Poem: "A Dream of Lightning, Poorly Dreamed"

In a sterile room colored white

with a dash of pink to calm the nerves

The Conductor of light explained again

what purpose he serves, my pupils

wide as dimes, sweat on the palms of

my hands. The Conductor advised me

to send my mind to other times or,

if need be, to other lands.

He turned a switch that made me ache

His narrowed eyes watching, hoping I didn't

mistake his advice to retreat to unknown skies

as a license for madness so impure,

the very thing his machine was built to cure.

General Nathaniel Lyon, stark raving mad

Hero of the Union and the Bonny Blue flag

was a comrade in my dusty room, born of

books rotted to rags. The wearied ugly men

they described rose from the tomb, contrary

to what was prescribed, smelling of mildewed

air, soothing my heart from despair with a

beautiful gloom.

I accompanied him to Missouri, 1861,

where we drilled the German volunteers

in cannon and gun, the fanatic General's

disdain for the mutineers driving his every

order, his instructions strict for every man,

his every lunatic harebrained plan.

A brambled red beard matched his uniform, 

rumpled, dirty, overworn. Lyon was not

revered, as a dog reveres a storm

and delights in peace when it's done -

he was called insane, “an old son of a gun, 

punished properly at last,” said the officers 

when he was slain, a figure obscured by night and past. 

Not one would mourn his life when he was dead - 

“the army is my wife,” he always said.

General Lyon, soldier, native son and trooper

was just mad enough to retake the state

from the South, and I in my stupor for science's sake

would rouse the troops with the might in my mouth.

Lightning corrupted the sky like

Leviathan in the sea; we feared not,

hearts and caps in hands, the men under

my command in Battery C.

We responded to the lightning in kind

as the Missouri sky turned a hideous hue –

“We are fighting under a man out of his mind!

General Lyon, we who are about to die,

salute you!”

We drove them back, the traitors, the Rebs

with powder and fuse. Washington sent

wires, “attack!” and we fired every steel

and metal shape a cannon can use. 

We thought of our sweethearts at home 

So proud, waiting - my Zuzana, my belle -

as the lightning angrily shone, 

illuminating wrinkles in the clouds 

like a brain lit by fires of hell.

Governor Jackson trembled, but he was

relieved at the sight of McCulloch, Price and Pearce;

a rabble they resembled, as eager as we to fight,

their mad mutiny so wretched, the lightning

above so fierce.

boom

I could not help but gaze at the sky as the

bolts cracked boom the blue; things certain things 

turned to haze as General Lyon fell, bleeding 

brains and Union blue.

I tried to rally my Battery, but no words came;

it was as though the battle had faded, 

as though the lightning struck my brain, 

the Conductor somewhere satiated.

Bolts of Zeus, raining spite, struck boom crack my men,

took them away, turned them to puffs of smoke; 

a spear of white struck General Lyon where he lay,

not a drop of blood left to stain the earth where

his final rally he spoke.

zuzana send help

boom The men were called to retreat - the order was not mine

My legs were like worms bang crack, my boots like concrete

as wore and were taken time faded. pow  

the lightning struck again Zuzana 

to die un repentant benumbs me

I saw my men flee, those not eviscerated 

boom

Not a soldier left in Battery C

Strike again! I dared. 

No. No, I didn't. I couldn't have dared.

boom crack pow

Not such an electric sky, not a fool such as I.

Never surrender. Fight for the bonny blue and for Zuzana.

But who's Zuzana? Nobody. Never surrender

boom rumble

Nobody

quiet

My toes curled in my boots but my

boots were in a corner

I remember putting them there because 

that's where the nurse said.

One mustn't die with his boots off

though I am not dead

I am not dead

Tho' I may as well be

Like my friend the General

The dream is lost for Battery C

pow

Zeus has taken my cannons from me

from the book Amen, Bad Luck To You

The Semantics of Suicide

For some, it's become inappropriate to use the term "commit suicide." The reasoning behind this is that the word "commit" implies a crime or a moral wrong - i.e. committing adultery, committing murder. Of course, emotional and psychiatric duress should never be classified as something morally reprehensible. So, alternate terms are suggested: "died by suicide," or the somewhat and confusing morbid "completed suicide."

Being a career mental patient, under consistent psychiatric care since I was 14 (I'm now 35), and having attempted to take my own life at least once in the past, I feel I have an authority to speak on the subject, and the right to give advice to anyone else who's struggled with such things:

If you ever confide in someone about your personal experience, and they correct or rebuke you for using the term "commit suicide," should you choose to phrase it that way, you have every right to tell that person to bugger off. To go fly a kite, to suck an egg, to die mad about it. Anyway you choose to phrase it: this is your story, your experience, your struggle. You are under no obligation to adhere to the vocabulary of anyone's else's ideology. 

There's enough anxiety in life as it is, for both mentally healthy and unhealthy people, without adding to it by walking on eggshells to placate others. Don't go out of your way to offend people - but if mental health matters, as we say every May, be good to yourself and don't allow others to burden you with more tension than what's already necessary in daily life.

Sincerely,

a chronic mental patient

New novel, "Theodora" - Just a story about a kid who's hurting

I've written a novel, which you can check out here. It's not a political statement; just a story about a kid who's hurting and feels like nobody cares.

Theo Davis sees a counselor for body dysmorphic disorder. She insists her nose is "freakishly huge," and that it's not in her head. When her best friend is killed in a school shooting that stuns her small Nebraska town, her mental health begins to rapidly decline; Theo spirals into depression, anxiety, confusion, and anger, her grief more than she can handle. When she resorts to self-harm, breaking her own nose, Theo is sent to a mental hospital, where she meets teens just like her - in pain, lost, and wondering what it really means to "grow up." She learns the other patients' stories and becomes determined to show them, in the midst of her own pain, that those stories - their lives - are more important than they realize.

When the Nobodies Die

I've been in psychiatric treatment for eighteen years this August - over half my life. I've been hospitalized in mental health facilities over a dozen times; on January 8, 2006 I attempted suicide and failed; four of the six medications I'm prescribed are psychiatric drugs; I feel I'm qualified to talk about mental illness.

I wish that the world would mourn so strongly when anyone, not just a celebrity, no matter how beloved, dies in the throes of depression. We're all beloved in God's eyes. Even if TMZ and CNN don't know our names, He does. I wish we mourned as openly and as deeply for Mary in Jonesboro, for Henry in Marseilles, for Nora in Manila - not only if they took their own lives in despair, but if they live with tears and hunger. Why shouldn't I also Tweet and wear a black armband for an "unknown" O.D. victim? Why should we reserve our loudest calls for mental health funding for when a beloved and well-known figure takes their life?

How many lives could be saved if we stopped reserving our tears for only the most stunning tragedies, and gave them to everyone with a broken heart? And how many more would be encouraged if we just as openly celebrated the return of their hope, once lost in darkness?

"Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep." -Romans 12:15

Christians & Suicide

It's almost impossible to make the claim that suicide will not send a Christian to hell without
appearing as though you're advocating the taking of one's life. I've seen many people make the argument that suicide is not an unforgivable sin, only to be accused of heresy or abandon for the sanctity of life. But I don't write this to make suicide look harmless or pure. It's not. God does not wish for anyone to take their own life - if a person does so, they are trying to usurp the authority of God. Suicide may seem like a way of relief to we who are in despair, but it only punishes those we leave behind - it leaves them with guilt, questions, and agony. We have no right to do so to those we love.

Having said that, it's not my wish to defend suicide, but only to refute a teaching that is not Biblically based, despite being taught and believed by many Christians. We all have a duty to rebuke false teachings, no matter how well-intended they may be. In this case, it's the teaching that suicide is an unforgivable sin, even for a saved person; that suicide is a one-way ticket to hell, despite Jesus' death and resurrection. Again, I write these things not to defend or encourage suicide, but only as a way to, firstly, refute an incorrect notion concerning the Bible, and to perhaps assure those with saved loved ones who have taken their own lives that their sin - and suicide is indeed a sin - did not negate Jesus' covenant.

First, let's look at suicide from a mental and emotional point of view. The human instinct is to survive. If one's brain has seemingly lost that instinct, and instead harbors the opposite and a longing to die, something is wrong. I'm not saying that their obviously impaired mental judgment relieves them wholly of responsibility; I only say this to provide insight to what's going on in their heads. I've attempted suicide once, on January 8, 2006, and I'm glad to say I failed. Further, for the better part of the next year, I planned again to take my own life. But the hand of God delivered me - that terrible year came and went, but I did not go with it. Since then, there have been times when I desired so strongly to die that I've considered ending my own life. But love has preserved me. Praise God! "The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly" (John 10:10).

Now, let's talk about what is truly "the unforgivable sin."

Many Christians develop their notion that suicide is an unforgivable sin based on the suicide of Judas Iscariot. But they're missing the bigger picture beyond Judas' noose. Judas will not inherit the kingdom of God, not because he hanged himself, but because of his betrayal of Jesus Christ into the hands of sinners. Judas not only betrayed our Lord, but was not a godly man before that - John's account mentions that he would regularly steal the money kept by the disciples. (But even so, I find it an example of God's unfathomable grace that, for a time, Judas Iscariot was an apostle - given authority by Jesus to heal the sick and cast out unclean spirits - imagine! The man who would betray our Lord, given the power by the same Lord to do amazing things to proclaim His kingdom!)

The actual "unforgivable sin" cannot be committed today, because those who committed this sin are no longer alive. This sin was the blasphemy against the Holy Spirit spoken by the scribes and Pharisees who rejected Jesus. They attributed His works to Satan. Mark chapter 3 reads: "Assuredly, I say to you, all sins will be forgiven the sons of men, and whatever blasphemies they may utter; but he who blasphemes against the Holy Spirit never has forgiveness, but is subject to eternal condemnation” - because they said, “He has an unclean spirit.”" These people - the "wicked and adulterous generation," as Jesus called them - have all since died.

The unforgivable sin today is more of an unforgivable state - the state of unrepentant rejection of Jesus as Lord.

Now let's look at the argument that the suicide of a saved person will revoke their salvation.

"Even a Christian goes to hell if they commit suicide."
Why does this particular sin nullify Christ's work on the cross? Does His death not atone for all sins of those who accept Him?
"But there's obviously no way for them to atone for it afterwards, because they're dead."
So the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross is incomplete? This is what's implied if some additional human chore is needed. Our only responsibility is to accept it or reject it. How can we call Christ's atoning blood complete if a sin still needs some human action to be considered forgiven? 
"The person took their own life! That's wrong!"
It is wrong. But what if a saved person gets into an argument with a loved one and says heated things they didn't mean, then moments later, suffers a heart attack? Or if two unmarried people fornicate, and on the way home they're killed in a fatal car crash? Because they didn't have time or chance to 'atone' for that sin by some special prayer, confession, or deed before they happened to die moments later, does that prevent them from entering into eternity with Jesus?
"Those sins are not as bad as suicide."
There are sins that are more severe than others. But all of them boil down to disobedience to God. Romans 6:1 tells us that, just because we're saved and under grace, doesn't mean we should go about sinning, shrugging it off with 'I'm already saved.' That's not living under grace - that's attempting to trample it. But even so, no mistake made by a saved person is bigger than the body and blood of Christ. To say so is to say the sacrifice of God is not sufficient without human works. If this is the case, we should begin stocking up on animals for sacrifices to atone for our sins, because the blood of Christ is somehow negated by certain wrongs.

There is no Scriptural evidence to support the claim that the sin of suicide negates the cross for a saved person.

The person who takes his or her own life will give an account on the Day of Judgment, as we all will, and the sin that ended their mortal life will surely be among the things they must answer for. The premature ending of their own life will leave many chances to minister to others undone, and unclaimed rewards in heaven. But it does not hinder one of Christ's sheep from entering into His eternal pasture which He has promised to those who believe His word - even if their minds and hearts were so tormented or broken they felt they could not wait for their Shepherd's comforting staff.

Suicide is a sin against God. But it is also, in most cases, a sign of something terribly wrong with the mind - a broken heart can drive the mind to fragility, and vice versa. If someone you know has contemplated or attempted suicide, or even alluded to not wanting to live anymore, minister to them as much as you're able, and encourage them to seek professional help. We must also remind them there is no hopelessness in Christ. He can lead us through the most pitch black of darkness, the most grueling and agonizing of sorrows, the most devastating of losses and loneliness.

The Bible never promises a rainbow-riddled fairy tale world for believers. In fact, the Bible promises pain and hardship. But we're also promised abundant life, both on earth and in eternity. Giving up in pain and idly waiting for death is not living. To say that death is our release from sin and misery is to say death is our savior, not Jesus. This is one of the many lies in which the devil delights.

Let us not relegate suicide prevention and awareness to copy-and-paste posts on social media. Everyone who ever took their own life, saved or not, had a story. It's our job as Christians, as ambassadors for Christ who died and rose again, to be compassionate and loving, even in the midst of our own heartaches, to take the time to hear another's story, another's despair. While a person in distress still breathes, let our focus not be to drill into their heads the sinfulness of suicide - they know this well. I knew it well, but as with any other temptation, my flesh and my mind warred against me to the point that I allowed myself not to care, at least for the moment. Rather than a lecture on sin, let our focus be to show them the love of Christ who longs for them to continue on with their brothers and sisters through the valley of the shadow of death, shining the light and unkillable hope of His Gospel in a dark and ugly world.

For more information on how to help the mentally ill, please visit nami.org.

There's Nothing Wrong With Your Mind, Kid

Of my thirteen stays in various psychiatric hospitals between 2001 and 2008, six of them took place during my adolescent years. I was usually given the doctors that the other teens didn't see, due to the fact that my mental problems were more complex, at least for a teenager. Many of the other kids were either experiencing a more intense form of the already-daunting emotional storm that comes with being that age, or they were R.P. McMurphy types - accepting a stay in a mental hospital to avoid jail.

But, in this mix of genuinely troubled children, and juveniles savvy enough to exploit the system, there was always a third kind: kids locked in the mental hospital for the sole reason that their situation at home was no longer safe. They had been neglected, mistreated, or abused. Many of them were placed in the hospital to await placement in a foster home; others were there while their parents showed up daily for "family therapy" sessions; but more disturbing, others were there to begin a "residential treatment" program.

Even then, with my own troubles to deal with, I wondered, "What are they doing here?"

It's not as if I had some bitter notion that they were taking away from the hospitals' resources. It's not that I didn't understand that they needed somewhere to stay that wasn't ruled by an abusive relative. But there were deeper things that puzzled me, and still do, about these kids.

For one thing, why were they being given psychiatric medication? Don't misunderstand me - I understood it if the child had been driven into depression, anxiety, or some other post-traumatic or pre-existing symptom. But that was very seldom the case, at least in the experiences I'm describing. There were many others who were not mentally ill, but rightfully uncertain and afraid about the future. I felt back then, and I feel even more strongly now, "you've been abused! You've been wronged! You're not the sick one!"
What troubled me even more was that, as confused and as fearful as many of these children were, the sheer act of being given a pill for their minds was basically drilling into their souls a notion that there was something wrong with them mentally because they had been abused. Without a word, but with a pill, they were told: you have been mistreated; therefore you're sick.
I was never abused or mistreated by my parents, but if someone told me there was something wrong with my mind because I'd been abused, when it wasn't me who was the crazy one, I would develop the notion that the abuse I suffered had somehow been my fault.

And indeed, many of my fellow patients with whom I kept contact into adulthood (as well as others I met during my later stays in adult wards) harbor some guilt or self-loathing behavior due not only to what they experienced at home, but because someone told them there was a flaw in their minds when they were taken from that danger.

Growing up with so many stays in mental hospitals where these things were commonplace, I made many friends who wouldn't have been in those wards had it not been for a deliverance from an abusive home. But what were they delivered to? A hospital where someone tells them "you were neglected and abused by someone you trusted, someone who should have cared for you, so you're mentally unstable and need pills"? It made no sense to me.

And what's more, I watched many of them grow up from being abused children, to children convinced they were mentally ill because of that abuse, to adults who, because of what they were told, can't handle life and make a mess of it because they've been deceived into thinking "it's supposed to be this way - my mind is messed up, and I'm messed up." I've had many friends who don't have the strength to handle being an adult because no one told them they were strong as a child. No one told them, "hey kid, you've got more guts than me - I could never go through that and not lose my mind. But you held it together. You're a brave, strong person, and you've got a bright future ahead of you, if you believe it."

If anyone out there is reading this, and you've found yourself in a mental hospital as a result of having a bad home life, when you get out, keep in mind that you're not the crazy one. You're not the sick dirtbag who beat you, who preferred some poison or powder over your needs, who didn't care about the precious life they'd been entrusted to keep safe. If you developed some post-traumatic mental illness, address it by all means. There's nothing wrong with being ill. But don't let anyone tell you that you were the one who needed pills based on the fact that some maniac hurt you. Don't let someone tell you that you weren't strong.

Don't let some pill forced down your throat when you're a kid shape the kind of person you become when you're an adult. Let your bravery and strength shape you instead.

"What do you think you are, crazy? Well you're not! You're not! You're no crazier than the average ***hole out walkin' around on the street!"
-Jack Nicholson as R.P. McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)

My Sinful Desire For Death

"I think it's a sin not to want to live." - Warren Zevon

There was a time in my life (it may be known to you as "2005-2009") when I didn't like being alive. To put it further, I didn't want to live anymore. For the most part, I wasn't doing anything to hasten my death - save for a suicide attempt on January 8, 2006, which as it turned out did no damage whatsoever to my physical well-being.

My desire to die came from a compound of things, namely a psychiatric illness that still backhands me, an illness I can describe best as being like "an anthology of vulgar words on a vandalized memorial." What made it worse was the devil's exploitation of my illness; it's no sin to be ill by any means, and any doctrine that teaches so is un-Biblical and false. Knowing God has things for me to do, epic and awesome things, the devil decided to try and convince me to not do anything at all but wait for death, knowing he could no longer convince me to commit outright suicide.

But though it's no sin to be ill, mentally or physically, my sin lay in the things borne of my desire for death. In 2 Corinthians 5:1-8, the apostle Paul wrote of worldly trials and the subsequent desire to leave this earth and be with God in heaven, and the promise that, though we remain temporarily on this earth, we have a heavenly home with the Lord to which we will go someday.
But my desire to die defied God's holy Scripture in that, though my main want was to be with Him and away from pain, I did not delight in doing His will by living before dying; rather, I was merely existing.
Further, each aspect of my wish for death was rooted in selfishness and vanity. When I'd fantasize about my funeral I'd think of what song they would play; maybe some mid-tempo tune that described me so poignantly. I'd think of people getting up to speak, telling stories of me, and the funny things I did; I'd even relish the thought of Marlon Prichard telling of the time I tricked him into joining the Black Panthers, eliciting laughter for me, and of course, tears for me.

Philippians 3:7-14 tells us of leaving our worldly riches, our worldly wisdoms and self-perceived awesomenesses behind for the sake of following Christ. In my case, my riches in this world were very dark and bitter riches, a wealth of death and tears.

These days, I revel not in a desire to die, but I revel in the struggles on earth, the battles of good and evil, the overcoming of painful, lonely trials with faith and love. It oddly gives me strength, to hear someone tell me that my belief is an unevolved superstition, as the whole time my faith is cursed, I live and feel His strength and truth down to my bone marrow - I liken their mockery to the college kids in the 60s who spat on Vietnam War veterans; they were haughty in their own perceived righteousness, and held disdain for those who had been to war, all the while safe with their Dylan records and smoky dorms.
I'm living now, and painful as living can be, I'm alive; God delivered me, and led me away from the cushy, Nerf-soft comfort of hopelessness and death.

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.