This came from a victim of a century old private hospital in Mumbai.
I was in my teens when they first diagnosed me with OCD. Back then, I was living in quite a dysfunctional family. My parents were on the verge of getting divorced. I had a bad relationship with my mother. The doctors prescribed me different pills but there was no relief. Also, they were against any sorts of alternative treatment, which in fact might have proved more effective than the medication. After completing high school, I was under lots of parental pressure to join a medical college, which I did. I didn’t like to study medicine. So, after attending classes for about a week, I stopped going to college. Instead, I used to sit depressed on the railway platform and would return home after college timings. One month later my parents received a letter from the college authorities informing them of my poor attendance. Reading it my mother lost her temper and started to abuse me. I was in no mood for any more agony. So I started crying and begged her to leave me alone. But she didn’t stop. Following which I had a nervous breakdown. I was depressed and frustrated, but not to the point that I'd hurt myself or anybody else. My parents consulted a few psychiatrists. One of them was Dr. Daruwalla (name changed) in a century old asylum in Mumbai city. (Recently this hospital was exposed. MBR) At the first visit he seemed to be very polite and helping personality. Not like my regular shrink, who used to look down upon me. Dr. Daruwalla brainwashed my parents. He suggested that I be hospitalized urgently. They agreed. And as I was tired of taking the cocktail of prescription pills for OCD since my school days, which actually never cured me, I too agreed to the hospitalization. I was just hoping things would get better, not knowing how horrific the whole experience might turn out.
After entering the psychiatric ward at his private hospital, I was petrified by what I saw. The conditions inside were pathetic. Some patients chained to their beds were wriggling like fishes caught in a net. They were screaming, hurling abuses at the staff, while the ward boys simply teased them. Some patients quietly watched all this from their beds. Whereas, others seemed too drowsy even to watch the commotion. And this was in a hospital with a psychiatric facility which was touted as one of the oldest and the 'best' in Mumbai. The first night I was very scared, but dropped off as the meds started to have their sedative effect on me. The next day I was woken up by the noise of a young man wailing and screaming “Please, leave me! Somebody get me out of here”. I saw that a few ward boys were forcibly dragging him out of the ward, hitting him every time he screamed. After he was out, the whole ward was silent for about a minute. They probably took him to the shock room. As such, I'm a shy person so I didn't talk to other patients or the ward boys unless they initiated a conversation. For some time I observed the plight of the aggressive and frustrated patients, which was quite disturbing. It was evident by their emotions and talk that they were not there by their own choice. No relatives ever came to visit them. Some of them had been in this place for more than 6 months or a year! Though I was happy to know that my parents would not keep me here for more than a month or so, yet I realized it was too late to escape the 'treatment', and any refusal or retaliation would mean much worse treatment. Therefore, I tried to be submissive to the doctors and the staff. I didn't like it but then, that was the only way to avert any additional abuse.
During my stay they subjected me to around 15-20 ECTs. Each morning a ward boy would come to pick me up to take me to the ECT room. Inside the room I was told to lie down on the operating table. Then as the nurse put the oxygen mask on my face, the doctor would give me an intravenous injection in the forearm, and suddenly I'd pass out. When I’d wake up in the afternoon, I’d find myself on my bed in the ward. In addition to all this torture, they’d also give me high dosage of oral medications, which used to make me feel sleepy throughout the day. Each day, Dr. Daruwalla would visit the ward and only ask me one question, “Kaise ho?” My mind was too numb to even form a sentence. So I'd usually reply in one word, “Better”. Hearing which he'd move on to the next patient. Now, this continued for a couple of weeks after which I got extremely bored and started requesting him for a discharge. But he'd just say, “Yes, we will discharge you after the treatment is completed.” My dad used to take time out of his busy schedule and visit me nearly every day. After about a month, noticing that my condition has started to deteriorate; that I had put on weight, my speech got slurred, my memory had started to drastically decline; my dad requested Dr. Daruwalla for the discharge. But, he was reluctant to give it. On the contrary, he started demanding my parents to send me to some rehab center, situated somewhere in the outskirts of the city, for at least a year. My parents visited the center which was in a pitiful shape. They soon understood the true intentions of Dr. Daruwalla and decided to get me out of the hellish hospital as early as possible. After much effort, and paying around 150,000 Rupees as overall treatment costs, my father somehow managed to get my discharge. Soon after discharge my parents discussed about my condition with some other doctors. And it turned out that whatever treatment I received in the private asylum was totally unwarranted. It had only made my condition worse than before. Though, the staff at the institution didn't verbally or physically abuse me, but it was only because I conformed to all their unnecessary routines and treatments. Had I fought for my rights inside the hospital or for those of other patients, the hospitalization would have prolonged and it could have made my discharge more difficult. It was a terrible ordeal for me and my family. I regret trusting Dr. Daruwalla more than he deserves.