Once the staff caught on, they still didn't switch to movie-style straitjackets. They just started using leathers and chemical restraints together. Think about it: Which is easier, lacing up an elaborate crazy-girdle on an unwilling participant, or slamming a syringe full of Ativan into a thigh? Option 2, of course. Which was fine with me: Being knocked into dreamworld was much more fun than drawing myself as a tree in art therapy -- again.

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Pastels just don't have that characteristic buzz of narcotic-y goodness.

Virtually every place lets you bring your own clothes, with some restrictions. No belts, shoelaces, drawstrings on hoodies or sweatpants, nothing with violent images. No Manson T-shirts or gang colors. But you can totally wear a suit or cocktail dress if you really want.

You're allowed to have visitors, and they can bring you things like books and edible food (of course, the staff searches the bags first). At the state-run hospital, I was only allowed to have three books at a time, but they kept five books behind at the station I could trade in. That particular hospital also gave me a plastic baggie with a toothbrush, deodorant, and assorted toiletries from random hotels. Nothing says luxury like JW Marriott shampoo next to the biohazard disposal container.

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All the comforts of a home with an unusually high risk of biological contamination.

At one private hospital, I could bring my laptop and keep it in my room, cord and all. I'd do my homework and keep up with class assignments with the hospital's free Wi-Fi. I could also order delivery and have it buzzed through to the floor. You're not treated like a criminal, because you're not criminally insane. Movies often lose the distinction between the two -- normal people with mental issues aren't going into some dystopian crazy-prison, because they've done nothing wrong. They're sick, and the whole point is to help.

After three days in a psych ward, you can leave ... if the doctors say you can leave. If there's a disagreement between you and your docs, you go to court. But most people use the third option: voluntarily signing themselves into treatment.

Movie mental hospitals are filled with clearly-just-eccentric people held there against their will, either planning to escape or gaming the system as best they can to get "released." Maybe that was accurate 40 years ago, but shorter stays combined with a better understanding of mental illness means functional people aren't locked up for years.

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Hooray for progress! Eventually!

The hospitals I stayed in were filled with people who knew they needed help. One person flew across the country in order to take advantage of the facilities at McLean. We'd compare notes among ourselves about the various hospitals: which had the nicest psychiatrists, the best after-care programs, the worst food, the most affordable payment plans.

During each of my 10-plus stays at six hospitals, I signed myself in voluntarily, and I don't remember hearing about anyone who didn't do the same thing. Mental illness is an illness. Sure, there's the odd nutbar version of Typhoid Mary who just refuses treatment. But most of us sick people just want to not be sick.

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If only it were that simple.

Chemical restraints and leathers, as cinematically interesting as they may be, are generally only used in exceptional situations (like if you attack a staff member or try to escape from the facility). But everyone has checks. Every half hour, a staff member will find you and make sure you're OK. If you're in the shower, he'll knock until you shout your own name. If you're asleep or in group or reading, he'll just write it down and be on his way. They generally don't show that in films, because your protagonist being lightly annoyed every 30 minutes by her own personal Navi does not make for a thrilling narrative.

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It's the human-being version of a straitjacket.

But if you've been obnoxious or disruptive, those checks are every 15 minutes. Or 10. And the worst folks have a 1:1 rule placed on them, which means they need a staff member within 10 feet of them at all times. The staff doesn't touch you or harass you -- they're just around. They make sure you don't hurt anyone or yourself, or lack for a tennis partner should a mandatory game situation ever arise (it never has).

The places I went were pretty understanding, especially when I punched a dude in the face. He deserved it. He was young, maybe 19, and creepy as hell with his unwavering stares. He took it a step further by whispering stuff like "I'm going to come into your room at night and rape you" every time he passed a woman. And of course, none of our rooms had locks.

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And they'd confiscated my wheelgun at the door.

One day, I was reading in my room and he barged in, which is a huge taboo. Patients are never allowed in each other's rooms. I told him to get the fuck out, shoved him backward, and used the door to force him out of my room. But each of our doors had a little Plexiglas window (for those frequent checks) and he kept staring at me through the window.

So I opened the door. He didn't move. I pulled back my fist and looked at him. He still didn't move, so I punched him square in the face. I took the book I was reading (one of the last Harry Potter ones, a big, fat, pre-weaponized hardcover) and chased him, screaming and beating him with the book while he tried to run away down a 20-foot hallway. Not a lot of places to hide in a psych hospital.

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And no places to hide from this big bastard.

Staff members pulled us apart. He got put on 1:1s, but I just got a warning ("Please don't punch anyone else"). It probably had something to do with the fact that, as a rape survivor, I don't respond well to rape threats or assholes barging into my room. So yeah, gonna go with "He deserved it."