Anonymous Consumer
Age: 40

San Francisco General Hospital's Mental Health Rehabilitation facility is a 147-bed locked facility for adults. This 40-year-old woman, diagnosed as manic depressive, was admitted to the facility one month ago. Prior to her stay here, she lived on the streets for two years.

I used to be a happy-go-lucky person, and I could always find work. And now I got into a very stressful period, where I started to worry about everything. Money. Relationships. Job. And housing. And it just became too much. I was having a relationship with someone, and it just broke completely. It started with fighting and ended with me getting kicked out of the house. I went to my family, but they didn't know what was wrong. My brother told me I couldn't live there anymore, so I returned to San Francisco, and that is basically when I became homeless about two years ago. It's gotten worst as I got older. In a manic stage, you get very tense, sometimes paranoid, and very anxious. So putting me in any kind of situation that I know would cause stress...I have to either be with someone who can take over during a stressful time or I think I have to premedicate myself.

I tried to medicate myself through marijuana, but it made me arouse verbally. During a manic stage, I would verbally trespass on people--get into fights verbally with people. I had to cut out the marijuana, because it just made me this free-speaking, free-floating, ranting machine. That was scary, when I came down from it. I realized that I could cause a fight just by trying to relax on marijuana.

I was arrested, I think seven times, during my two years homeless--three times it was for trespassing, once it was for vandalizing and once for fighting.

How I got here, my social worker picked me up with two officers. I just wasn't taking care of myself. I was sleeping outside. I'd have to dig through the garbage for food, or I'd have to wait for someone to give me money before I ate. I never begged for money. I found that dehydration was a problem, more than hunger. I had no shoes, I had no coat. I was wearing a torn shirt. And my social worker somehow recognized me. If they hadn't caught me when they did, I would just be out there wandering like those guys that you see out there on the streets.

Most people stay here about six months. That's a long time, but I'm glad I'm not doing that time in jail or something. I want to straighten out my meds. Right now the medication makes me feel sluggish, like my mind has a vacuum cleaner on it. It's sucked out a lot of my energy. That is one the reasons you stay in here so long, so they can get your symptoms right, and the medication. And I want to take care of my anxiety, which I find almost debilitating. It is like my anger will knock me in the back of the head before I even know that something is producing anxiety in me.

They don't have a lot of talk therapy here. And I was molested when I was younger, which didn't do me any good. So I've kind of dumped on a friend. We've kind of befriended each other--she's also a patient here.

It can be really boring in here sometimes. It's like time against the walls, hallways and linoleum. There is a small courtyard--50 feet long and 25 feet wide. They have some activities. I go to anger management class, and there is also a small library that I volunteer in. And we get to go to church once or twice a week. Other than that, it's breakfast, lunch and dinner. It's not the worst place you can be, but I do wish they had more facilities.

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