Trigger Warning: talks about suicidal thoughts and vivid descriptions of self harm.
I hate officers. I always have. They only come in bad situations, and have this aura that automatically makes me uncomfortable and fidgety.
I remember my grandma knocking on my bedroom door. Opening it slightly, and seeing the officer looming behind her.
I never looked the officers, nor the paramedics in the face. Especially as they buckled me down to the stretcher.
I remember them taking my belongings away. all my clothes, my phone, my chap stick, my wallet, even my flip flops were taken and put in a bag, and shoved into some locker that I never got the chance to see. All I was left with was a hospital gown and the wristband that told them my basic information. I didn’t even get pants.
Probably about half of my stay was spent out in the hallway since they didn’t have any available rooms. When I finally got transported to a different section of the hospital with an actual room, I turned on the t.v. that didn’t have any good channels and waited for the person whom I had yet to meet, but was sure was going to arrive. SASS worker… I know they have a job to do, but one look at my current physical condition was enough for anyone to know exactly where to send me.
The second ambulance ride was much longer. I didn’t have my phone, nor was there a clock, but my best estimate was about 40 minutes. I don’t understand why the stretcher was necessary, either time. my legs work, and I was compliant with everything anyone had asked.
This time i actually got hospital pants. Plus an extra gown to go over my back so it wasn’t exposed.
I wish I could tell you how many times I had to answer the exact same questions. nearly ever person I came across asked them, as if there was a checklist stapled to my forehead that they had to go through. name, age, why are you here. depending on the person, I’d have to go into more detail for the last one. It’s repetitive and annoying, though I’m sure they get tired of asking the same questions as well.
I remember the other patients vividly. the morning I got there, I was in time for the first group of the day. those same questions popping up once again.” name, age, why are you here”, with the addition of “whats your goal for the day”. there was a 13 year old girl, the youngest you could be on my unit, with a name that everyone mispronounced who was there for a whole list of crap. suicidal thoughts, homicidal thoughts, self harm, worshiping Satan too much, and sexting. Every time she listed this off at 9:30 in the morning, the only question I had was “what the hell is going on in this girls life”
I didn’t have a goal for the first day. I was too upset that I was pulled away from the outside world for a second time. too upset at the person who called the cops in the first place. But the other answers remained the same for the entire 10 days I was there. “hey, I’m Ryan, I’m 16, and I’m here for suicidal thoughts and excessive self harm.” not that the last one was necessary. Everyone in the room could see my exposed left arm covered in angry red lines, with the parts not cut stained a pale red from blood. My entire left forearm, front and back side.
In retrospect, I very much lost it, and definitely deserved to be carted off to that place. Even though the facility sucked and I was there for too long, I needed to be pulled away from everything for a couple of days.
That same first day one of the girls, who I was pretty close to afterwards, got into a screaming match with one of the staff members. If you listened to what was said, beginning to end, you would realize that she wasn’t in the wrong. The staff member was. and yet she got in trouble because of where she was. She had short wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and a piercing in her face. one that required surgery to get. It was a pretty shade of blue. Because of the yelling, we were sent to our rooms. Since my stuff was still being checked in, the room was pretty empty. two desks, two cubby things for clothes, two chairs, and two beds, only one made up with cheap thin linens.
The whole 10 days and 9 nights I was there, not once did I ever have a roommate. They even went so far as to take away the second mattress in the room. We were in the day room from 9:30 am to 3:30 pm, then again from 4:30 to 8:30 pm. So the other 14 hours of the day, I sat in my room, alone, twiddling my thumbs and thinking too much. I took naps, I did the Naperville North fight song cheer, I got the teacher to give me sudoku, my 5th day I received a deck of cards to play with; but you can only play solitaire so many times before you want to blow your brains out. Honestly, the amount of time I spent along thinking was very counterproductive to my stay in the psychiatric hospital. Did they not understand that thinking too much is what landed me there in the first place?
I remember the day I was discharged. They told me I would leave at 4:00. Right in the middle of quiet time. So instead of napping like I usually did in that time, I stacked my belongings, except for a deck of cards that I shuffled repeatedly, and stripped my bed. I was excited. I hadn’t slept or eaten properly for the past 10 days. I would be back to having an actual life where half the things you want to do aren’t restricted. but 4 o’clock came and went, and I was still sitting in the chair on my side of the room, shuffling the cards. 4:30, back to the dayroom. I wasn’t supposed to have to go there again. I was antsy. bouncing my leg, still shuffling those damn cards. 6pm. A dinner with a horrible stench that I didn’t touch. I was supposed to be gone by now. what the hell happened?
6:30. Finally. They called me out of the room. all I had to do was count my belongings, sign some stuff, and walk out of the door. walking out of that building was euphoric. I was going insane in there, but now there was wind, raindrops, and food that nearly made me drool.
I’m out.
And I’m never, ever, going back.
