as “Big
Momma.” I do not recall her actual name, but this nickname privately applied to
her by myself and other patients, was very befitting.
Slowly sipping on orange juice, and chewing on small ice
cubes throughout the morning and afternoon were some of the only hedonistic
pleasures or enjoyments that could be attained in this hospital, and were well-worth
the contraband risk. Occasionally, I also smuggled a half-pint of chocolate
milk in my back pocket; illegal chocolate milk in my own room was not only more
delicious, rich, and satisfying, but was comparable to walking around one’s own
house completely naked, simply because they can.
Because it was just before Christmas, the hospital had some
differently themed days, in which employees were able to dress up like festive
characters, or wear holiday-themed attire. In conjunction with this, there was
also a cookie swap taking place on one of the final days of the workweek.
In a thoughtless, classless, tactless manner, announcements
were made via the loud-speaker intercom system in the patient common-areas
throughout the hospital, that kept proclaiming different cookie-related judging
activities, or that the cookies were now available in the board-room. However,
none of the patients in the hospital were invited to participate, or even
allowed to enjoy a single cookie. Many of the same patients are still there,
and will be throughout the new year. They likely will not see family or
friends, assuming they have any to speak of.
Though I was able to tune out the cookie party and the
absolute cruelty of this negligent repetitive announcement at the time of my
hospital-holding, I cannot help but cry uncontrollably for those that still
remain, as this particular paragraph is currently being written on Christmas
morning. I am free, but they are still there, and I literally weep for them,
viewing these blurry words through every justifiable tear that is shed for the
helpless, the hopeless, the depressed, the mentally manipulated, and those that
cannot help themselves.
On December 12, 2023, when the Van Buren County ambulance
was hauling me to the hospital, the medical professionals that were
transporting me were attempting to be encouraging about the situation. They told
me as we arrived that they have brought a lot of people to this nice, new
hospital, but have never ever taken anyone back a second time – except for one
guy, who they immediately dismissed as being “strange.”
If I could ever speak to them again, vehemently would I
explain that if they really want to help mentally ill patients with their
issues, they should never bring another person to Bronson Behavioral
Health Hospital, ever again. People do not avoid returning because the
hospital has cured them, or meaningfully assisted them – they likely insist on
not returning, because it is a horrific place to be.
It is not a facility of healing or therapy, but a
well-funded, for-profit, time-continuum of repetitive, non-effective “medicine”
that creates prisoners and puppets of the needy, and places them in
non-dignified living conditions. The so-called accommodations that insurance
companies and individuals are paying thousands of dollars for, include short-sleeved
scrubs in cold rooms and hallways, bolted-down toilet seats that often have
urine and feces on them, non-adjustable shower heads that feel like needles are
penetrating your skin, paper-thin pillows, one single-ply inadequate blanket,
and a plastic-line bed mattress, appropriate for a maximum-security prison. That
is all you get – nothing else. This is combined with a system that pumps humans
through like widgets on a factory assembly line, pairing them with doctors that
simply “practice” with thousands of pharmaceuticals on a whim, and do not seem
to authentically care for the needs of their patients.
On the day that I was discharged from the hospital, which
could not have happened soon enough, the woman "assisting" me, who
will remain unnamed (as I am not certain of her identity, and do not wish to communicate
anything untrue) allowed me to take a survey about my visit at the hospital.
The survey was on a secondary electronic tablet that she had with her, and I
worked on filling it out while she did her own documentation on a separate
portable computer station.
Because of the absolutely severe contradiction between those
staff-members who legitimately care about their patients, and those who unequivocally
do not, I saved approximately five minutes on the survey by skipping ALL of the
initial “Rate 1-10” styled questions, and immediately went to the substantive
part of the survey. Meaningfully answering the numerically-weighed questions regarding
the hospital and staff, could have been comparable to using statistics and
algorithms to attempt an objective evaluation of a children’s sandbox that is
inconsistently entombed with jagged glass shards, as well as occasional diamonds
– an impossible and utterly frivolous activity.
I spent perhaps six minutes filling out two questions on the
first page that I came to. On one question, I mentioned all the names of
amazing employees at the hospital that I could quickly think of, wanting to
show them gratitude, and may have briefly voiced a complaint on the other
question, though I do not recall all that I had time to say, or what was
actually said.
After filling in the two questions, the top of the page said
that I was only 50% of the way through completion of the survey, though I had
thought that those were the only two questions available. So with a bit of
confusion, I asked the woman what I should do next. She took the tablet from me,
scrolled down and clicked "Next." Of course, I should have known to
do this, but in the situation, and in the flurry of unfamiliar activity, I was
in need of her assistance.
On the tablet in her hands, I now saw two more questions pop
up in a new window. But instead of either handing the tablet back to me,
reading the questions aloud to me, or even asking if I was interested in
viewing the final inquiries, the woman quickly scrolled to the bottom of the
page and clicked "Complete.”
Now, with even more confusion, I asked her what the
remaining two questions were, that she had just left blank on my behalf,
without any consultation. She then murmured something about how they were just
like the first two questions, and did not offer to re-open the survey or make
me aware of the content of the questions, in the slightest. That is okay though;
thankfully there are independent venues, and other ways to leave surveys,
without the impatience of someone who probably just wanted to get me out the
door, so that she could go to lunch (it was 11:35am and I was supposed to be
gone at 11:15am, after all). Her skewed priorities and her lack of patience
were repulsively off-putting and unprofessional to say the very least, but in
simply wanting to GET OUT of their custody, I did not insist on completing the
survey.
It is worth mentioning that there are entire wings/sections
of this hospital that are not currently being utilized, because they do not
have the staff to do so. Therefore, the units that are up and running, are
mostly divided by age group, with a geriatric unit, as well as a “traditional”
unit. However, the units are NOT divided by mental condition, therefore lumping
all the individuals with major psychosis in with those who are simply there
because they no longer wish to be alive.
Dan, the Recipient’s Rights person at the hospital, said that
eventually they are going to have an adolescent wing, as well as divide those
with major psychological disorders away from the depressed/suicidal people. At
no time did I truly feel unsafe in the hospital, but it can doubtlessly be
stated that having everyone mixed together in one unit made it much more of a “One
Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” experience. There was almost always something intriguing
or deplorable taking place, and it was much more of an authentic psych-ward
encounter this way. But this might not be seen as a safe or beneficial environment
for all potential patients, since it is such an unpredictable, unstable,
erratic atmosphere.
A final noteworthy experience that happened at the hospital,
goes back to my very first day there: The medication window opened, and I was
supposed to approach after waiting in line, to take whatever drugs they had for
me to ingest. Upon arrival to the window, the woman asked what medications she
could get for me. Unsure of what I was supposed to take, I told her that I
would please take some Pentobarbital, if she had any. [This is the same
medication that was used to euthanize my cat, and which I had tried ordering
online from the Netherlands, to use for my own suicide.] She replied that she
could only give me Trazadone for sleep right now, but if I wanted
Pentobarbital, I could ask my doctor the next day. Macabre and unexpected was
the pharmacist/nurse’s reply, and worth mentioning. It was like frosting on a
cake, or a maraschino cherry on a sundae – assuming the cake is comprised of
rotten maggot-riddled meat, or the sundae is a melted, disastrous mess of
liquid ice cream and chocolate syrup that is carpeted with houseflies.
This “review” has turned into a lengthy expose, offering
more details than necessary in many areas. But optimistically, the candor and
openness regarding my experience will be of some help not only to mental health
patients seeking medical assistance, but also to the hospital staff at Bronson,
and other mental-health facilities.
DJJ will personally be mailed a copy of this hospital-stay
synopsis, and it will be posted wherever it can be hosted, though it is likely
much too lengthy for traditional publishment on Google, Yelp, or similar
websites.
If you are still reading, thank you for your mindful,
patient eyes, and for considering my experiences, my feedback, and my assessment
of this incident, and for hearing my critical critique of this hospital
facility and their staff.
All of the compiled information that is stated above is 100%
accurate, honest, and forthright, with the utmost attentiveness to detail, and
to the fullest of my capacity.
-Joshua K. Collison
Completed on Saturday, December 30, 2023
.jpg "This is a Persian that I met at an appointment :)")
