IT HAPPENED TO ME: I Went From a Date with a Psychiatrist to The Pysch Ward in 4 Hours

I was truly the OkCupid date from hell.
Publish date:
October 21, 2015
alcoholism, Dating, mental health, OKCupid, psychiastrists, OKC, Psych Ward

After I graduated from college I was living in NYC and — as a budding alcoholic with few friends — I made a slew of bad decisions.

Among these was a pretty heavy OkCupid habit. After all, it’s easier to find company with a slew of random hook-ups than it is to actually make friends in the city (or so was my mentality).

On one particular occasion, I decided to go out with an older guy we'll call Dr. John. He was a recent med school grad who specialized in psychiatry and seemed like quite the catch.

I left work early on a Thursday afternoon so that I could get my Jack Daniels on before my date (obviously) and probably gave my boss some bullshit excuse about having to go feed my cat.

After making the trek from midtown to Bushwick — for the sole purpose of getting some cheap liquid courage — I got back on the subway and headed to the Upper West Side to meet Dr. John.

Dr. John was handsome, albeit short, but since I'm 5’2” that wasn’t much of a problem for me. He took me to a swanky bar overlooking the Hudson River where we (mostly me) downed a pitcher of sangria and made small talk.

After an hour of him boring me with the details of brain chemistry, we decided to head back to his apartment — making an obligatory stop for a bottle of rosé.

When we arrived at his sparsely furnished abode, I immediately removed my clothes and proceeded to drink the entire bottle of rosé (surprise surprise) whilst sprawled on the floor.

I remember being upset that the wine was gone, being offered some whiskey and continuing to imbibe heavily.

Fast forward

All of the sudden I’m in Central Park. Why? I think I’m trying to walk home. That makes sense, right?


Come to.

I’m bumming a cigarette from some random guy outside an apartment building. The street seems empty, odd. I ask if he has any booze. Clearly, coming-to means I need to drink more. Like magic, we’re sitting on his bed imbibing.

Black out.

4 hours later

I'm at Bellevue. Apparently in some sort of psychiatric lockdown. I'm still wearing my top but hospital scrubs for pants.

What happened to my goddamn pants? Where's my phone? Do any of these fucking doors unlock? No? I guess I'll keep trying. Damn, this fitted blanket sure is a good substitute for a hoodie.

3 hours later

My uncle is springing me (an essentially full grown woman) out of psych holding. Thank God I’m still drunk.

My uncle buys me some flip-flops from the hospital gift shop (I guess I also lost my shoes?) and I begin to dry heave as we board the train to New Jersey. I have no phone, no wallet. What the hell happened?

Well, It turns out my pants went MIA sometime before the cops found me on the floor of Duane Reade (presumably trying to buy cigarettes) and kindly transported me to the hospital.

From what I have pieced together, here's how I went from being on a date with a psychiatrist to being in a psych ward in a mere 4 hours.

Dr. John was not into having rough, drunken sex with me, so I threw a fit, locked myself in his bathroom and proceeded to be thrown out of his apartment without my shoes, my jewelry or my underwear. (I'm 95% sure I was still wearing pants at this point.)

Based on texts and calls to friends, I decided it was a good idea to walk from the UWS back to Bushwick.

Apparently even my best blackout thinking didn’t understand how to call a cab, or was I just being outright self-destructive by deciding to walk, without shoes, to a borough that might as well have been on the other side of the world?

It was on this walk that I met cigarette dude and decided to drink more. Although it’s possible my pants were lost during a drunken tumble with the kind cigarette dude, it’s more likely they were lost at some point in Central Park.

Pants can become cumbersome and while cigarette dude kindly returned my wallet (thank god for business cards), he didn’t have my phone or my pants.

After leaving cigarette dude's apartment, I must have wandered into a Duane Reade to buy cigs in my perpetual drunken quest to smoke myself silly.

Apparently it’s frowned upon to be in a drug store without pants on, especially when you’ve decided it’s the perfect place to camp out for the night.

I vaguely recall being put in an ambulance and being asked for the phone number of a responsible party to call (drunk me only ever remembered my ex-boyfriend’s number and I’m sure he enjoyed that late night call from the NYPD).

It was a strange night, although truthfully, not the first time I’d lost a key article of clothing during a drunken tryst.

Needless to say I did not go on another date with Dr. John, but he did kindly mail my shoes, jewelry and dirty panties back to my office.

Not shockingly, I ended up in rehab a month later, and today, I can proudly say it's been more than a year since I mysteriously lost a pair of pants.