A Trip to the Hospital

CW: discussions about suicide and self-harm

Note to readers: I have to metaphorically take shots before publishing pieces like these lol… but I think it’s cathartic in a way, maybe? I truly never thought I’d write this much about my mental state. As always, thank you so much for reading what I have to say. And I am forever apologetic to anyone who resonates <3

---

“It was an accident though, right?” My younger brother keeps asking, I think more so to convince himself than to earnestly inquire.

“Yes,” I respond for the- I think- fifth time, in a calm and nearly upbeat cadence that almost fools me, and perhaps anyone who didn’t listen close enough. My eyes would also ever so slightly widen every time he asked, as if to suggest that he’s actually the crazy one for even suggesting it was purposeful. I don’t know why I do this.

It’s 12:30 a.m. and it’s cold outside, which makes me miss the South because Spring is almost over and it shouldn’t be cold outside- even at midnight.

“How old is she?” The operator on his phone asks.

“She’s umm… 22?” He replies, glancing at me for reassurance.

“Dude, I’m 23,” I reply and beckon for him to hand me his phone.

Some time passes and we wait in silence until the blaring lights of an ambulance can be seen down the road, and I think to myself… I’m doing the most.

A patrol car is also looming in the shadows, with no sirens or lights on, and I instinctually take my hands out my jacket pockets and pull down my sleeves to cover up the phone I’m holding.

I remind my brother not to tell our mother where I am, and he tells me to call him if I need anything and goes back inside our apartment building- we aren’t really close. I get in the back of the ambulance truck and believe the paramedics must think I look ridiculous right now- to be strapped to a gurney when you visibly look…fine, gets you looks of confusion at best.

We begin our journey to the nearest hospital, and to get my mind off the needle being inserted into my forearm, a paramedic asks what I do for a living- which I doubt is a loaded question to most- but I didn’t know how to convey that my job sucks and that I make poverty wages which makes me feel perpetually unstable, and because of this I moved back, moved out, then moved back in with my mother, and that’s a partial reason I’m in the back of this ambulance- oh and did I also mention the world is burning?

Instead, I say, I do contract work- but the end goal is to work for a non-profit and write. The paramedic then asks, “So… do you write fanfiction,” with both curiosity and uncertainty in his tone, which tells me he’s been dying to use the word fanfiction in a sentence since he learned of its inception and that he has a young daughter he loves dearly. I smile, thin-lipped, and say no.

When we’re nearing the hospital he calls and says a patient is going to enter the emergency room, due to an accidental overdose. He awaits a response and nonchalantly replies, “I don’t know, maybe 3-5 pills,” and now I know I have to be honest.

When he sits back down I tell him, it was more so a handful of [medication name].

He concerningly asks, “What’s a handful?”

I tell him the amount, and suddenly I no longer believe the paramedics think I look foolish for being in the back of an ambulance.

I’m wheeled into the hospital I’ve been to plenty of times before due to my mother’s ailments, and I’m concerned I’m going to be recognized by the staff.

It’s Monday, around 1 a.m. now, and the hospital is packed. I’m given a wristband printed with my personal information and am rolled and parked in a hallway.

I hear the mild groans of the patients around me, I hear a hospital staff member make fun of his wife to a group of nurses… his punchline, “...all women like to do is complain am I right,” I hear the paramedics who accompanied me say, “you may want to test her for drugs.”

A woman greets me to confirm my information, and I’m hesitant when she asks what my religion is- I awkwardly say “I’m more spiritual if anything.” She responds, “So, no religion?” I chuckle, but my face doesn’t move.

A couple minutes later another woman greets me with paper scrubs and the infamous “grippy socks” in hand. She waits outside the bathroom door as I pee in a cup, change, and stuff the clothes I was previously wearing in a bag.

As I open the bathroom door she informs me that I have to add my phone to the bag of clothes and it’ll be held from me until further notice.

A doctor greets me and asks what brings me in today, and I know he knows the answer but wants me to say it aloud to him. I feel vulnerable, lying horizontal, in a hallway, an earshot away from other patients. “I took too many pills,” I say, as my hands shake, lip quivers, eyes well, and heart tries to escape my chest.

“Why did you do that?” the doctor asks bluntly.

“I wanted to harm myself, but wasn’t trying to die.”

A nurse informs me that she’s going to have to call my mother because she’s my emergency contact, and I ask her if I could momentarily have my phone back to text my brother.

Moments pass and the nurse is letting me know she’s going to quickly move me to a different section of the hospital. As we approach my destination, the fluorescent lights dim and I hear a woman screaming nearby. The nurses, doctors, and hospital personnel talk in hushed tones. I’m in the psychiatric unit. She says a room may open up soon, but it’s the busiest day of the week so it may take a couple hours.

A psychologist gently and kindly asks how I’m feeling, I say I’m nauseous and give her a quick rundown of my circumstances and mental health history- I’m beginning to lose track of how many people I’ve talked to. She says I’m lucky that I’m not going to need my stomach pumped and hands me ginger ale and crackers.

There’s a man talking to himself across from me. A nurse asks if I’d like to be moved- side eyeing the patient as she nods towards his direction. This upsets me, and I’m quickly reminded of the hierarchy of behaviors and symptoms that are deemed “socially acceptable” to express, even in a psych unit… I swallow any urge to display my emotions.

I wake up an hour later to my mom praying next to me. She notices me shift, and I can tell she’s pissed. We say nothing to each other, as she talks to the members of her church on her phone- she’s more afraid of me going to hell than dying.

I repeat what the psychologist told me before I dozed off to my mother and younger brother, who had been in the waiting room. I’m going to be transferred in the morning, since there are no empty rooms, to a psychiatric hospital about 30 minutes away for 72 hours. It’s involuntary, but I wouldn’t have objected anyway. My brother apologizes to me and is trying to restrain himself from saying, “Yikes.” My mother says they’ll come back in the morning with clothes.

It’s about 6 a.m. and I’ve been sleeping in 20 minute intervals. A man with a cart hands me a pen and a menu to choose my breakfast options. In the distance I see a Haitian nurse shake her head behind him, as she mumbles something in Creole. She comes up to me, after he leaves, and lets me know she spoke to my mother (I think to put her at ease) and warns me that the hospital food is very… American and all the cooks are white. I laugh, my face moves this time, and thank her for the heads up.

I’m one of the only Black patients in this hospital.

The nurse was right about the food.

A couple hours go by and I’m told I’m being transferred within the next hour. I use the hospital phone to call my mother, and she says she’s running late, but to give her the address of the psychiatric hospital.

An hour passes and I’m being strapped to a new gurney and wheeled to the back of an ambulance- there’s still a needle taped to my forearm, that I ask about. One of the paramedics says “Oh shit,” and asks a nurse to remove it.

After 30 minutes of awkward eye contact with drivers I can see outside the ambulance window, and light conversation with a paramedic who is definitely my age- she talks about One Direction and her tendency to get car sick, and I respond with rhythmic nods- I’m being rolled into a building that is reminiscent of an urgent care. I feel silly and am finally allowed to hop off the gurney. I’m told to take a seat behind a door that resembles an interrogation room. I’m handed a mental health questionnaire, a pen, and a pamphlet of the rules and regulations of the hospital.

I’m told I can change out of my paper scrubs, which have been surprisingly comfortable, and given my bag of items from the hospital. The bathroom is mostly made of stainless steel, and items that would usually have an edge are rounded.

A sticker is placed over my phone camera, and I’m shocked when I’m told I’m allowed to use it during treatment. However certain items are confiscated and shelved in a personal locker. In my case: wired headphones, a phone charger, and body mist.

An hour- and a chicken breast that oozed salt water- later, a metal detector wand is hovered across my body, and I’m ushered upstairs and turn too many corners and enter too many doors (each needing a key to unlock), to remember where the lobby is, and I’m thinking that may have been the point.

I finally walk down a corridor containing some bedrooms to my left- my name written in chalk next to one. The left side also contains racks of towels, blankets, hospital gowns, and stacks of folding tray tables. On my right is a meeting room and a door that says shower. The end of the corridor opens to a small common room that emulates a college dorm. It’s stocked with a fridge, six rocking chairs, a T.V., a countertop filled with puzzles, crayons, and coloring books, and an office where faculty members can be reached.

This wasn’t what I was expecting. I have the urge to double check if my insurance is actually covering this.

A nursing assistant greets me, as patients wave at me from the common room- she asks if I've ever been in a hospital like this before. My vitals are taken in the hallway- a ritual that will be performed every morning and night- and I’m handed a bag filled with pads, travel-size deodorant, lotion, body wash, toothpaste, and a toothbrush.

Two nurses escort me to my room- I greet my roommate as she leaves- and they kindly, but awkwardly explain that my body needs to be checked. They assure that they will not touch me, but I will have to undress in front of them as they stare (I’m allowed to keep my underwear on). Scars are littered across my body which seems to concern them. I explain that most of them were not self-inflicted- I don’t think they believe me. They ask if my bra has metal in it, as I sit on a bed that is bolted to the floor, I lie and say no.

As I’m getting ready to sleep, a nurse asks if I can take off my “hat” (my bonnet). She inspects my head.

I am the only Black patient here.

This fact is magnified when the only other Black people I come across are those who work for the hospital. They go out of their way to talk to me, and we slyly discuss the cultural incompetence of the white hospital staff members. Some confide in me about their own mental health struggles, and how resources weren't known to them until they started working here.

I’d see a psychologist and social worker about once a day who made no attempt in pretending that I wasn’t just another revolving door of people they were burdened with listening to. The lingering ease I felt after talking to Black staff members quickly dissipated, as days slowly passed. A lot of questions or concerns are met with scoffs, interruptions, and accusations of mental unfitness. The psychologist tells me she thinks I’ll benefit from an extra four days here, I convince her to bring it down to one- this is when terror sets in.

I write down the thoughts I want to convey before my meetings since I often can’t remember either how I feel, or past events without deep concentration. A thick layer of brain fog has clouded my mind and my memory has increased in its decline over the year- I do not convey this to anyone. I’ll have gaps in my recollection, my speech sometimes slurs and I forget how to pronounce words. I’ve almost perfected masking vulnerable aspects of myself to the public- I worry about how honest I can be about my cognitive and physical decline. I can’t shake the feeling that something awful will happen and I won’t be believed because my sanity will be called into question. On a more vain note, I’ve become increasingly insecure about my intelligence. I’ll forget basic facts, I won’t remember what I’ve read, I won’t remember the ending of my favorite films (which is both a blessing and a curse), my writing is clunky, I misspell things I shouldn’t, and I fear my body is transitioning in a way I wasn't prepared for.

My four days are filled with routines and schedules: breakfast, group therapy, meetings with the psychologist, free time, lunch, arts and crafts, outside time, dinner, more free time. I sometimes cry at night, I’m handed stacks of resources I don’t qualify for, I’m given medication to help with my lingering stomach pain and nausea, and I have to pretend to feel sane.

Sometimes advertisements for antidepressants play when the other patients and I watch T.V. in the common area- we often fall silent and stifle half smiles at the irony.

During an arts and crafts session, we’re allowed to request music, and bond over Boy Genius… I again smirk at the irony.

I’m often asked if I have plans on killing myself again, and I have to remind staff that I did not try to kill myself- to which they respond, “Well, you could’ve died.” I don’t know if the truth- my preferred outcome was to be comatose or severely harmed (in a way I had control over)- helps my case. I’m often terrified of death, despite my suicide ideation, but I guess choosing to die doesn’t feel so inevitable, it feels as though I’m cheating fate in a way- one of the minimal things in my life I can have agency over.

My family visited with a bag of clothes. My mother had been crying, but her tears aren’t for me- she’s still on a group call with the members of her church, and she says the Devil has gotten a hold of me.

Since my hospitalization, I’m often threatened- by a certain family member- with being institutionalized if I show any signs of mental illness. Anything that may be considered disobedience is now chalked up to my “slipping sanity,” and I’m often woken to the whispers of prayers and a palm on my forehead.

I’m pretty good at playing a caricature of myself- subtle enough to convince those around me that I’m present and connected to my body, but not enough to conceal my symptoms. I often intellectualize my emotions, which makes me come off as more self-aware than I am… healthy even. A friend asks if I’ll ever feel comfortable crying in front of her- I earnestly respond, “Maybe in 10 years.”

My cocktail of disorders/disabilities: CPTSD, Autism, ADHD, Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, gender dysphoria, and arthritis (pending)

After the hospital, I attended an Intensive Outpatient Program that began with me asking how I can get better if society is filled with the effects of systemic harm that may prevent progress: racism, capitalism, misogyny, ableism, and much more. The program ended with me filling out a questionnaire with mostly “strongly agrees” circled and a note that essentially conveyed, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

I’ve been in a constant state of dissociation- a passenger in my own body. I regularly see a therapist, which more so mitigates my tendency to word vomit and overshare to innocent bystanders rather than helps my despair.

I wish I had a more upbeat ending for those reading this.