I laid on the bed on my stomach, sprawled out across the sheets and blankets. My chin rested on a pillow. I didn’t want to mess up my hair. I watched the bunny in her cage run from the first floor to the second and back again. I wondered if he would remember to change her litter box. I know he would remember to feed her, but I usually change her litter box.
I decided the kids would adjust. Maybe they would have to seek therapy. Maybe they would be young enough that they wouldn’t remember me. I would just be a box of pictures and second-hand memories. That would be better. I didn’t want them to remember me. Especially like this.
I got up from the bed and sat at the foot of the bed. I had 45 minutes until my therapy appointment. I already knew what I was going to say. I knew I was going to tell her that I didn’t care anymore. Before, the thought of my family losing me is what kept me from killing myself. The trauma of finding my body would be too much for them. But I had thought of a few ways that would prevent them from finding me. There were strong trees in the woods. There were a lot of trains in town. I would feel bad for the conductor. I’m sure it would be a bad day for him, but how else would I do it? I know the best way is to swallow a whole bottle of pills. We happened to have hundreds of Vicodin in a pill bottle in my parents bathroom. I could easily swallow them all and chase it with a few glasses of wine. But then I would leave a mess. I would vomit. And my body would be lying somewhere. There would be a mess. I didn’t want a mess. I wanted to just disappear. I wanted to not exist anymore. Ideally, a guardian angel in search of it’s wings would float down and show me my life if I had not existed at all, like It’s A Wonderful Life. That would be perfect.
I haven’t found an angel yet, and I haven’t come up with a way to completely disappear. I have thought about driving away and never coming back but where would I go? All I knew is that my family deserved better. My husband deserved a better wife. He got a lemon. My kids deserved a better mom. I was broken and they deserved better. By going away, I would cut the chain that was connecting them to the burden of me.
I know my death would be painful for them. But they would adjust. They would be okay. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t live this life anymore. I felt like I was dying from the inside out, the way a sausage in the microwave cooks too much on the inside and becomes dry and tough. I had become a shell of emptiness. My family deserved better. And I was going to give them the opportunity to have better. I would be replaced by someone unbroken. Not a lemon. Someone that could fully be there for them in the ways that I couldn’t.
It was time to leave for my appointment. I whispered to my husband “I’m having a very bad day”.
“I know”, he said. He hugged me.
“They’re going to send me away”, I said. My voice was shaking.
“If they do, that’s ok. I love you.”
I didn’t say it back. I always say it back, but I couldn’t.
I climbed into the truck. My watch beeped for 3:00. I remembered to bring it this time. The last time I went to the crisis center, there were no clocks and it drove me crazy. I remembered to grab it this time. I just had to know the time. I had to know how much time had passed.
The wait was fast, and my therapist was chatty at first. She asked me about a recent support group I attended. I brushed over the subject and she instantly knew something was wrong.
“I can’t do this”, I said as I began to cry.
“Do what?”, she asked.
“I can’t do this anymore. I feel like I’m dying. I can’t bear to look at my children. I can’t keep living anymore. It hurts too much.”
“Are you feeling suicidal right now?”
I sobbed. “Yes”
“Do you have a plan?” She asked. They always ask that question.
“Which plan? I have ten.”
She sat silently for a few moments. “I’m going to call in a crisis counselor, is that ok?”
I nodded.
A few minutes later, a man arrived. He introduced himself and then kneeled down to try to make eye contact with me. The tunnel vision had taken hold and my glossed over gaze was fixated on the book shelf. I couldn’t move anymore. I was frozen.
“Sarah, I am here to help you. I want to first of all say thank you, and great job for coming to us. That is absolutely fantastic. You should be proud of yourself.”
I didn’t feel proud at all. I didn’t feel anything.
“Now, tell me, do you have family?”
“Yes, 3 kids”, I whispered.
“Your children need you. I know you don’t feel that way right now, but they need you. Sarah, tell me your plans.”
I whispered. “A train. A rope on a tree. The pills. A knife. Anything.”
The man sighed and dropped his head.
“Sarah, I believe you are in a crisis right now and I would like to escort you to the crisis center to get help. Is that ok?”
I whispered again, still fixated on the book shelf. “Yes. But can I smoke first?”
“Absolutely”, he said. “I’m going to go pull the car around because it’s raining pretty good.
My therapist walked with me down the sidewalk and to the ashtray near the parking lot. I smoked. I knew it would be the last. The last time I was at the crisis center, they said there was no smoking in the facility and it was too late for a nicotine patch. I took long drags, and then apologized as I put it out in the ashtray.
The three of us climbed into the car. The rain drenched my hair. It rained the way I felt.
We arrived at the crisis center. The door was unlocked, and then relocked once we were inside. Hearing the lock on the door click over hurt my ears. I was locked in. The receptionist asked if I wanted to talk. I was done talking about it. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. The therapists relayed the information to the receptionist. They told her about my numerous plans. They told her I was in a serious crisis and would need to be admitted. I stared at the floor as the talked. The last time I was here, I counted the tiles. I didn’t feel like counting this time. I just stared.
After a while, the therapists left. I was locked in. They showed me to a crisis room. The same cot I remembered from the last time. Within minutes, a sweet nurse came in with a cup. A pill to help me calm down, and a nicotine patch. “Thank god”, I thought. Nothing is worse than being in crisis while simultaneously being forced to quit smoking. I wanted to chain smoke at this point.
The last time I was here, nothing happened. No one came to check on me. No meds were administered. No nicotine patch was given. I sat in the room, alone, weeping, for hours. After 8 hours, I begged to go home. I pleaded. I told them I felt better (I lied) but I knew that going home to my loving husband would make me feel better than sobbing on a cot for hours on end.
This time was different. I could tell by the immense amount of paperwork at the desk. I could tell by the phone calls. I took off my shoes, curled up in fetal position on the bed and just stared.
“Would you like a blanket sweetie?” The nurse asked when she came in to check on me.
“Yes please.”I said, still staring into oblivion.
She covered me with a warm blanket and I drifted to sleep.
“Sarah?” My name being called startled me. I had no idea where I was or what time it was. “You’re being transferred to a Psychiatric hospital in Sacramento. An ambulance will be transporting you.”
“Ok”, I mumbled in my half-awake state. I drifted back asleep.
“Sarah?” I again woke up startled and disoriented. “The ambulance is here to transport you.”
I sat up in the bed. Whatever med they had given me had made the room spin in one direction and my head spin in the other direction. I stumbled putting my shoes on, gathered my jacket and walked towards the door.
The rain continued to pour down in sheets. It matched my mood.
“Watch your head”, the ambulance driver warned me as I stepped into the ambulance. To the left was a bed. To the right was a bench. I didn’t know where to go, so I just stood there in a daze.
“Have a seat”, the female ambulance attendant said as she pointed to the bed. I sat down. And then laid down. I was so tired. She buckled three seat belts across me. “Let me get you a blanket.” She said, and she wrapped me in the warmest blanket I’ve ever felt. It felt wonderful.
“I love your shoes.” She said, pointing to my sparkly red slippers I was wearing. “They’re just like dorothy’s shoes from the wizard of oz,” she said and smiled. “Ruby red slippers.”
“Thank you,” I said as I closed my eyes.
“It’s a two hour drive so feel free to get some rest. It’s going to be a long drive.” I had already started to drift to sleep.
Every now and then a bump or jolt would startle me awake and I would watch the street lights passing backwards through the window. I looked around the ambulance a few times. The shelves that contained the medical supplies were zip tied closed. I couldn’t move because of the seat belts and I wasn’t sure if they were for safety or to restrain me. Probably both.
After two hours, the ambulance came to a stop and the back doors opened. We had arrived. I wasn’t sure if I was to walk or stay on the gurney but before I could ask they pulled the gurney out of the ambulance, the wheels came down and they began to wheel me to the front door.
The front doors were locked. It was 4 o’clock in the morning. The ambulance driver buzzed the doorbell and after a few minutes someone came down to open the door. We were directed to the elevators which had to be unlocked. The nurse pressed “3” on the elevator panel and up we went.
Once we arrived in the lobby of floor 3, a nurse was seated on a leather couch opposite of another leather couch. “Have a seat”, he said. I was removed from the gurney and I sat on the couch. Then, the questions started.
How are you feeling?
Do you feel suicidal?
Sign here.
Initial here.
Have you attempted suicide in the past?
What is your diagnosis?
What medications are you taking?
“You are lucky”, the nurse said at the end of the interview. “This wing is strictly for mood disorders. Bipolar. It was created two years ago. You’re lucky.”
He lead me to a room where a single cot lay in the middle of the empty room and a hospital gown laid on the bed. “Undress and I will get a female nurse to do a skin check” he said as he left the room. I removed my clothes and put the gown on. I was unsure if I was supposed to leave my underwear on, so I did anyways.
The female nurse arrived and she examined my body. She checked the crevices for hidden weapons, my wrists and legs to see if I had harmed myself. She opened my buttocks to see if I had hidden something there.
After the examination, she gave me another hospital gown to drape over the back like a robe. She walked me to the entrance of the third floor where she scanned her ID badge and the door clicked open. We walked down the hall a ways and she pointed to a room. “This is your room.”
My name was written on the door along with another name; Molly. “Freaking great”, I thought. A roommate. All I wanted was to be left alone. As I walked into the room I saw the simplicity of it. Two beds, two book shelves. All the corners were rounded. The windows were sealed off and covered in hard plastic. A bathroom was also present however the “door” was a simple curtain.
I noticed Molly’s hair was purple, just like mine. I didn’t care though. I didn’t care about anything. All I cared about was sleeping. I pulled the blankets back and crawled into the empty bed. I curled up into fetal position and cried. And cried. And cried. And cried. And cried.
For 26 hours, I cried. I didn’t move. I didn’t pee. I didn’t eat. I refused interactions. I refused everything. I cried. And I cried. And I cried. I considered bashing my head against the footboard of the bed. I considered chewing off the strings on the hospital gown and tying them around my neck. I considered putting my head in the toilet and drowning myself. Instead, I cried for 26 hours, and a nurse checked on me every 15 minutes.
At one point, a nurse arrived in my room and asked if I wanted my clothes washed. Clean clothes and a shower sounded nice so I said yes. She took them and put them in a bag outside the door. I went back to sleep.
I woke up starving. I didn’t know what day it was but thanks to good planning on my part, I was wearing a wrist watch. It had been two days. A nurse walked into the room and said, “Sarah, your dinner is in the day room,” and he left just as quickly as he came in. “Great,” I thought. “They are manipulating me out of the bed with food.” I sighed and complied, slipping my ruby red slippers on, wrapping the outer gown tightly around myself and I shuffled to the “day room”.
Inside I found people. Patients like me. A table with puzzles, a tv. Books. Coloring books. A table with pitchers of juice and coffee, and my to-go box of food with my name written on it. I grabbed the box and headed towards my room but a sign above the door read “No food or drinks in the bedrooms” stopped me. So I found an empty chair, opened the container, and ate whatever it was that was there. I didn’t care.
The other patients talked. They laughed. They made jokes, played cards, read books. I hated them. I loathed them. How could they laugh at a time like this? How could they casually be reading a book as if nothing catastrophic had happened.
A girl seated at the table reading a book talked to my roommate. Their conversation had been going on for a while because both had set the books down, but I overheard “Yeah, I waited until everyone was gone. My sister came home early from school so I had to wait. But once everyone was gone, it was bottoms up.” She said and chuckled. “That’s why I’m here.” Her arms and hands were covered in dozens and dozens of self-inflicted scars. There were burn marks too. I flinched.
I ate the dinner and while I was finishing up, a nurse yelled “Group time!” Down the hall. The remaining patients filled in and sat down in the empty chairs. “Welp”, I thought, “I guess I’ll be attending my first group.”
The nurse heading the group asked everyone to go around the room and state their name, their “mood number on a scale of 0 to 10” and what their goal was for the day as well as what they would wish for if they had a magic lamp. I didn’t volunteer to talk, I hoped they would forget about me. But they didn’t. “Sarah? How about you?” She asked.
“Hi, I’m Sarah. My mood is at a….. 1. I would wish that my ruby red slippers actually worked. And my goal today was to shower.” The nurse thanked me for sharing and the group moved on to the topic. It was dealing with anxiety. A worksheet was passed out and it listed the symptoms of anxiety. We took turns reading the paragraphs on the handout. Then the group was over. I sat in the hospital gown in the chair where I had ate my dinner and I didn’t know what to do.
I decided to hunt my clothes down. The nurse had put them out for laundry at 11:30. It was now 6:30. Surely they should be done by now. I stood up and headed towards the hall. I found a nurse sitting in a chair filling out paperwork. “Excuse me”, I said. “A nurse took my clothes this morning to be washed and I was wondering if they have been cleaned.” She asked me for a description of the clothes and then headed towards the laundry room in the other wing.
I went back and laid on the bed.
I clicked my heels together three times. "There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home." It didn't work. I was still laying on the bed in a hospital gown wearing my ruby red slippers that were broken. I was broken.
A few hours passed and the evening meds were passed out. The little cups they used to hand out meds reminded me of the little cups they had at fast food restaurants for ketchup. I swallowed my meds and then asked about my clothes again. The nurse responded that they were in the dryer and were not dry yet so I would probably get them back in the morning.
“Sarah?” I rolled over and saw a nurse. “Good morning. The doctor would like to see you now.” I jumped up from the bed and headed towards the hall. The nurse opened the door and lead me to a small room.
A man sat in a chair with a portable laptop and what appeared to be a file. My file. “Sarah?”, he asked. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Have a seat”, he said. He opened my file. “I like your shoes. Ruby Red slippers. My daughter would love them. So what happened? How did you end up here?”
I told him about the meeting with the therapist, the ambulance ride, the urges to bash my head into the footboard of the bed.
“And your diagnosis says bipolar? Can you emphasize on that a little bit?”
“Well,” I said, “I have my lows. That’s pretty obvious. I get suicidal a lot. I usually fight it off, but this time I couldn’t. But I also have these highs. It feels like intermittent ADHD. I get really creative and hyper. I get so hyper. My legs bounce and I start jumping up and down. I can’t sleep for days. Once I decided to start a business. Another time I decided to write a book. I became devoted to those projects. I barely ate. I didn’t sleep. And then after a few days, I crashed back down into depression. These highs feel like I have butterflies under my skin. Like I just can’t calm down. I just can’t settle down.”
The doctor nodded and said “Type II then? That’s certainly what it sounds like.”
We discussed my medications, he added a new one, upped the dosage of another, and the frequency of another. Then the appointment was over and I was lead back to my room. But I was still wearing the hospital gown.
I went to the desk at the front of the hall and spoke through the small slit in the window.
“Excuse me,” I said. “My clothes were sent to laundry yesterday morning and I still haven’t gotten them back yet. They were supposed to be in the dryer.”
A nurse with dark hair said she would go check. I went back to my room.
About 10 minutes later she arrived at my room with an armful of clothes. She handed them to me but I didn’t take them. “These aren’t mine”, I said. “These are men’s clothes.”
“Oh”, she said. “What did yours look like?” She asked. I described them again.
“Oh my gosh.” She said and shook her head. “This is ridiculous. Your clothes have to be around here somewhere.”
I laid back on the bed. “Group time! Group!” A nurse called down the hall, so I stood up and went back into the day room where we discussed the symptoms of depression and why suicide is not the answer. I returned to my room afterwards.
A nurse came into the room, “Sarah, did your shirt have a print on it?” Puzzled, I answered “Yes, unicorns.” The nurse shook her head. “Okay, I’m going to need you to come with me.” I followed her through the locked doors and into the other wing of the floor. We passed by a few rooms and then we stopped at a room. The door was ajar.
“Loretta,” the nurse said. “Those are not your clothes.”
A middle aged woman with wiry hair and glazed over eyes stood wearing my two shirts I was missing and my sweater.
“But ya’ll owe me a pair of pants.” Loretta said and placed her hands on her hips.
The nurse sighed. “Loretta, those are not your clothes. Those are Sarah’s clothes. Please take them off.”
“Well ya’ll owe me pants!” She shouted as we left her room. The nurse said she would rewash my clothes and then hopefully, return them to me.
The days melted together. I got my clothes back. I saw the doctor three times. I talked to the nurses and I joined in the groups more. I started to go down with everyone else to the cafeteria for breakfast lunch and dinner. I slowly started to laugh at jokes. I started to read a book. I started to color in a coloring book.
A few days in, I was comfortably sitting in a chair in the hall reading a book I was 300 pages into when a new patient walked in. She wore a hospital gown. Her head was down. Her hair was chaotic. Her face was streaming with tears. Her eyes were glazed over.
I knew her.
She was me.
I had been her when I first came in. I had hated the laughter. I had hated the girl sitting in the hall casually reading a book as if nothing catastrophic had just happened. I had wanted to scream too.
I didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t even say hello because I know that she wouldn’t have wanted me to. I wouldn’t have wanted that.
After a few days, she came out of her room and joined the groups, just like I had. She showered and put on her clothes. She laughed. She ate. She healed.
She healed just like I had.
When I was finally released, I stepped outside the doors and into the fresh air for the first time in what felt like years.
I cried. The cold wind touched my face and I cried because I missed the wind. And the trees. And the rain. And the dirt. And the clouds. I had healed.
I don’t know if I ever will go back there, and statistically I probably will, but I know that without the help of my therapists, the nurses, the doctors and others, I would have killed myself and I would have never felt the wind on my face again. Ever again.
