From Wanting to See my Son, to Ending up in the Forensic Psych Ward

Gary Prieston

6d • Mental Health Experiences

This is what happened to me last month:

What Happened With CRC, Form 4, PX3, And Why This Is Exhausting Me Again

I’m sharing this privately because Sarah is once again saying I can’t see Elias unless I see a doctor.

That might sound simple from the outside.

“Just see a doctor.”

But the last time this happened, it turned into one of the most intense and disturbing experiences of my life. I’m not sharing this so people attack Sarah, Curtis, Jasmine, or anyone else. I’m sharing it because I need people to understand why this is mentally exhausting for me.

This is what happened from my perspective.

Sarah wanted me to go to the Crisis Response Centre before I could see Elias. At first, I refused, because she had already said something similar before — that I needed to see a psychologist — and I had done that the week prior. So to me, I had already jumped through the hoop.

Then the hoop moved.

Now it was CRC.

The day before I went, things got intense between Sarah, Curtis, Jasmine, and me. Curtis had concerns about me. He said I looked skinny, that I wasn’t sleeping, that I was too happy, that I talked fast, that I jumped topics, and that I had lost my job.

The problem is, most of that had context.

I had been fasting on and off. I had worked overnight shifts. I have always talked fast. I have always jumped topics. I have ADHD and autism. I had just lost my job. And yes, I was feeling different — but different does not automatically mean dangerous.

On paper, I probably looked like I checked every box they were worried about.

But they were not seeing my full life. They were seeing pieces.

That Saturday, after an argument with Sarah, police showed up at my grandma’s house. They asked to come inside. I asked if they had a warrant. They said no, they just wanted to make sure everyone was okay.

I told them we could talk outside.

I sat on the front steps while they stood over me. I stayed calm. Eventually they asked if they could check on my son Tony and my grandma. I allowed it. They checked on them, came back, and said everything seemed fine.

But it still scared my grandma and Tony.

After the police left, I felt like that should have proved I was okay. Instead, things got weirder.

Sarah mentioned a Form 4 to me first. She seemed scared of Curtis when she said it. She even said she was scared of him, but she did not explain why. That confused me. I got concerned and asked something like, “Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?”

What I meant was: did he grab you, shove you, threaten you, put his hands on you?

She heard it as something worse and told Curtis that version.

That poured gas on the fire.

Curtis then threatened that if I did not go to CRC by Monday morning, he would Form 4 me and police would forcibly take me.

So I went to CRC.

Not because I thought I needed to be locked up.

Not because I thought I was dangerous.

I went to prevent a scene on Monday.

That is not really voluntary.

Voluntary is a funny word when the alternative is police taking you by force.

I went with my friend Randy for support, and Jasmine met us there. Jasmine was kind to me in some ways. She told me I was not crazy. She said she believed I was going through a spiritual awakening, but also maybe a psychological break. She said if I didn’t go, I would be “gone.”

That line scared me.

Gone where? Gone how? Gone from myself? Gone into the system? Gone from my son?

Nobody was explaining anything clearly. Everyone was scared, everyone was talking, and somehow I was the one being treated like I wasn’t making sense.

At CRC, we waited for about four hours.

There was a woman there named Courtney. She looked sunburnt and had ice-blue eyes. She couldn’t stand the fluorescent lights. She mentioned something to staff about a “white room,” and they told her they didn’t have those anymore.

That stuck with me.

Courtney and I went outside for smoke/vape breaks a few times. I met different people outside. One Indigenous guy seemed intoxicated and was trying to sell things. He was kind, just drunk and misunderstood. At one point he tried to force his way into CRC and staff didn’t want him in. I turned my back to him, spread my arms out, and told him not to do it because he’d get in trouble. He listened to me. Staff looked thankful.

That matters to me.

Because I was being treated like I was unstable, but I was still grounded enough to de-escalate someone else.

Eventually, they called me into a room and told me I’d be staying the night. At first I didn’t mind. The room had a TV and Netflix. It felt almost like a crappy little hotel suite. I figured I’d watch Netflix, sleep, prove I was fine, and go home in the morning.

Then they brought me a gross chicken sandwich. I didn’t eat it. I was used to fasting anyway.

Then they came in and said it was medication time.

I said, “Excuse me? Why would I need medication without a diagnosis?”

I refused the medication.

That is when things started turning.

I asked to speak to a doctor. Eventually, a doctor came. She told me five people had signed documentation saying I seemed sick. The five people were Curtis, Jasmine, Kathy, Sarah, and Brett.

From my perspective, that was not five neutral people closely observing me.

Curtis had history with me because of Reid and my grandma’s house. Jasmine had only seen me a few times. Kathy had only seen me a few times. Sarah had only seen me a handful of times over the last few months. Brett had only seen me once recently, and when I saw him, I was the one asking if he was okay because he looked unwell to me.

The doctor said Curtis had reported concerns about psychosis or mania, and that “manic” was written on the form.

I asked how anyone could come to that conclusion without knowing my baseline. I explained that I have ADHD and autism. I explained fasting, lack of sleep, overnights, job loss, and the fact that I have always talked fast and jumped topics.

It didn’t seem to matter.

It felt like five versus one.

The doctor looked uncomfortable, like she did not want to make the call, but also did not want to take any chances. She was about to get off work, and in my opinion, she chose the safe option for the system.

She Form 4’d me.

After that, I was no longer allowed to go outside for a smoke.

I figured I’d sleep it off and be out in the morning.

The next morning, I asked to go for a smoke again. They refused. I asked why. They said I was Form 4’d. I asked what that meant. They told me I was considered a danger to myself and others.

That pissed me off.

I asked for a copy of the Form 4 so I could see what was written about me. They refused to give me a copy. I asked for the Manitoba Mental Health Review Board phone number. I kept asking for the Form 4 and the MHRB number the whole time I was there.

Nobody gave me clear answers.

It was like talking to a wall.

You feel like a ghost.

They don’t answer the reasonable question. You repeat it. They still don’t answer. You get louder. Then the loudness becomes the story.

Not the unanswered question.

Not the denied paperwork.

Just: Gary is argumentative.

Eventually, after still not getting answers, I told them I was leaving. I walked out past security and went down a back lane. I was wearing all black — black sweatshirt, black dress pants, black shoes — and suddenly I realized I stuck out badly.

For the first time in my life, I felt scared of police.

Not because I had done something wrong.

Because someone had written down that I was dangerous.

I tried sitting near a couple homeless guys in the back lane. I usually get along well with homeless people, but even they seemed scared of me. That hurt. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.

Then I called my grandma’s lawyer. He told me he knew I was sane, but if police picked me up, I’d only make it worse. He advised me to go back.

So I did.

Before going back in, I took one big puff of nicotine. One little hit of control before walking back into a place where control was disappearing.

When I walked back in, they said, “Well, Mr. Prieston, you’re going to have to go to a different room now.”

It was the white room.

The same kind of thing Courtney had mentioned earlier.

Tiny room. Fluorescent lights. A little mattress with no sheet. A pillow without proper bedding. A vault-style door with a narrow window just big enough to see the clock.

They asked if I wanted a blanket.

I asked, “Will I need the blanket? Am I going to be in here overnight?”

The guard didn’t answer. He just passed me the blanket.

The blanket was the answer.

The room didn’t really phase me at first. I meditated. Somehow two hours felt like five minutes.

Then the vault door opened.

I thought maybe I was going to a ward.

Wrong.

They came in with medication again. Lorazepam and another drug that started with an A. I refused again.

That’s when the nurse said something like, “Sorry, Mr. Prieston, but you’re in solitary confinement now, and if you don’t take the pills, we’ll have to give you this.”

Then she showed me the needle.

I immediately opened my mouth and said, “Give me the pills.”

That was not consent.

That was survival math.

Needle or pills. Force or swallow. I picked my poison.

Next thing I know, I was out for about twelve hours.

I woke up in PX3, not knowing what PX3 was. I thought it was just a normal psych ward. I was dizzy from the medication, and the first thing they did was offer me more pills.

I went to the front desk and asked why I was there. I saw them check something off. I don’t know what it was, but it felt like every time I asked why I was there, it was being recorded instead of answered.

Nobody gave answers.

Again, it was like talking to a wall.

I had to sign out phone time in one-hour increments. The next day I scheduled phone time during shift change so I could get my phone into my room and ask for help figuring out what to ask for. I was advised to ask for the Form 4 and the Manitoba Mental Health Review Board number.

I kept asking.

Still nothing.

That was the pattern the whole time.

The crazy part is, I started getting to know the guys in there, and many of them were nice to me. I didn’t know yet that PX3 was forensic/criminal psych. I thought I was just on a regular psych ward.

There was one guy named John. He was quiet, but had presence. He seemed like the top guy on the range. He had his phone and headphones when nobody else did. He had pictures of his daughter on his door, which touched me. He was fascinated with numbers like me and had numbered diagrams.

I connected with him before I knew anything about why he was there.

Later, after I got out, I learned he was likely connected to a serious case. I also found out through my brother Matthew in Stony Mountain that John’s older brother Justin had been good friends with my older brother John.

So this place that felt foreign suddenly had family echoes in it.

I also had roommates.

One reminded me of Doctor Strange. We were separated by a curtain. He talked to himself a lot, but it sounded like two different people talking. I mentioned that to him and he chuckled. That broke the ice. He was strange, but kind.

Then another roommate came in. He had face tattoos and gangster energy. Cold at first, then opened up a bit. The ward had its own rules. Staff had the keys, but the patients had their own world.

Then there was Krissy.

Krissy was tall, big, had a Mohawk, facial hair, loved sports, and told me they were on estrogen and transitioning. I didn’t know what to make of it. Not in a hateful way. I just couldn’t tell what was identity, confusion, testing, survival, or PX3 being PX3.

Near the end, Krissy said something to me that stuck: “Don’t you get it? It’s a game. We’re dead.”

For about ten seconds, that scared me.

Then something clicked and I said, “No. You just feel dead because you feel like a ghost in here. Nobody answers. Nobody reacts. Staff barely acknowledge you like a person.”

That landed. Krissy looked scared, like the explanation made sense.

The next day, staff told Krissy they were going to Selkirk. Krissy looked terrified.

That same day was also John’s last day and my last day.

That morning, we were all sitting at breakfast. It was the best breakfast I had there: a hard-boiled egg, buttered brown toast, and one caffeinated coffee. You only got one caffeinated coffee per day, always in the morning.

John came to the table, placed his full food tray on top of my finished tray, turned his back to me, and stood there.

I asked, “Is this some sort of offering, John?”

He didn’t answer.

The guys around me looked scared.

Then Krissy asked, “Hey John, is that an offering?”

John said, “Yes… it’s an offering.”

So I gave John my coffee. The one thing I actually wanted.

He took it and went to his room.

The guys seemed shocked. I gave the rest of the food to them. For a couple hours, I felt respected. Seen. Like I wasn’t a ghost anymore.

Then later that morning I saw John in shackles — hands and feet — and it clicked.

I had seen that before with my brothers and my father, even around funerals. Everyone on the ward was in grey sweatshirts and grey pants or shorts. There were no glass mirrors, so I hadn’t really noticed how I fit into the picture.

Everyone else was in grey.

I was in all black.

Same kind of institutional look, different colour.

That moment made me think: wait, am I in jail?

Not real jail exactly.

Psych jail.

A hospital with jail in its bones.

Before John left, I gave him a hug. Then he was off to what I thought was Stony Mountain. I asked Matthew to let me know if he ever saw him there.

Krissy went to Selkirk.

John went to jail.

I went home.

Three people leaving the same ward on the same day, to three very different places.

The thing is, they let me out without me signing anything and without giving me a diagnosis.

Everyone had acted like I would be in there for a month and would have to take the pills. But I stuck to my guns. I kept asking for the Form 4. I kept asking for the MHRB number. I kept saying I didn’t belong there.

And eventually, I got the freedom I deserved.

That experience changed me.

It showed me how fast a person can become paperwork. It showed me how a hospital can feel like jail when nobody answers you. It showed me how even innocent people can be detained against their will. It showed me how people can mean well and still scare the hell out of you. It showed me how asking basic questions can be treated like agitation.

It also made me feel more connected to my brothers and my dad. I felt like I got a small taste of what they’ve lived around for years — not real prison, but the edge of it. The loss of control. The waiting. The silence. The permission. The way your name becomes a file.

That does not excuse everything anyone has done.

But it gave me empathy I didn’t have before.

Now Sarah is saying again that I can’t see Elias unless I see a doctor.

That is why this is so exhausting.

Because to her, maybe it sounds like a simple request.

To me, it sounds like the beginning of the same machine.

I’m not refusing help. I’m not refusing to be healthy. I’m not refusing responsibility.

But I am terrified of being misunderstood again.

I am tired of people using access to my child as leverage.

I am tired of having to prove I am okay to people who do not understand my baseline.

I am tired of my words being turned into something else.

I just want to see my son without being pushed back toward a system that already took my freedom once without giving me clear answers.