I Was Sexually Assaulted in a Psych Ward

A Shocking Truth About Psychiatric Care

“It’s completely illegal,” Dr. Miller said. It was strange to see him surprised.

“Every doctor knows you never undress someone unconscious. No excuses. It’s black and white.”

Oh.

As I hung up, I realized just how unprepared I was for those words. For years, I’d felt searing embarrassment when I thought of how I reacted to waking up in different clothes. According to my medical records, I’d told a fellow patient, “You have to break open the doors, break everything down, maybe pull the fire alarm or call 911.” Hospital staff sedated me because of how agitated I became when they refused to let me file a complaint.

A Disturbing Hospital Memory

I don’t remember checking in the night of my first sedation. I do remember sitting in the waiting room next to my mom, trying to remain calm.

Thoughts that weren’t mine entered my brain, threatening me. They seemed to come from my mother. Terrified, I bolted down the hallway.

Several staff members grabbed me and held me down. One injected my left thigh with Haloperidol, a sedating antipsychotic. My body shut down.

“Am I dying?” I wailed into the fluorescent hallway. “Why does it feel like I’m dying?”

To my surprise, I woke up strapped to a bed, bright yellow restraints binding my arms and legs. I realized I was no longer in my flannel and leggings. Now, I was in blue pants and a cheap, synthetic shirt.

For what felt like an eternity, I asked every staff member, “Please, kill me.” I had no idea why I was strapped to a bed in different clothing. The only explanation was that I’d been sexually assaulted. And I was sure it would happen again.

The Hidden Reality of Assault in Psychiatric Hospitals

I wish I knew how many women get sexually assaulted by psychiatric staff. ​​Research into sexual assault of psychiatric patients remains limited, overshadowed by patient-on-patient cases.

But I know I’m not alone.

Earlier this month, a New York Times investigation into one of the largest psychiatric hospital chains in the U.S., uncovered many inspection reports of rapes and assaults. One facility in Utah shut down after state regulators investigated dozens of these reports.

Ella Janneh, in the UK, won a lawsuit against a therapist who raped her during a panic attack. Before her lawsuit, Janneh tried to appeal her criminal case twice. The agency dismissing her appeal said the issues around consent would be too difficult for a jury to understand.

Dismissal of Psychiatric Patients’ Complaints

I faced similar dismissal after a therapist told me, “You’re in psychosis? Good, we can finally talk about this sexual tension.” I reported him to the California Board of Behavioral Sciences. But I had to state on my complaint that I’d been placed on an involuntary psychiatric hold the next day.

I may have avoided the hospital if my therapist had helped instead of taking advantage of me.

The Board dismissed my complaint. At least, I think they did. Though I called and emailed to follow up, I never heard back.

That man is still a therapist, accepting only one form of private insurance and UC Berkeley student health insurance. That's why I first became his client as a 20-year-old college student in 2015.

I was lucky to have the wherewithal to file a formal complaint. Many don’t.

The Search for Justice

My illness prevented me from holding hospital staff accountable when they undressed me in 2019. Though I did everything I could to get someone in power to listen, no action was taken.

I was still convinced my life was a hyperrealistic psychological experiment. My parents thought a lawsuit was the last thing I needed. Even if they had gotten me a lawyer, it was likely too late.

My case hinged on security footage, but most hospitals keep recordings for only 10 days—I wasn’t discharged for three weeks.

The footage proving my assault may be lost forever, and I have no written or recorded evidence of the harassment. But I have something more telling.

After I failed to respond to his sexual harassment, my therapist didn’t book me for the next session. A week after he normally would have, he emailed me a Zoom link I didn't join. Even though I owed him money, he never reached out again, not even for payment.

I also know the sexual assault after my sedation happened. It’s a gut feeling.

Unlike delusions, I lived this in real time. And I don’t have any other delusions from that night. Delusions tend to come in groups, and if I had this delusion, I’d likely have had others.

Maybe this doesn’t make sense to someone without schizophrenia. Maybe it wouldn’t hold up in court.

But I know. A woman knows.

The Impact of Unresolved Trauma

It impeded my healing that no one believed me even in therapeutic spaces. A female therapist once said, “There are usually warning signs. Something like that doesn’t come completely out of the blue.”

She could have asked, “Were there warning signs?” I would have told her about my therapist’s suggestive smile, how he encouraged me to discuss my sex life, and how he called me a “sexy blonde” a few sessions before going in for the kill. I would have explained I was so desperate to feel better, I ignored the signs and kept going back.

But she didn’t ask. To this day, she probably still thinks I was delusional.

Sexual assault and harassment are traumatic enough. Not being believed can be just as painful.

By the time my psychiatrist confirmed the illegality of my experience, five years of gaslighting made the memory feel mushier. I didn’t learn to trust myself again until a couple of months later.

I found notes for an essay I’d written a year after psychosis, back when I thought undressing unconscious patients was standard practice in psychiatric hospitals. There it was in a Google doc, timestamped December 2020: “When I was psychotic, I was undressed without my consent.”

Reclaiming My Voice and Rights

I may never get justice for the assault and harassment I faced in psychosis. I’m still glad I asked my psychiatrist that question, though. I’ve reclaimed my rights and worth.

During my last hospitalization, a nurse took me into a private room and started pulling my shirt off. Outside, I reported the nurse to a psychiatric nurse practitioner during intake. Her eyebrows shot up in concern.

Finally, someone believed me.