By the Author / Source: abuaram.site
One of the absolute worst things that has ever happened to me was being involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital. It felt like an ongoing nightmare, except it was actually happening. I never felt a single moment of ease there; everything was horrific. I was in a constant state of tension walking the corridors of that cursed place, overwhelmed by daily anxiety and desperate to break free.
The hospital was severely overcrowded with troubled patients and suffered from extreme neglect. They forced me to take high doses of psychiatric medications that induced severe drowsiness and voracious hunger—food and appetite completely consumed my thoughts—and I suffered from chronic constipation. Nothing brought relief. Most of the time, I was forced to stay for a month or forty days at a stretch. I didn’t want to be there, nor did I want their treatment; I just wanted out. I refused to share any details of my condition with the doctor, lying repeatedly. Naturally, I was never ready to accept treatment in a place like that. I never disclosed my actual symptoms to them; they merely pieced things together from what my family told them and treated me based on that alone. I refused to surrender to treatment in that wretched hospital and kept my symptoms to myself, knowing that if I spoke up, my stay would be prolonged, costing me even higher doses that would inflict further psychological torment and physical exhaustion.
I contented myself with outsmarting them through structured, logical thinking—showing them that I was completely normal, nothing more. Whenever they tried to draw me into further discussions, I skillfully demonstrated organized thoughts and sound judgment, leaving them unaware of how ill I truly was.
Thoughts of escape crossed my mind almost daily. Escaping wasn’t really worth the trouble—after all, I wasn’t a dangerous inmate. Deep down, I knew I just needed enough patience to endure a few weeks and get released, yet I kept searching for an easy way out. I managed to escape from that hospital several times, though on other occasions, I failed completely.
In theory, it should have been simple, requiring only a little patience given the short duration, but staying there was a recurring nightmare. I hated every moment of it. Anguish pervaded my mind and spirit, overwhelming me with extreme anxiety and an intense craving for freedom. It felt as though a shared spirit lived within every patient admitted there, utterly refusing to accept confinement. The psychological and neurological strain caused by those drugs cast a heavy shadow over the general mood. Everyone wanted to leave; no one wanted to stay for even a single day.
That was the medication side of it—compounded by being confined to a small space every single day, never allowed outside. It felt as though you were forced to remain inside a room or a few small rooms indefinitely, doing nothing but sleeping, eating their terrible food, and swallowing pills. You were deprived of everything you loved and were accustomed to, and being cut off from alcohol was particularly difficult for me.
Beyond the hospital’s fundamental flaws—such as the chaos, lack of hygiene, and the practice of lumping all categories of patients together, whether severe, moderate, or mild—everyone was forced into the same space. This caused immense distress, especially having to share every moment of the day with patients who slept and ate alongside you, frequently displaying crude behavior right in front of you. There were also violent patients who constantly fought with one another.
Furthermore, I couldn’t get an erection the entire time I was there; I couldn’t ejaculate at all. I am a sexual person, and I have a regular need for intimacy that directly affects my mood and nervous system. I couldn’t even masturbate given my psychological state and the things I witnessed. My penis simply would not get erect, and it was deeply frustrating! How could it under such terrible conditions and in such a damaged mental state? I used to think, if only I could find a beautiful nurse or student intern in the restroom or a private room to have sex with! But whenever I was discharged, once that burden lifted and I reunited with my wife, my sexual function returned to normal, and we engaged in intimacy naturally.
In any case, the thought of going back remains a living nightmare. My condition could worsen, I might do crazy things, or I could end up traumatized all over again. I truly do not want to return. Yet, if I stop taking my medication now and fail to stay stable, I fear I might end up right back there. I am currently trying to taper off the drugs step by step because I miss my natural emotions, and my soul needs to be liberated from the grip of these damned medications. I just want to feel human again without drugs. I feel as though I miss my true self; there is a deep longing in my heart for it. Even so, I pray I will never have to go back.
