CPEP, Again


Fred commented on How to Complain: About CPEP

I also have a complaint about stony brook. I was having some anxiety issues, issues that I was assuming were anxiety issuses. I went to the e.r. To get some idea of why my heart was beating rapidly and sweats etc. I was put into the psych ward after repeatdly telling them that I did not want my property taken away and if that was the case then never mind. I was going to go to another hospital. That being said, I was then detained against my will for two hours inside the waiting/ day area behind locked doors untill finallt without seeing any doctor or psychiatrist they just said ok you can leave now. All the while they elevated my anxiety level times ten. I was treated like a common criminal and none of the staff would even pay attention to what I waa saying. Only kept repeating that I could not leave untill I saw a doctor. Which I never did. I came in there on my own free will yet was not allowed to leave. It was a very stressfull situation in which I should have never been put into a locked psych ward. I never got any help, only made my problem worse.

Anne complimented CPEP

I was experiencing all kinds of emotional upset.  My mother had recently died, my husband was threatening to leave me, and—despite having just graduated from college—I couldn’t find a job.  I couldn’t sleep and I cried a lot, so I went to CPEP.

When I got there, I found a receptionist sitting outside the waiting room.  She explained to me that once I went through the locked door I would not be able to come out again for a cigarette, all my possessions would be taken from me, I would be strip-searched, I could not leave until I was seen by a psychiatrist, and the average wait was [x] hours.

I asked her where else I could go for help and she gave me the names of three clinics that would take walk-in applications for psychotherapy.  I went to all three of them, put in applications, and found one where they would see me the same week.  They did triage and said I went to the top of the list.  I could wait a few days for someone to talk to, as long as I knew I was moving forward on a path that would get me someone.

This is not a true story—but why couldn’t it be?

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About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
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