The Hospital

By eighth grade, my depression had taken such a turn that I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. I was thirteen years old. My mom drove three hours, since this was the nearest hospital admitting people my age. It's a day I will never forget.

I walked into the hospital waiting room, my suitcase dragging on the tiled floor. My mom, close by, spoke with the secretary about my appointment.After a few minutes, a nurse called me into a small room. He was very friendly, but my anxiety was grasping tightly around my neck, my body trembling. I learned I would be admitted shortly after the meeting ended. 

I was lead into an even smaller room just past the adolescent wing, where a small woman with dark hair explained the rules of the hospital. No touching. No exchanging contact information. One dessert per meal. After what seemed like eternity, I was guided out of the doorway where I said goodbye. Heat rose to my face and I didn't want to let go. In the group therapy room nearby, about twenty teens looked at me, some looking unfriendly.

After being told to join the patients, I tried to explain to a nurse that my anxiety was bothering me and I didn't want to participate. I ended up having to go anyway. 

Everyone began working on our "road to recovery" drawing, mine being crude, orange scribbles. I looked up for a split second to see a strawberry-blond girl, Emma, nearby. She'd serve as eye-candy for the next few days. I remember as I explained my project, the heat rose once more to my face. We're then dismissed and before I know it, I'm walking down the hallway, to my room. A fifteen-looking boy walks by my side and explains kindly that he's my roommate, bordering on patronizing. 

I'm unpacking and he strikes up a conversation. He asks why I'm here, and I explain everything except for leaving out the big detail - that I was an in-the-closet bisexual with little self acceptance. "I cut too," he says, eyeing the red marks visible on my body. I peer over to see deep purple scars lining his arms

I met with my psychiatrist, who I nicknamed "Doctor Weirdie." She was tall and skinny, around fifty with slightly protruding teeth. At the end of the session,  I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, due to the uncontrollable thoughts  I'd have that would torment me. She also said I seemed "a little bipolar," but they don't diagnose until in the twenties.

The group heads for the gymnasium after everyone has met with their assigned psychiatrist. The counselors wave their ID's over a sensor in front of every doorway, to verify that they aren't a runaway patient or an unauthorized visitor.

Inside, the floor is covered in carpet and worn down exercise machines line the walls. A few kids play basketball while others are at the far end, on the exercise bikes. The counselors then gather everyone at one wall, saying the group will be playing some sort of tag. By the second round, I'm it.

Amazingly, my anxiety evaporated into thin air. I was actually happy for the first time in three years. As a boy in his early teens, speed was on my side. I remember snagging Emma, "you're fast!" she exclaims. I'm sure most of the other patients agreed.

We settled down afterwards by watching Patch Adams starring Robin Williams. Midway through, the television is turned off and everyone scrambles for the phones. I'm able to talk with my mom who is staying at a nearby hotel, where I explain I'm doing better than I thought.

When it's time for bed, after a patient was discharged, I learned I'd get a room to myself. I was disappointed, as I had become comfortable with my roommate. The night was hard, as I thought a lot about my family.

The next morning, I wake up to see a few more patients, a boy with black hair and a lip ring along with a girl in blue scrubs. The nurses and counselors take our vitals and then lead us to the cafeteria. In line, I see only one thing that looks good. A cinnamon roll is all that I have on my tray when I sit down. A counselor walks over to me and sternly tells me to get something else besides "this dessert." I glumly walk back to the food and grab a box of cereal.

Group therapy comes next where a tall man with glasses leads. He isn't afraid to use profane language as he speaks with every individual. I'm surprised when I hear stories of sex, drug use and other things the patients speak about. 

Throughout my five days there, we watched movies, excersised and did artwork. My favorite was still group therapy, where I received input on my problems. 

Anxiety, Anxiety, Go Away

I was diagnosed with OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) in 2010. Not only am I plagued by intrusive thoughts, anxiety is another factor.

I've had the symptoms since I was young, feeling shy around new people. By fourth grade, when I went to a new school, rules were a lot stricter. You'd get a detention for doing many things.  I'm lucky that I never got one, but many classmates who were generally good kids got them. 

Sixth grade was a whole new story. The middle school required moving to a new class every period within four minutes. If you were late, you received a one point infraction. Forgetting anything required for class resulted in one as well. Three points were given for rule breaking and five for anything more severe. Any student that had more than two infractions per week was sentenced to detention during lunch. 

Adjusting to this new lifestyle was difficult. My combination on my locker always gave me trouble. I'd frantically run back and forth in between classes for my books, where four minutes were barely enough. My first infraction was for being late to science class. My heart pounded out of my chest as I entered the room.  

By Thursday, I had an additional point for forgetting my student planner. The third, on Friday I broke down in tears. Pathetic, right? I'm a good kid, why am I getting a detention for everyday mistakes?

On Monday, I got a slip in hometown instructing me to go into the auditorium during lunch. I sat down on stage, facing the wall, in front of the whole study hall with the rest of the sixth graders who were as unfortunate as me. Waves of anxiety rattled down my spine for the full half hour. At least I was able to hold back tears this time. 

Tuesday, September 18th, 2007, I got a surprise. The teacher handed me a slip of paper in home room. It couldn't be. I had another detention, a fourth point was given. How? My heart fell to the bottom of my lungs. 

I remember vomiting from how anxious I felt. I ended up going home and sobbing to my mother when I told her what happened over the phone. 

The next day my teacher gave me a sheet that said which teachers gave me points. Someone else gave me one on Thursday of last week without telling me. Since the one on Friday wasn't counted until Monday, that explained why I had a second consecutive detention. 

For seventh grade, I switched to the local charter school who was much more lenient about their rules. It was still hard to adjust to new peers, but I ended up staying another year. 

My freshman year, I decided to transfer to the traditional way of education. High school. 

My first day, almost everyone I knew from sixth grade had changed. New cliques formed  which confused me about who to talk with. During lunch, I mostly sat alone, to scared to introduce myself to anyone. 

I rarely made eye contact which led one classmate to think I had autism. People often patronized me because I was quiet and was socially naïve. The year seemed like an eternity, but I made it through in once piece.

Today, three years later, my anxiety is still present, but thankfully, I'm on medication that reduces it to a lower degree. I've made progress, coming somewhat out of my shell. I still have my moments, but compared to the past, I feel tremendously better. Now all I need to do is talk louder!

Astrophysisist uses operant conditioning

Imagine returning home from the university. You’re tired and ready for a relaxing night of watching Anime television to wind down.

But there is one problem. Your roommate has this annoying girlfriend who he often invites to the apartment. She obnoxiously interrupts with crazy stories, including one about her one-nostrilled classmate.

“Her behavior was always getting on my nerves,” Sheldon Cooper told us, “My roommate, Leonard, refuses to do anything about his girlfriend’s behavior, so I took things into my own hands.”

The next time Leonard’s girlfriend, Penny, came over to watch television with them, Cooper rewarded her for behaving the way he wanted her to.

“She started off by talking about irrelevant subjects during the program. I reminded her that her chattering was not appropriate here, and she told me she would be quiet. ”

After shutting her mouth, Cooper rewarded Penny with a chocolate, as positive reinforcement to motivate her to stay silent instead of talking about idiotic things.

Cooper stated “Leonard was not happy about the last way I tried to correct Penny’s actions, so I figured operant conditioning would be a much less difficult and acceptable procedure in his eyes.”

Cooper also told us that he had a spray bottle handy in case Penny would get too out of hand, as a form of negative reinforcement.”

“I never ended up using that technique on Penny. When Leonard forbade me from conditioning Penny, I sprayed him instead.”