Miss Mary Maude

One Black woman's psych ward experience.

Hii!

Every week, I’ll share personal essays from fellow Sadgirls in our community. For now, let’s call it…Sadgirl Submissions! This allows us to share our experiences with each other and normalize emotional expression. This week’s essay is from Christine, who says: “My name is Christine; I’m a 31-year-old writer and social media consultant for two non-profits (one based in my home state of New Jersey and another based in Denver, Colorado).”

If you’d like your essay considered, check out this post.

To Miss Mary Maude of Ward 7, Room 10B:

Thank you.

Thank you for being there for a gummy-mouthed 5 2 and ¾ inches girl with 4c (formally called 4z) hair.

When I was dropped off at that hospital after the overdose, I was forced to sleep in an observation room before a formal evaluation and then admission to Ward 7, now Ward 5.

The mattress was bare and smelled of mold and mildew. The dividers were glass and had no shades to hide you from the nurses.

It was a good thing that the nurses were relatively uninterested in us, even the ones that caused trouble, like Tameka, who threw a chair at the unit manager.

Still, I wanted to stay, because home didn’t feel safe.

At home it was like walking on eggshells or rather glass.

It was where my dance card was always open, except the dance wasn’t pleasant at all.

It was dancing by my devil, that guy Keith, and everything that came after and before.

So I wanted to stay, despite Tameka and the police dragging her away.

When I was finally admitted to the ward, they put me on the voluntary side.

“You’re lucky!” the chipper nurse said.

“You get nightly TV privileges!”

I sighed.

“Is there anything to read?” I asked.

She winced, then led me to my room.

That’s where I met Maude.

She was white, with light lavender hair and honey brown eyes. Her aura was that of the lady from Sunset Boulevard.

She was teasing her hair in the bathroom when I arrived.

“Does she smell like piss, Rhonda?” Maude asked.

Rhonda tittered. “No dearie, this is Christine.”

She retorted, “You didn’t ask my question.”

Rhonda’s facade fell, and she flatly said, “Of course not, Maude. This is your fifth roomie in a week and a half. You know that in three days you are either out or in Harrisbridge, right?”

Harrisbridge was the mental health hospital outside of the city. A place worse than death.

“Fine, you bitch. Hey, Christine! I’m Maude.”

The nurse hugged me, huffed at Maude, and left.

“So kid, what gives? Why the long face, happiness?”

I told her that I didn’t want to go home.

“You and me both. What do you have?”

I stared, confused.

“Your diagnosis?” She asked again.

“Oh! Depression.” I said with a shrug.

“I’m bipolar. Nice to meet you.” Then she unfolded her bedsheet, hopped in, and promptly fell asleep.

I was dumbfounded. All of the nurses said that sleeping was discouraged in the daytime because it was non compliance with our treatment.

Instead, they encouraged us to socialize, participate in the daily activities, and talk to the staff about our concerns.

I wasn’t complaining, though; I was tired as well, and I didn’t want to talk, so I walked to my side of the room, took out the hospital-grade slippers, and climbed in bed.

I would sleep for 12 hours straight.

30 minutes before the 12th hour, I heard the toilet flush.

I looked to the side, saw Maude still in bed, and promptly screamed.

Maude jolted, saw the bathroom door open, and ran inside with fists raised.

I rang the bell for the nurse on duty, who had already heard my scream and ran in our room.

The person in our bathroom was one of the janitors, who tried to explain that he hadn’t had a break and was just using our bathroom for a second to relieve himself.

Maude wasn’t amused.

“He’s a pervert! Why is there a male janitor roaming the halls at night?!” The nurse was scared of an incident, and called her manager who reassured me (a crying mess at this point) that everything was okay and that I should go back to sleep. To Maude, she crooked her finger and ushered her to the corner of the room, where they talked or rather hissed in indignant tones.

Maude sighed in defeat first, which made the nurse manager smile in satisfaction, then she waved at me and said goodnight warmly before her and the other nurse left.

Maude sat on her bed, not facing me, and said as she started at the wall, “Expect more of this bullshit at Harrisbridge.”

I went over to her in my hospital gown, resting my hand on her worn black cashmere sweater, and said, “The Young and the Restless is on.”

She looked at me and laughed conspiratorially.

“How did you know I liked that soap?” she said.

“All old people do,” I replied.

We both stared, her squinting and me blank-faced, then we giggled together.

I said, “My mom worked home health. One of the people she helped was an Italian man that knew fluent Spanish. He would thus watch soaps in English and Español.”

“I know French, well, somewhat,” Maude said.

“Really?” I grinned. “How do you say I’m hungry?” I wanted to test her.

“Voulez vous tuna fish, parle vou Ingles? Merci!”

That gave me the first belly laugh I had the whole time I was there.

When we figured out that the nurses we saw before left and a new shift came in, we weedled with them to let us watch The Young and the Restless.

When my dad came by with a full pizza, after I complained of the bad hospital food, I shared with Maude and everyone else on the voluntary side of Ward 7.

So again Maude, I hope you are good.

Love, Chris

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Read my surreal novel: How to Be a Better Adult

Read my nerdy self-help book!: The Magical Girl’s Guide to Life

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