By the Author / Source: abuaram.site
I have always harbored a deep dread of entering the psychiatric hospital. I was never admitted in a normal state; every time I was led there, I was in the grip of a severe psychological relapse—forced, and heavily intoxicated. I would be completely sedated, losing consciousness in mere seconds, only to wake up the next morning wandering the corridors of the asylum in absolute shock, wondering: How on earth did I end up here?
On my very first day, the thought of escaping crossed my mind—in fact, I spent all my days there looking for a loophole to flee. I tried to escape repeatedly, and I actually succeeded in pulling off my plans several times. I had no fondness for the medications they forced me to take; they caused me severe drowsiness and chronic constipation.
In the past, these drugs negatively affected my condition instead of healing me, plunging me into psychotic and schizophrenic states. At the beginning of my treatment journey, I suffered from violent spasms and a deeply unsettling nerve sensation in my legs—a sharp numbness that prevented me from sitting still, which was excruciatingly painful. In later years, however, these symptoms vanished completely, as if my body had finally adapted to these psychotropic medications.
Despite my hatred for that psychiatric hospital, I cannot deny the benefits of my stays. After my release, my condition would stabilize for years, and my life would return to normal. They didn’t provide treatment based on an accurate psychiatric diagnosis, as I refused to cooperate or ever reveal what was happening inside me. Instead, they relied on data gathered from my family to evaluate my state.
Although an exact diagnosis of my disorders was never reached, the three medications they prescribed proved effective in improving my mental and psychological condition; they were broad-spectrum drugs that treated a wide array of disorders.
The doctors never subjected me to electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) during my repeated admissions, nor did they suggest injectable treatments, owing to my rapid response to medication. Furthermore, they recognized through our conversations that I possessed a highly conscious and intelligent side. They knew that a part of me was not sick at all, but rather held a mind that matched—and even surpassed—those of healthy individuals. I am fully aware of every detail of my illness; despite suffering from severe schizophrenia, I remain entirely conscious of my condition.
I lean toward the probability that my primary disorder is schizophrenia, as I meet all the diagnostic criteria for it, alongside co-occurring psychological disorders that include symptoms of bipolar disorder, depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), and social anxiety. I also find traits in myself closely resembling histrionic personality disorder, in addition to episodes of paranoia and delusions of grandeur—all of which I attribute to my underlying schizophrenia.
To return to that facility, officially named the “Bethlehem Psychiatric Hospital” and located in the city of Bethlehem: it is a place utterly lacking in basic care and professionalism. Those in charge lack both competence and accountability. Furthermore, like other Palestinian Authority institutions, it suffers from deep-rooted administrative corruption and dysfunction.
The situation there is dismal on many levels. The prescribing psychiatrists seek to discharge patients as quickly as possible, and the facility severely lacks essential services like basic hygiene and decent food. Moreover, all cases are lumped together in an unsupportive environment where patients are deprived of their most basic rights, allowed only a single cigarette per hour. Not to mention the theft of patients’ personal belongings by the medical staff, rampant violence among residents without any intervention, and the presence of neglected elderly patients relieving themselves everywhere. It is truly a deplorable state—what could possibly motivate me to go there?
I couldn’t find soap or toilet paper, and I abstained from sex and masturbation for an entire month; I was worried about my sexual health, as my psychological state completely eradicated any sexual thoughts.
This facility is the only one of its kind in the West Bank within the Palestinian territories, and it is a public, state-run institution, not private. I have never visited any other hospital, as if it were the only option available. Treatment, food, and lodging there are completely free of charge—which is why my mother is happy about it.
In conclusion, I have no desire to return to that hospital for as long as I live; in fact, I don’t even want to lay eyes on it again. Those running it should be ashamed of themselves—they possess toxic minds and hearts. Even if my stay there was a therapeutic necessity, it remains a harsh and deeply unjust experience. I have been compliant with my medications for nearly four months now, so I do not believe I will ever need to return to that place, and I sincerely hope I never have to.
