- Joined
- May 25, 2016
On July 17 2020 Greg Dean, author of reallifecomics, came out as as Mae Dean.
(archive)
The announcement drew hundreds of jubilant sycophants:
While Greg's coming out was a celebration for his followers, the same couldn't be said for Elizabeth Dean, Greg's wife of 13 years.
When Greg privately came out to Elizabeth in 2018, that announcement precipitated a nervous breakdown that put Elizabeth in a mental hospital.
On August 7 2020 she posted a 7000+ word lament about this "mental health hospital story".
I've emphasized some of the particularly delusional/ironic/bleak bits for reference. I snipped some stuff to avoid the post size limit.
2015 photo of the Dean family
2020 photo of Mae Dean
(archive)
The announcement drew hundreds of jubilant sycophants:
While Greg's coming out was a celebration for his followers, the same couldn't be said for Elizabeth Dean, Greg's wife of 13 years.
When Greg privately came out to Elizabeth in 2018, that announcement precipitated a nervous breakdown that put Elizabeth in a mental hospital.
On August 7 2020 she posted a 7000+ word lament about this "mental health hospital story".
I've emphasized some of the particularly delusional/ironic/bleak bits for reference. I snipped some stuff to avoid the post size limit.
(archive)Elizabeth Dean said:Here is my mental health hospital story. It's very long and far more detailed than the comics. So for this reason, please read ahead with caution. It can be rather upsetting at times.
Also, the pictures (except for the one of the hallway, which apparently has been repainted), are just visuals. They aren't photos of this facility, but I wanted to share what the beds, windows, pens, etc all looked like. I drew the floor plans to help augment the story as well.
________________________________________
In July of 2018, on a Monday, my husband of 13 years came out to me as transgender. She didn't know it herself until about 3 weeks before coming out to me; however, I had absolutely no idea. Actually, I assumed days before that she was going to divorce me -- she was acting distant, and starting to take a real interest in her self-care. When someone you live with for that long randomly changes their personality and habits, almost anyone would jump to that conclusion. So I had been walking on eggshells around her.
The timing wasn't ideal. I had just closed a very stressful theatrical production and was still decompressing. We were losing a board member for Errant Phoenix Productions and were preparing my business to go to GenCon in just a few weeks. Stress was my middle name. In fact, I was in bed, napping to recuperate, when she walked in and said "I need to tell you something. I think I'm suffering from dysphoria". Pause. I knew what dysphoria meant. I've had long, intimate conversations with trans friends of mine and learned a lot of the nitty-gritty of what it meant to be transgender. But I never expected those words to be coming from her mouth. Not this person I've been with for 16 years. My mind began racing. I asked if she wanted to transition. She said "yes". Pause. In that moment, life changed. The future I saw for myself deteriorated. I had always imagined growing older with a man. Specifically, THIS man. This isn't what I had planned for. How does one even navigate this? Funny enough, my partner looked at me and followed up with, "but nothing has changed!" We laugh about that now because, for me, everything changed. Our place in this world changed. How we interact with others had changed. Our relationship with our family had changed. Our relationship with our kid had changed. Hell, OUR relationship had changed. It wasn't necessarily bad, but life was now more tricky and there isn't any guidebook for how to navigate this new reality. In addition, the security I thought I had by knowing this human inside and out was completely shattered. Did I even truly know them?
We talked for several hours. I showed my support of her, because I will always support her no matter what. I love her. But inside I was still reeling. How were kids going to treat my daughter at school? How were the parents going to treat me? I am a Girl Scout leader, were they going to pull their kids from the troop? Was our fairly conservative neighborhood going to attack us? How were our parents going to take the news? My parents are in their 80's. Her parents are religious or pretty right-leaning... I began to spiral. I messaged an online friend of mine who was married to a trans woman because I felt like I had no where to turn. I couldn't call my parents, or friends, or well... anyone. It wasn't my place to tell this truth. She reassured me that my feelings were valid, which I still look back on every time I feel like an a-hole for worrying about stuff related to her transition. While she was a wonderful help, I didn't know her all that well and felt like I was bothering her. So I was stuck. Not being able to talk to anyone to vent these feelings meant that I kept it inside and began to spiral.
Let me make this clear. I wasn't freaking out because my partner is transgender. I was freaking out about all of the societal things that come along with that. While things are much different now than they were 10 years ago, there is still A LOT more education an acceptance that needs to happen. Instead of flowing with the current, we would now be swimming against it. I love my partner more than anyone else on this planet. But all of the "what ifs" were dragging me down. "What if I'm not attracted to her? What if she finds this part of herself and falls in love with someone else? What if someone doesn't like that she walked into a restroom? What if people will attack us now that it will be two women walking down the street?" And on and on and on... these were the things I was struggling with.
The next morning I went to the doctor for an antidepressant prescription to deal with the anxiety. (And I guess looking for someone to talk to as well?) My doc heard the news, and with wide eyes she handed me a pamphlet. Her next words only served to fuel my fears, "You know, very few marriages survive a partner coming out as transgender." Pause. WTF, right? That wasn't the kind of "talk" I was hoping to have. Was I going to lose this person I love? Were we not going to be able to get past this? Is it even worth staying right now if we were doomed? So I rushed home and tried to find some online avenues that talked about marriages surviving or people living happily ever after. I found absolutely nothing. ZERO. Unfortunately, I found a lot of the opposite. There WAS one story of a wife who stayed with her spouse, but even a year or so later, she kept using words that made it sound like she was married out of obligation. My head filled with these negative stories, combined with my already worn-out, anxiety-filled body, I couldn't handle the weight of all of these "what ifs" and my anxiety spiraled to the point where I experienced the worst panic known to mankind. It lasted hours and kept doubling in intensity. My fight or flight response kicked into high gear. Xanax wasn't touching it, and I didn't have enough of my antidepressant in me yet to do anything. I'm sure my blood pressure was sky high. After struggling for a long time, I had my partner take me to the emergency room. This was Tuesday evening.
In the emergency room, they gave me a shot of Ativan that finally calmed the storm in my head, and I slept for the rest of the night (or what was left of it) in the hospital. I naturally thought that they would discharge me in the morning since I was recovering. Poor, naive girl. Boy, was I wrong. Since I was dealing with a mental health issue, I needed to wait for the hospital psychiatrist to see me before I could be discharged. So we began to wait. Morning became evening. We still waited. In the duration I had someone sitting outside my door, watching me. Constantly. As it got later into Wednesday evening, the hospital decided to have a telepsychiatrist see me instead. So they wheeled in this computer monitor with a phone attachment. I was instructed to wait on the phone until he arrived. A few minutes later, a face appeared on the screen and the questions began. He spent less than 5 minutes with me and asked me approximately 5 questions. 1) "Why are you here today?" I told him about my partner and my panic attack. 2)"Do you have a support system that you could talk to?" I told him no as my partner wanted to come out to people in her own time so I couldn't talk to anyone without breaking that trust. But that I would REALLY like to talk to a therapist about it. 3) "Do you have a history of depression and anxiety?" I answered yes. 4) "Have you ever been hospitalized for your depression or anxiety?" No. 5) "Have you thought of hurting yourself?" I told him no, but explained that during the peak of my panic attack, while I was having my fight or flight response, I had a brief moment where I thought that things would be easier if I didn't exist. I immediately explained that it was fleeting and that I have SUCH a HUGE fear of dying that I would never do anything like that. He said, "Of course, that makes sense."
He wrapped up the appointment quickly and the computer was pulled from my room. An hour or so later, a social worker from the hospital came in and explained that it was recommended they put me in "respite care for some intense therapy". Which at the time, sounded like a good plan. I mean, all I really wanted was to talk to someone about this and something as nice sounding as "respite care" sounded kinda like a mini vacation where I would be allowed to decompress and sort things out. That sounded perfect. That was the last that any of this was discussed. It wasn't explained much further than "respite care".
The next day, on Thursday, my partner left me to take care of our daughter for a bit. Sadly, that's when two paramedics arrived at my hospital door to strap me into a gurney. I was able to quickly make a phone call to my spouse before they wheeled me into the ambulance. I explained what was happening and where I was headed. I hung up with an "I love you". While I was being loaded, one of the paramedics asked if I knew what was happening. I explained that I was going to respite care for a massive panic attack. He shook his head and laughed. He then explained that the telepsych put me on a police 5150 hold and I was being sent to a behavioral health facility an hour and a half away from my home. Pause. That's when the world crashed down on me and everything moved in slow motion. I vividly remember being put in the back of the ambulance and watching the hospital get smaller as we drove off. Then the suburb of Folsom getting smaller. Then the Greater Sacramento region get smaller until I couldn't see it anymore. Not only was I being pulled away from home and my loved ones, but from everything else in my life. Symbolically, I watched my freedom fade away in the horizon. Tears began to fall from my eyes. What was to become of me?
When I arrived, the outside looked like a normal hospital, but the inside looked like a prison. If you've ever seen "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" it was essentially like that. The walls were a pastel mint green. There were very few windows to the outside. The ones that did exist were frosted, had a wire inlay, and were placed very high in the ceiling. Next to most of the doors were these very large, burly "orderlies" who kept watch. The door had a hefty locking sound as it closed behind me just to really set in the fact that I was trapped.
My spouse arrived shortly before I did and was throwing a fit when she saw what was going on. Unfortunately, they wouldn't let her stay and get me settled because visiting hours were 5-6pm every evening. (Also something they didn't explain before I was sent.) While she was trying to get me released, two large orderlies grabbed her and had to escort her out of the building, thrashing. She turned to me before she left, pointed in my face, and said, "You do whatever you can to get yourself out of here. You hear me?" That's when the tears began to pour, again. I was stuck here, with no advocate.
I looked around and saw a woman standing in the hallway, nearly comatose, with drool dripping from her mouth. I overheard two nurses discussing how the doctor had changed her prescription and they think that she was over-medicated. But they shuffled past her as they commented. No one helped her to a seat, or offered to help her to bed. They simply let her stand there in this horrible state.
Finally, they let me get out of the gurney and admitted me. Everything that belonged to me was taken and shoved into an orange plastic bag that they stored in a locker in a locked off room. My bra, my underwear, my clothing, my phone, my purse, my everything was stripped from me. Including my humanity and pride. I was left naked, in a hospital gown that barely closed in the back, to wander through the facility. In return, I was given a paper bag, a glued notepad with 16 pages, and soft tipped pen. That was it. These were my new possessions. This was my new life.
<<snip>>
Since I was determined to get out of the facility as quickly as possible, I decided I was going to play their game. If they had a group session, I was going to be in attendance. If they were serving meals or snacks, I was going to be one of the first in line, no matter how little appetite I had while I was there. I spoke kindly to the nurses, and tried to not ask for additional medication for things so they couldn't hold anything against me. I was going to look like I was having the time of my life, when inside I was screaming to get out.
I thought the session was going to be therapeutic, but instead we drew on scratch boards. That was it. Drawing on those little black pieces of paper that have a color laying underneath. Still, I played along. That was when I noticed the woman pacing the hallways still. I had noticed her in my room but I didn't think she would be pacing STILL, yanno? I also noticed some of my other cast of characters. There was the black gentleman in a wheelchair that had no clue what was happening to him. There was my roommate, who seemed actually pretty nice. There was the little, gay Latin boy who had such a positive outlook on life and his time there. He is absolutely the most precious human being on this earth. There was the comatose Russian woman, who was starting to come back to reality. There were two Hispanic men. One talked gibberish, and the other didn't speak at all except in nods or shakes of his head. Perhaps he didn't speak English. If that's the case, how was he supposed to advocate for himself? There was a woman who REALLY wanted to be in a diaper and would defecate herself in the middle of a crowd then cry that the staff weren't treating her well. To be fair, I saw several nurses yell at her that she needed to use the toilet instead, but I never saw anyone actually help her get cleaned up. There was also two white men. One guy who was severely overweight and still lived in his mother's basement, (he actually told me that) but was actually funny and very kind. The other was a very thin gent who seemed quiet, but healthy. There were others I never saw, but only ever heard their cries because they stayed in their rooms.
During this time, it hit me that they tossed someone who was suffering with massive anxiety into a place that would cause anyone to be anxious. I mean, being locked away, stripped of everything, and dealing with a bunch of strangers sounds really calming, right? Cooooooool. Yeah, that seems helpful. Good work, folks.
After the session, I went back to my room to do a little journaling when I noticed that my roommate's stuff was missing. Suddenly, a very nervous nurse rushed into my room and explains in anxious tones that I have a new roommate who is... "problematic". (Yes, that's the word she chose.) She quickly changes the sheets on the other bed, and when she's about finished, I hear a bag hitting a wall, and a woman screaming/cussing at the staff. The nurse looks up like a deer caught in front of a care at night and says, "that's her!" She finished her task and then scurried out of the room like a scared cat.
Now, this next part sounds like something out of a sitcom, but it's not embellished and is absolutely true. A woman who looked to be about a foot and a half taller than me and built with wide shoulders, appeared in the doorway. She's tall, she's heavy, and she's ANGRY. I barely breathed because I was afraid she'd notice me sitting there. She threw her paper bag into the cubby and mumbled some obscenities herself before she flopped down on her bed and began to cry. (Remember how these beds have no padding? I'm not sure how one could flop onto them, but she did.) I begin to feel awkward sitting in a room with a stranger and listening to them cry. Once I felt it was safe, I decide to leave her to cry on her own for awhile. You see, I found out later that there are two wings to this facility. There is an acute care wing, and a moderate care wing. Well, my previous roommate had upgraded to the moderate care, and my new roommate had done something so bad over there that she got herself kicked out. Also, why am *I* in the acute care wing? Am I so dangerous that I need to be in the acute wing?
So here I was... still naked, and having to wander the halls, again. I asked if I could use the shower since I hadn't had one since Tuesday. I was told that there are certain shower times in the morning because a nurse has to be present to watch you. Great. So... I had that to look forward to.
Another group session was called, and I went to it because I needed to play the game. This one was about what the different hold codes mean, and what our rights as patients were. Which I actually found useful. But this is also where I discovered that the hospital could hold me longer than the 72 hour hold if they felt like they wanted to. I mean, the nurse literally said that the rules for keeping someone longer were actually pretty loose. Pretty much, it was up to the discretion of the psychiatrist. (Which I hadn't seen yet.) This, of course, freaked me out again. The nurse (not therapist) asked how we were all feeling. She got to me and I broke down and blubbered "scared". Through tears I explained that my daughter's birthday was coming up the following week, and knowing that I might be stuck in there and miss it absolutely killed me. I blurted out a bunch of crap, actually. Probably more than I should have, but I was scared and broken. This is when that nurse realized that I probably shouldn't be there. After that session, she sort of became my ally and would have confidential conversations with me outside of the general sessions to give me enough information to get myself out of there. I feel bad for her now that I look back on things. I'm sure she took that job to help people, but probably got railroaded into being a daycare provider for adults. She was a kind soul, and I truly appreciate her helping me the way she did.
<<snip>>
The next morning, (is it Friday? Who knows anymore.) I woke up to the breakfast call. I grabbed my food, and ate quickly. I knew they would be calling for showers soon and I wanted to be the first in line. It had been about 4-5 days at this point without a shower, and I desperately wanted one. The call was made and I rushed over. The nurse handed me a towel, a tiny bottle of shampoo, and told me to undress and step into the shower. I did. It was a personal shower, like you would use at a crappy motel somewhere. However I was being watched the entire time. At this point I was just happy to get clean. I finished up and got "dressed". As I walked out, I noticed the shower attendant had other toiletries. I asked for a toothbrush and toothpaste. I ran to my room (where my roommate still hadn't gotten up) and brushed my teeth in the little sink with no mirror. Goodness, it felt good to do some "human" things like showering and brushing teeth. I gathered my little toiletries and carefully placed them into my paper bag. I finally had "things" again, and it made me so happy. I was clean, and had property. I truly can't explain the euphoria that comes from those simple things. It makes you cherish what you have.
A moment later, two of the orderlies came in to harass my roommate for not getting out of bed. She tried to fight them off, but after some physical confrontation and a lot of cussing, she got up and walked out of the room. I took this as an opportunity to read a little and enjoy the quiet.
I don't know if you've noticed, but I've been at this hospital for about 24 hours now, and have not
yet spoken to a therapist or psychiatrist. I'm not sure where the "respite care" was coming from, but I certainly hadn't received any of it.
Finally, a "Psychiatry Assistant" came in asked if she could speak to me. My roommate was back in bed at this point, so we had to step into the hallway to talk. You read that right. I had to step into a HALLWAY for privacy. There wasn't an office or a private room, so we had to talk about my care out in the open. After that psychiatry assistant (note that she isn't a psychiatrist, she's an assistant) asked me the same 5 questions (but I was more careful with my words this time). After this talk she deemed it important to up my antidepressant dosage and keep me for an extended period of time.
What?!? The nurses are discussing openly that I probably shouldn't be there and this assistant gets to determine that I need more "respite care"? What. The. Hell? This is when I have an epiphany. I have VERY good insurance. They know they'll get their money from this policy so they must be trying to keep me as long as they can in order milk it. Tricky bastards. However, I'm on a police hold, and there is absolutely NOTHING I can do about it. I do ask the assistant (I keep saying that because that was her title and I never did meet with an actual therapist or full doctor) if I could be moved over to the moderate care wing. She says she'll try and leaves me there in the hallway to process that I'm going to be stuck here longer than my 72 hours. Longer than Monday. Longer than... well who knows when I'm getting out of this prison.
Crestfallen, I try to call my partner, but as I pick up the receiver, another group meeting was called. You see, they shut off the phones during the sessions because they want to force you to participate. So I wander into the session, which is chair yoga, and participate to the best of my ability while all of this information swirls in my head.. Once it's over, I run to the nurses desk and ask them to turn the phone back on so I can call my spouse. They have to make sure the session is fully completed before they will allow me to make a call. (This seems to take FOREVER.) I call her and break into tears. She informs me that she's been on the phone non-stop for the past day and a half trying to contact patient's rights advocates, hospitals, charge nurses, etc to work on getting me out of there. She's rightfully angry that they are trying to keep me for longer, especially since I didn't deserve to be there in the first place. This new information fuels that fire even more, but she reassures me that she's doing the best she can for me on the outside. I hang up the phone.
Depressed, I ask the nurses if I can use some markers to do some therapeutic coloring. I mean, this was in the heat of the coloring book trend to help people calm their nerves. I figured this was the best time to try it. They hesitate, but decide that I'm safe enough to use them so long as I sit down in the telephone room where they can see me and I promise to return the entire box. About 15 minutes into coloring, a large man in a white lab coat enters and introduces himself as my social worker. Here we go, he's going to explain to me that I need to stay longer. I brace myself for the news.
He quickly tells me that my partner has been calling "everyone under the sun" and the hospital has decided to discharge me. And the best part is that they are going to release me TOMORROW! They don't normally do weekend discharges, but they are making an exception in this case. He said that my partner wanted my social worker to call him back, but he wanted me to tell her first so he didn't get yelled at when he did call. Of course, I'm nearly in tears of joy and promise to call my spouse right away. He also tells me that they are moving me over to the moderate care wing. Yay! We wrap up my meeting and I thank the social worker profusely. I hand back the markers and run to the phone. As soon as I pick it up, ANOTHER group session is called and I have to attend that first. Fuck.
This group session was probably the most bizarre yet. We played Apples to Apples. I want you to imagine playing Apples to Apples with people who don't understand how connections are made in the world or unable to speak. Yeah. It was weird. The game finally ends, and I run to make my phone call to my wonderful savior and partner. We are both overjoyed by this news and begin counting the minutes before we can be together again. I hang up and head to my room to pack up my few things into my paper bag. That's when the nurse comes to transfer me over to the other wing. I protectively grab my bag and I happily join her. I almost skip down the hallway until I see who they had to kick out in order to move me over. Any guess? Yeah, my first roommate. And she looks PISSED. She throws down her bag in the middle of the hallway and starts cussing. I awkwardly try to walk past her without making eye contact as we head out the door.
This other wing was like heaven compared to the acute wing. First, we had real beds! They were hospital beds, but they were real. Second, they let you have ice and soda. The other side only allowed us to drink room temp water. The nurses treated me like a patient and not like a prisoner. My roommate was eccentric, and couldn't sit still, but she was warm and welcoming. The bathroom had a mirror, and paper towels! I was given an actual closet to put things in too! (Even though I only had the contents of my little paper bag, but I was proud to put my things in there.) The biggest thing was that this wing had WINDOWS. I could see outside. It looked glorious and I couldn't wait to join the living world again.
Later in the evening, a group session was called and I got to meet some of the other patients. One of them, spoke so quickly when she introduced herself to me that I could barely keep up. She first told me that she was a time traveler. I said something like "Oh like Doctor Who!", trying to be friendly, and she touched her nose and winked at me. She said she was a time lord and could prove it. She pointed to the date on her hospital bracelet and says "how do you explain that?" I look at it and it says she was born in 1969. I nod and shrug my shoulders. I mean, she looked to be in her 60's or 70's. But I pretended to be impressed. There was one man who spent all of his time making abstract art with markers. I mean ALL of his time. They were beautiful pieces. I enjoyed watching him work. The young, skinny gent from the other wing was also moved over here. He was interesting because he was brought clothing, but decided to continue to wear his hospital gown. There was maybe one or two more, but I don't really remember.
Visitor hours came, and I got to sit in a nice corner by a window and just chat with my partner. It was pleasant. I live out the rest of my time there and eagerly wait until the next morning when my spouse is suppose to arrive and take me home. I actually slept without medication. We were allowed to close our bedroom door, and no one was howling into the night. I felt fairly safe and happy that my time was coming to an end.
The next morning (Saturday) I washed my face, gathered my things on my bed, and simply waited. That time seemed to creep by. I know a watched pot never boils, but I had nothing else to do but wait. The nurse brought be a folder of contracts and other things I needed to sign before I could be discharged. One of the papers had me agree that I couldn't own a gun for a year. Now, while I don't own a gun and don't have much interest in owning one, I hated the thought that my name would be on some sort of watch list. I sign it anyway, because I want to get out of there, but I hesitated for a moment before doing so. Finally my love arrived to sweep me up and take me home. "Excited" doesn't accurately describe the joy I felt.
Unfortunately, a strange feeling seemed to overtake me as I exit the building. How do I go back to living outside of this prison like nothing happened? Maybe I should have been stuck in there. Maybe I deserved it somehow. Looking back on it now, I believe I had some form of Stockholm Syndrome. I was sad to leave for some reason. Like pangs of regret. I have no clue why because all I wanted was to be back home with my child I hadn't seen in 5 days. How messed up is that? They had broken me so much in that little time that I doubted whether I should be released and didn't know how to act anymore.
I came home and tried to slowly relax and take in what had happened to me. I tried to figure out how I managed to get thrown into such a place and why they thought that anything in there was useful to anyone.
That evening, I receive notice that my emergency records were uploaded to the online system. With curiosity, I open them up and I see the telepsychiatrist's notes. It read, "Cannot come up with a safe release plan. History of depression. History of poor impulse control." That's it. The only item that is remotely true is the depression. I've suffered from depression for years. However, I have ZERO history of poor impulse control and he didn't ask me anything to try and gauge impulse control. Not to mention that I had a safe release plan. He never asked me what my release plan was. However, this note confirms my suspicions that they heard the word "transgender" and freaked out. They also reviewed my good insurance and saw an opportunity. I say that because there is no way he could have come up with any of those conclusions during the 5 questions he asked. My previous records don't say anything about impulse control. Nothing. So what other conclusion could I draw from these lies that were put into my records? In fact, I've since asked an actual therapist and a psychiatrist to justify these findings and they have NO CLUE how he would have come to those conclusions based on my answers and what they know about me.
I won't lie to you. It's been two years and this is still difficult to type up and edit. I absolutely hate that my wife's coming out story is forever linked in my mind with this traumatic event. It's not her fault that this happened to me, but because of someone's ineptitude or greed, they are linked. I'm going to therapy to try to unlink them.
I hope this isn't taken as a precautionary tale for those who suffer from mental health issues. I want you to get the help that you need. I've heard from others that not all hospitals are like this. So please take care of yourself.
I do want this story to be out there as a way to inform the public of what happens behind those closed doors. How we need reform and better care in general. I walked in expecting "respite care" and walked out of there with absolutely no therapy and no care. THINGS MUST CHANGE. I can't be the only one this has happened to. I probably wasn't the last either. And there needs to be treatment in these places. Just not some expensive daycare for adults to get medicated.
2015 photo of the Dean family
2020 photo of Mae Dean
