#baker act

"Management focused on being punitive rather than encouraging and morale driven. New upper management at Bayside Behavioral Health is deceitful, threatening and retaliatory. HR does not intervene until flooded with complaints. Then they do the bare minimum. In any other state the environment would be consistent with bulling and a hostile work environment. Constantly being told by the DON that she has free will to fire anyone. No process or protocol followed, she just says your fired. New facility director has no clue and is being hand fed by the DON negative and derogatory lies about staff in which she has now lost all credibility with staff and lacks any leadership connection."

it's three am and i'm tired but i can't sleep because of the shaking, so i'm going to stand in the bathroom and smoke a cigarette out the window. listening to the superbestfriendcast, texting a friend, experiencing that rare moment of feeling like your life is under control, like you can make a change. feeling pretty okay. then she knocks and she comes in. and she's yelling about you smoking. and she's yelling about you being up all night long, yelling about you not sleeping like a normal person. she's yelling at me and i've dropped the smoke and i've dropped the phone and i'm yelling back. and suddenly fuck it, i don't need any of this shit. i mean, here i am, trying to get my shit together, trying to get myself back into a happy person, back into a person i can be good in, and she's fucking yelling at me for having a goddamn cigarette. i don't fucking need her, i don't fucking need any of this. grab my immediate shit and get the fuck out, streetwalker mode, only thing i'm taking is my cigarettes and my music player, a little personal time with me, john darnielle, and the asphalt. get out twenty feet from the door, stop, and turn back around. walk back in, because i know that i'm better than that. because i know that i can face up to my own mistakes, because i know that i can make these things work. i don't need to run from this shit, because i've handled this shit before, and i can handle it again, and i can make this work, because i really do want my life to get back to normal, to get back to being less shit. we sit outside and talk. we sit outside and i tell her, these days it feels like i can't change anything. these days it feels like i can't get anything done. shit job, shit friends, shit personal life. tell her it feels like i can't even change things with her. but also tell her, i live for the little things. tell her i look forward to my friends, to my hobbies, to my job, tell her i look forward to changing this stuff in the future. tell her that i can make a change, that i just need to find something to fill my time with, that i just need something i can put all my life into. and she's nodding, she's talking back, she's smiling, she brings the dog outside so i can pet it, everything's going to be alright. and then the cruisers show up, the officers with their flashlights. i look at her and i say, what the fuck is this? are you fucking serious? and she just looks down at her feet. ask the officer, can i at least have a cigarette while i wait? yeah, he says, just move your hands slowly. tells me about how he went up north when he turned eighteen, about how he got a job whitewater rafting, got out and found a bit of himself in the wild. i tell him how i'm trying to find a bit of myself in my music, how i'm trying to find a bit of myself in art, how i'm trying to find a bit of myself outside a bottle so i can exist without the monkey on my back. he nods and he talks and he lets me smoke, so right now he's my best friend. the pat-down, and they take away my smokes. they put me in the back of the car, tell me i'm being baker acted, due to some alarming things i said. i say, i'm sick of this shit, just take me away so i can get this over with. cruising down the street, five'o'clock in the morning, early risers commuting to work, me looking at all this shit through the bars in the back. shaking, shivering, tired, half-dead, wishing for a smoke but they told me they don't allow smokes in the ward. out past the airport, they have the strip churches, all those evangelicals selling a shot into heaven; and past that, they have the beauty salons and the strip clubs, promising a little bit of heaven on earth; and past that, they've got the MHC, they've got central processing, they've got bond sellers, they've got a little bit of hell. in through the back in the new sunlight and they're telling me that it's all going to be all right; fuck, i know it's going to be alright, i just want to go home, but of course i can't say that to the nurses, they're just doing their job. three hours. the freshly raped bipolarette sobbing in the chair next to me, screaming, you're ruining my life, i have to see my children. the nurses laughing about it in the room over, mocking her. the guy in the long jeans with the blanket over his head, junkie brewster DT'ing, shaking on the cot in the corner. three hours before they get my fucking information down, tell me i'm going to talk to somebody to get me out of here, and don't you want something to eat. no, i say, it's too much effort just to throw it up, but i just tell them i'm not hungry, i'm not in the mood, i just ate. shaking in the lobby, last seat in a row of crazies, wrapped up in blankets watching the thirtieth re-run of Full House on the TV. talk to the insurance lady, talk to the nurse, talk to the counselor, sit outside and wait. get up and check the board, walk back, sit down, get up and check the board, walk back, sit down. a change. underneath dispo, next to daniel p, it says, AES. fuck, that's new, what the hell does it mean? flag down a passing nurse, ask him, hey man, what does AES mean? he has no idea, of course not. flag down the motherfucker who made the decision, hey man, what does AES mean? he turns to me and says, you're admitted, and walks away. shaking. sobbing. crying. snot dripping from my nose, head between my knees, arms wrapped around myself, screaming to myself, no, no no. saying, i need to go, i want to go, i can't go. i can't leave. somebody lied about me, so i need to stay here, and i can't shit without permission, i can't sleep without permission, i need somebody to come in and wipe my fucking ass, i can't leave. i can't go. and i'm sobbing and i'm fucking wondering, why? why? why? i haven't seen a doctor, i want to see a doctor. tell one of the nurses, i want to see the doctor. she says, if you want to see a doctor, you have to sign this. i say, what does this do? she says, it allows us to release your medical information to her. well, alright then, if it lets me see a doctor, if it lets me explain that i don't want to fucking kill myself, if it lets me get out of this place. i sign it, i go outside, i sit, i wait. three hours go by. no doctor. and the shakes are getting worse and i'm barely hanging on and my head hurts and there's nothing to eat. smoke break. no smokes. we go outside, nobody has any smokes, not junkie brewster, not David who keeps calling me Ty and asking if I got his daughter anything nice, not the bipolarette, not the chubby hispanic teen who tried to kill her boyfriend, nobody has any smokes. we sit in the fenced-off corner of a tiny yard and we wait. and then we go back inside. go to the board. now it says West, instead of F2F. i ask a nurse, what does West mean? she says it means the west ward. i ask, why didn't i see a doctor? i was told i'd see a doctor? she says, the doctor looked at your baker act, and decided to admit you. i say, she didn't even see me? she couldn't take five minutes out of her fucking day of getting paid too much fucking money to sit on her fat ass and drink coffee and sentence motherfuckers to life imprisonment to check with me and see that i wasn't actually crazy? i'm not fucking good enough for her five minutes? i'm not a human being, worthy of respect? i'm not somebody with my own complex emotions and desires and ups and downs? i'm just a fucking piece of trash, apparently, i'm just a fucking number, i'm just a fucking slave in the goddamn system, so that i don't deserve to be talked to, i don't deserve to be seen, i'm just some motherfucker who deserves to be locked up and told what to do, because i'm not a human being after all. i'm a fucking number. sobbing. shaking. arguing. sobbing. they take me down a hall. they lock me in a room. they tell me, strip down. they tell me, wait here. i ask when my doctor will be in. nobody knows. i ask when i can leave. nobody knows. i ask why i'm here. nobody knows. i ask if i can leave. no. it's smoke break on the west ward. sit outside. people have smokes, but they're hiding it. if people know you have a pack, they're gonna swarm you asking for a spare cigarette. so they hide it. people go around making deals. hey buddy, can i get your short? can i butt with you? hey man, can i share that? we're all desperate for the little highs we can get. i try, but i can't. talk to Keith. Keith's feet are dirty and cracked; Keith's homeless. Keith says, that pastor down at New Beginnings, he's crooked. He says, my mom works for Urban Development, she knows he's under federal investigation for taking food stamps from parolees. He says, a homeboy of his, Pastor Ted made advances on. He says, known him a long time, and he's all in it for the money. Richard says, his family has known Pastor for years and years. says he knows the pastor's first wife, his current wife. Says he's heard the rumors about Ted being homosexual. Says that all the programs ask for your EBT stamps, he says that it's not against the law, says that it's voluntary. Keith asks, can you be in the program and keep your Metro card? Answer me that, can you keep your stamps and still be in the program? Keith talks to me, he says, what kind of pastor carries a 9 in the church? when you're a man of God and you've got a 9 in the church, when you're smoking cigarettes in the church, you're not on the better side of things. i've gotta agree. we both share our fond curses for Judge Keats, the parole judge. we both share our grumblings. Dinner time. I've been here twelve hours. can't move my hands too well. can't feel my face. can't believe i'm here. don't know why i'm here. i don't want to hurt myself, i don't want to hurt anyone else. where the hell is my doctor? nobody knows. microwaved dinners in the box, two cartons of milk. hey man, you can have my butter. guy's got Hard Life tattooed on his knuckles. bitches about the food, me and Keith agree. Richard chimes in, says it's usually better. watch shitty movie on the TV. go back to the ward. smoke break. dad manages to send me a pack of smokes in here. nurses sneak it to me over the counter, make sure nobody else knows. stand outside, and Keith knows. he asks me, man, can i get a smoke? i say, you gotta find happiness where you can. I hand out smokes like the Candyman. I give one to Keith, one to Hard Life, one to Richard. Frederick walks up to me and asks for one, I give him one. Give one to Junkie Brewster. We stand in communion. I give one to the carnie, the man with the tattooes on his face. we talk. we talk about smuggling in microdots in the lining of your briefcase. we talk about Fantasy Ranch and the DJs who used to play there. we talk about the pure crystal they used to have on the streets, back in the mid-90's. we talk about the shit-grade molly they've got now, all the kids thinking they've got gold when they've got meth. we talk about Amsterdam, we talk about buying bags of heroin. Frederick talks to me about the gospel, talks to me about King Crimson, talks to me about the music scene in Detroit. he says to me, i slept with a Glock next to my head a couple of nights, i'm a little fucked in the head. he's fifty-seven, been to forty-seven states, been out in the desert, been down the streets. he talks to me about the ministry that calls to him, talks to me about the good we find in all people, about how we're only human. talks to me about the little hand-crank radio he has, about how he listens to old sci-fi on the AM channels, about his old days as a trucker, about the way he talks to the wind, the music he makes. smoke break over. go inside. ask if i can shit. snacks. Cereal bars and decaf instant coffee in lukewarm water. talk to keith, talk to carnie, talk to richard, talk to hard life. bitch about the food. Immortals on the TV, bad movie, doesn't matter. go back to the ward. line up. blood pressure time. sleep time. lie down on the mattress. sweat. cry. sweat. shake. wake up. blood pressure time. breakfast time. smoke break time. share away the last of my pack. talk about heroin addiction. talk about the carnie, twenty-four years of working there. talk about richard's dad dying of cancer, him coming in one day and the doctors telling him he's fine, coming in the next and having to take him off ventilators, having to watch him die. how his wife killed his dogs when he came down to florida to put down his dad, how the only reason she's still breathing is because of his daughter, because of his little girl. he talks about how he's not a perfect man, about how he's only human, about how he got himself a record because of all this shit in his life, and now he's getting straight. i believe in richard. shoot the shit. wait. read the Bible, book of Job. my clothing is rendered, my hair is sprinkled with ash. and none of these wise men can convince me to believe in god. wait. talk to the doctor. five minutes, she says five words. i spend five minutes explaining the situation, and she discharges me. you couldn't have spared the time last night? you couldn't have spared the time yesterday morning, sitting in your office five feet from me? you fucking shit. you fucking piece of shit. you don't decide where i go. you don't decide when i live. YOU CAN NOT MAKE ME A FUCKING SLAVE. I AM A GODDAMN HUMAN BEING, YOU STUPID, INCOHERENT, IDIOTIC FUCKING IDIOT. I DESERVE RESPECT, YOU MOTHERFUCKER. I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING SLAVE waiting. leaving. sobbing on my dad's shoulder. mcdonald's. never tasted so good. riding home in the work truck, windows down, my face out the window, my tongue in the wind. i can taste the exhaust pipe smog, and it tastes good. go by her place. get all my shit in the boxes. leave. come back in. tell her, i want nothing to do with you. don't text me, don't call me. don't think you can ever make up for this. don't think you can ever excuse this. don't think you'll ever hear from me. head back. Pacific Rim. Fireball whiskey. Memories with my dad. Telling me, he loves me no matter what. telling me, i don't need her to make my life. telling me he'll advise me, he'll tell me what he thinks is right, but he'll never tell me what to do. he'll never tell me when i can fucking smoke. nobody will ever take away my shoes again. happiness.

A subject near and dear to my heart. The worst part was the final chapter where the authors were so hopeful about the future of mental health with the Affordable Care Act. An informative and incredibly easy to read book. I learned so much but with their narrative style, I also had a hard time putting it down and flew through several chapters in a day. I read it in two big chunks with a long break in between, but it was worth it. Highly recommended.

Ha! Only in Boca. You can tell all your friends you're out for awhile on a 'Baker Act'! Lmao