I called the cops on myself. Let that sink in. I was the one who picked up the phone. I was the one who asked for help. And what I got in return was one of the most dehumanizing experiences of my life.
I was detained and taken to the Orange County Mental Health facility in Santa Ana for a psychiatric evaluation. I went in vulnerable. I went in trusting that the people whose entire job is to help people in crisis would at least treat me like a human being. I was wrong.
The People Who Are Supposed to Help
From the moment I walked in, the tone was set. Not by me — by them. The nurses, the psychiatrist — they carried themselves like prison guards, not healthcare workers. There was no compassion. No warmth. No acknowledgment that the person in front of them was going through the worst moment of their life.
"Pee in a cup." "Hurry up."
No please. No explanation. No eye contact that said I see you. Just commands barked at me like I was an inconvenience to their shift. A female nurse named Diana was one of the worst offenders. Cold. Dismissive. Acting like basic human decency was above her pay grade.
Then the psychiatrist — an Indian guy who clearly couldn't be bothered. He's going through my medications and mid-list says "...and the rest of this shit." My medications. The things keeping me alive. This shit.
I Spoke Up
I couldn't take it anymore. I raised my voice. Not because I'm violent. Not because I'm unstable. Because I'm a human being and I'd had enough. I called them out — the demeaning tone, the condescension, the way they talked to me like I was beneath them. They looked at me like I was the problem. Like they weren't doing anything wrong. Like being disrespected is just part of the deal when you're on a psychiatric hold.
That's the trick, isn't it? You're the one in crisis, so anything you say or feel gets written off. You're "escalating." You're "agitated." You're the patient. They're the authority. And authority doesn't have to answer for how it treats people.
Pinned Down and Drugged
For raising my voice — for standing up for myself — I was pinned down. Then they injected me. Benadryl in one cheek. Some antipsychotic in the other. That was my punishment for asking to be treated with a shred of respect.
Think about that. I called for help. I cooperated. And because I told them their behavior was wrong, I got drugged against my will. In what world is that care?
The Other Side
After that, I was transferred to an inpatient facility. And honestly? It was a completely different experience. The staff were kind. The environment was calmer. I spent three days there with no phone, no distractions, nothing but myself and time.
It taught me a lot about boredom. About sitting with your own thoughts when there's nowhere to scroll, nobody to text, nothing to numb out with. Three days of that changes you. You start to hear yourself again.
What I'm Doing About It
I will be filing a formal complaint against the Orange County Mental Health facility in Santa Ana — specifically against the nurse Diana and the psychiatrist on duty that night. What happened to me wasn't care. It was a power trip disguised as protocol.
People in mental health crisis are some of the most vulnerable people on the planet. They deserve compassion, not contempt. If you work in mental health and you've lost your ability to treat people with basic dignity, find another career. You are doing more harm than the crisis itself.
I'm Back
I'm home now. I'm processing all of it. The experience was traumatic in ways I'm still unpacking. But I'm here. I asked for help and survived the people who were supposed to give it.
If you're reading this and you've been through something similar — I believe you. The system is broken. The people inside it can be cruel. And none of that is your fault.
I called the cops on myself because I wanted to live. I still do.