The facility was a Behavioral Institute in my state (WBI). When we reached the facility, everything was taken from my son, his clothes were tossed behind the desk to be searched, we participated in a very grueling intake with a "nurse" who seemed to have very little training in such things and who continued to reassure us in ways that I would later learn to be lies. In the midst of the paperwork, I signed a form stating that because my son was being placed in the facility voluntarily, I had the right to sign him out after 24 hours. That, too, was a lie.
Two days later, my son had not yet been seen by the doctor who was supposed to be evaluating him. We were given no information regarding how long my son would be there or what attempts at helping him had been made. We were given flimsy copy-machined "coupons" for "free" meals with my son, which consisted of crappy Food Service food and plastic tableware. It wasn't until the second meal that I would witness the extent of this place in a way that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
We seated ourselves - my son, my mother, and I - at a table in the cold and less-than-adequate "lunchroom" behind enormous picture windows that looked out in two directions. To one side was the front desk of the facility; to the other, a fence-lined outdoor area. The other "inmates" of the facility began to file in, all of them looking haggard and unkempt. My mother and I were two of only 3 parents in the room, and you could see the looks of jealousy and sadness pass over some of the kids' faces as they looked our way. My heart ached a little for each one, but my head was so cloudy and my eyes were so sore from crying that my pity didn't go much further. After all, they were "seasoned" offenders - kids, covered in tattoos and holes that had once contained multiple piercings, who had, in most cases and as I would learn from my son, had been to WBI multiple times,this being only the most recent of their visits.
Soon after, one of the workers would help another young man seat himself at a solitary table just across from us. It wasn't until he was seated, his plate before him, his plastic ware untouched, and the adult had left him alone that I noticed the horror that separated him from the others. His skin was the color of Skim Milk, and at first I thought maybe he was going to be sick. I would soon learn that this was his normal color. His eyes were like black holes in his face. He carried no expression in any part of his body, sitting limp and uncaring, paying no attention to the food or to the others in the room. It was as if he were in his own world, far away from this place, completely unaware of the other reality in which he was currently trapped.
Then, like a white hot slap across my face, I was suddenly very aware of the enormous gashes across his neck and the countless strands of what I would discover to be the stitches that seemed to clumsily hold each gash together. Each wound stretched from one ear to the other, some of them crisscrossing over others and what looked like even older scars of similar inflictions. This child had been sliced, ear to ear, at least 3 times and was sitting here by himself, unaware, uncared for, unmoved. All I could do was sit in silence, my voice seemed suddenly mute and breathless. And then I realized...."my son is in here with him..."
Later, I would come to ask one of the nurses what had happened to this young man. Her reply, coldly pitiful but not much more, explained that this was one of many trips to WBI for this young man, and "every time we let him out, he cuts his own throat again and ends up back here." Again, I was stunned. He keeps coming back here? Where are his parents? Is no one helping him? I began to panic inside, and the feelings of unease that had held me since day one were suddenly reaching a crescendo that was difficult to control. I went immediately to the front desk in a panic and demanded that I have the form to sign my son out. He had not seen the doctor, had not been treated, had only been given a strong sedative to make him sleep at night - without my approval - and I wanted him out, NOW. Within minutes, the doctor was called and he pulled us in for a meeting (imagine that!). By the end of the meeting, he had told me 2 things: One, that my son was suicidal and that it would require medication to stabilize him, and two, that if I took my son out of the facility, they would report me for neglect, DFS would be involved, they would take my son away from me, and he would be in WBI much longer than if I just cooperated. I knew then that we were in a very dire situation and one that I could not control.
My son spent one week in that facility - my original agreement to his admittance was for a 24 hour evaluation. They had tricked me and used my son to make money. How many others had they done this to?
I was required to approve the use of an antidepressant, regardless of whether or not I was concerned about the black box warnings. I agreed to Zoloft because it is what I take. We also had to get a counselor to agree to see him right away, and he would not be allowed to leave without one. We managed to get that done and, after a very long and frightful week, I finally brought my son home.
What I didn't know was that we were at only the beginning of the hell to come. I blame the medication; I blame that arrogant, unethical doctor; I blame myself.
If you find yourself in a similar situation, or if you are just curious about your rights as a parent, this is one of the best website links on the net:
http://www.parentalrights.org/
