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n my last day in Woodhull a nurse shouts my name for medication. She asks me (the only time this happened) like I’m a child, “Do you know what medication you’re supposed to be taking?” as she hands me a cup containing pills.

“Prozac,” I reply.

“No,” she says to me patiently, and is about to explain my medication, then stops and asks, “What is your name?” I tell her. She does some checking, withdraws the first cup of who-knows-what pills and takes out another. Without missing a beat, in the same authoritative tone, says, “Okay, the medication you take is Prozac.”

I ask her, what were those other pills that she was going to give me? She shakes her head and ignores me.

A week in the hospital and I’ve been given Mellaril (refused), Benadryl, Trazodone (an anti-depressant), Prozac and Ativan. Toward the end of my stay, my hand and fingers start to twitch and spasm.

Later that day I sit with a nurse in the middle of the day room amid the incessant and ridiculously loud clanging bells of a fire alarm. She asks me if I was hearing voices, want to hurt myself, hurt others. No, no, no.

“Did you hate this?” she asks me. Surprised by the question, I answer yes, I did. “Don’t,” she says. “Don’t regret being here.” She gives me paperwork for an out-patient appointment and tells me help is available if I need it. I nod my head.

I give my last pay phone quarter to Cynthia, get my belt and shoelaces back, and they unlock the door to release me.

Kevin Heldman, a former editor at City Limits, was a 1996 and 1997 finalist for the Livingston Award in international reporting and the winner of a 1998 National Mental Health Association award for excellence in mental health reporting.