Up in the City, Down in the River

Up in the city, they're all safe with their troubles, with art on their minds. Up in the city, they're telling each other how they're beyond redemption, in the comfort of a neon Budweiser sign. Up in the city, they're telling each other how there ain't no hope, in the comfort of a Gotye tune. Up in the city, they're writing sonnets and things of such, telling each other and the others how hard it is to be them.
And down in the river, I'm in trouble; here no man can rescue me.
Up in the city, they're shrieking in delight at the next song - careful not to forget to tell the rest of the world, every ear to hear, how terrible life is.
And down in the river, I'm fighting the tide.
Up in the city, they're warm in coats made in far away places, wearing smiles custom-made from above - careful not to forget to furrow in pain for a picture.
And down in the river, my ship has been dashed to pieces and I'm cussing, I'm asking forgiveness, and cussing some more.
And I wish I had a heathen crew to throw me overboard when they find out I'm the reason we're going down. And I wish for a giant fish to swallow me up. I remember Jonah and I might as well have seen it with my own eyes, I believe it so hard.
Up in the city, they're telling each other why my love could never be. They're telling each other and the others how it begins in ooze and ends in waste, why there ain't nobody who's guilty and why there ain't nobody can be made innocent. Up in the city, they're unaware of my drowning, beneath them somewhere, where no man, no woman, no guitar riff, no wit can rescue me.

And I thought I saw the lights of the city above me go out; but it was just the murky depths taking it away from me. And I thought I saw Leviathan, coming at me with them fiery eyes; but it was just some weird thing that happens to your head when you lose your breath.
But I looked up, and I saw the Lord Jesus' feet. And it was so strange; I was drowning and terrified, but my mind, though short-circuiting with no air, still found time to revel in the thought that up there in the city somewhere, they were reveling in the thought of Him being dead, and how they'd tell me what I saw was just some malfunction, biology's fault.
And I reached my hand up, and before I could touch the strap of His sandal, I found myself on the shore. I prepared myself to cough and hack up the muddy waters that filled my lungs. But I only lay in peace on a thousand rocks, rocks that stayed rocks when Jesus rebuked the devil and refused to turn stone to bread. I could see bits and pieces of my ship, flotsam and jetsam still battered by the wind and waters, angry foam waves fighting with each other to destroy the last piece of my work.
Up in the city, they cried how ugly the storm below them would be; they announced to the world that it's a tragedy that no one can escape, for wind and wave obey no one, and no one will be held accountable if he murders in the wrath of nature; then they climbed inside the jukebox with their chosen romantic cohorts and wrote: 
"it's moments like these that make life worth living..."
The city just ain't no good. 

Big Spring State Hospital, I Hate Every Inch of You: The Problem With America's Mental Hospitals

Although my first admission to a psychiatric facility came as an adolescent, I would eventually carry thirteen stays in such hospitals under my belt, from 2001 at age fourteen, through 2008 at age twenty-two. I identified many of the same problems with these places in both adolescent and adult wards, which further suggests the apathy given to the treatment of the truly mentally ill. We've come a long way since the days of shock treatment, lobotomies, insulin shock therapy, and ice baths, but the general malaise in which patients find themselves in these places is just as counterproductive and damaging.

The reason I've not entered another mental hospital in four and a half years is not because I don't need treatment, but because after over a dozen stays in these facilities, I was finally smart enough to realize nothing they offered was any help to my condition.

The biggest problem I noticed was that all patients are treated as if they have the same psychiatric problem; I'm sure in the ten minutes during which they see the resident doctor, they're given slightly more specific attention, but otherwise all patients are treated as if:
a.)  they are threats to themselves or others;
b.) they've done something wrong by coming to the hospital, that their mental or emotional issue is a character flaw that needs working on, rather than a chemical imbalance in the brain for instance;
c.) self-esteem is the cure for any of their ailments.

Not to take anything away from the knowledge and expertise of the lady who hands out the ping-pong equipment, but during my last visit to such a facility, the Pavilion in Amarillo, Texas, the group of patients in which I found myself was scolded by the lady who ran the rec room - not for playing White Rabbit on the stereo system, but because we were in the hospital. She spoke to us of "responsibility," and asked us what we need to "evaluate" in our "personal lives" to keep us from coming back.
I don't pride myself on being a great guy, because I'm not. I also have very little sympathy for myself. But, I am quite sure that the malformation on my brain and other chemical imbalances that cause my psychiatric dysfunction are not caused by tardiness to work or social functions, leaving the toilet seat up, or wearing the same shirt two or three days in a row.

All patients are treated the same - socially dangerous, personally irresponsible, and in need of a game of Nerf basketball to perk them up. If we were in a hospital for physical problems, the patient with the fractured ankle would be treated differently than the patient with bronchitis; the woman in childbirth is given different and more immediate attention than the man who accidentally put a Swingline staple in his finger.
This should be no different at psychiatric hospitals. Patients should be treated and segregated according to the severity and nature of their illness - someone suffering from an especially bad time with panic attacks should not be made to share a room with the patient who suffers from violent episodes and smashes hospital property. Likewise patients without suicidal urges or thoughts should not be treated or restricted for something from which they don't suffer. A doctor in an emergency room would not put a cast on the leg of a patient with appendicitis.

Some may say "How do we know? We don't want to take the risk of someone lying about suicidal thoughts." One reason doctors and staff can't tell who's suicidal and who is not, is because so many leeches on the system will dig at themselves with a spoon, make a superficial cut across their wrist, or make empty threats of suicide, all to spite a loved or hated one at home - they're then sent to these psychiatric facilities, consuming the time, energy, and resources of the available staff, not to mention the funding of the hospitals. One would think this is predominant in adolescent wards, but unfortunately I've seen it quite often as an adult. This also may be why so many patients with genuine illnesses are chided by recreational therapists for perceived character flaws.

One final suggestion, pertaining to one specific hospital - Big Spring State Hospital in Big Spring, Texas. That particular facility can be helped by the following measures: sending all of its patients elsewhere, preferably to places that have stepped out of the 1950s in terms of treating the mentally ill, the buildings themselves burned to the ground, paved over, and a Panda Express built in its place.
The staff meanwhile could benefit from evaluation, and possible treatments, for mental illnesses themselves.