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What I've Learned: Four Days in the Mental Health Ward

This story won't be fabricated, and may be triggering for some.

By A ZPublished 6 years ago 8 min read
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"You're only sixteen, what makes your life so bad that you want to die?"

The red, rough hospital gown scratched my knees; unshaved calves prickled my cracked palms. I kept my hair over my face as my nurse attempted to engage in the long dreaded conversation,

"You know, I want you to go to some of the groups we have. They'll give you some good coping skills and—"

"My seventy two hours is almost up, I'm going home tomorrow."

I stared out the window and through the floating snow. Tall street lamps illuminated the rusty nets of an abandoned basketball court and the brick walls of the ward. I could see my reflection; matted, orange hair and three day old mascara smeared down into the creases of my eyes.

"Well I mean, they might want to keep you longer."

The nurse snatched up a box of tissues as my bottom lip began to quiver. My raw eyes had done nothing but weep and stare into nothingness for three days. I know for sure that when I broke away from my nurse, I clutched the stuffed dog my dad brought me and cried myself to sleep.

I am sixteen years old and on November 16th, 2017 I was admitted to the Adult Mental Health Ward. It's a long, winding story and to make it short I'm going to say: I was going to attempt suicide. This story won't be fabricated, and may be triggering for some.

I'll start from the beginning:

On Wednesday the 15th I stayed up until two in the morning writing my suicide note. I really didn't know if I was going to do it or not. I'd held a knife up to my wrist several times that day, I'd even popped the blades out of my razors but they weren't the right type. Eventually my cat jumped on me and wouldn't leave me alone, so I went to bed.

The next day I expected to be good as new, like usual. Whenever I have these strong suicidal urges they usually come once and then leave for a little bit. I decided anyway to go to school cause I thought it would take my mind off things. I sat in the cafeteria, nearly crying until I texted my mom to ask her if I could go home. I felt like I just couldn't admit something so serious, I had been trying to tell her for weeks how I'd been feeling. My life felt like a miserable mess, just a jumble of swampy feelings. I remember spilling it out over text. I told her, "No mom it's not my anxiety. I've been feeling really suicidal."

I stood up in a daze and I wandered out of the school. I really didn't know where I was going but I knew in my mind if I wanted to die, I'd have to go to the road. Maybe I could buy a rope from my work across the street? Nah, too suspicious. I'd have to make due with cars. So I paced up and down the road outside my school, the skin on my hands stinging from the cold. Of course, the cars weren't going fast enough so I'd have to go to the expressway. I walked up the road to the McDonald's, eventually just sitting with a group of old friends until my mom picked me up.

There was lots of crying on my part, and sitting under a blanket feeling like a failure. When we got an appointment with a crisis counsellor, she told me it would be best if I checked myself into the hospital. I couldn't feel anything at that point, but as I sat in the stuffy emergency waiting room, my body froze.

I can't tell you much about the first day I was there, they kept me in a dark room with a stiff cot. I slept, and on the odd chance I was awake I listened to the security guards outside my door. After 24 hours they moved me up to the ward. I hadn't showered or brushed my hair in almost two days, and when they had to wheel me on a wheelchair I felt completely powerless. When the two sets of steel doors of the ward closed, my heart raced. They took my stuff away again and I was left in a room with a lot of chairs. Through the windows I watched the other patients walk up and down the gloomy hallway.

The nurse who interviewed me sat oddly close, and that night I don't remember much else besides meeting my roommate. I was bare again, without a book or pen. I looked out of the window for the first time in over a day at the dull glow from the street lamps. I followed the footprints in the snow with my eyes, the gentle calm entered my body.

"What are you in here for?" My roommate croaked from her side of the pale, blue curtain,

"I was going to walk into traffic."

"Are you glad to be alive?"

I didn't want to burden her with anything so I settled with this: "Yeah, I guess so."

"I'm not."

It felt so weird to me, being in a place where everyone was going through something so similar. In school, suicide wasn't something you talked about so freely, you used jokes to hide how you truly felt. In here we were all equal and these people I'd never met understood me in a way that none of my friends or family could.

By my third day I was so fed up that I was considering hurling a chair out of the window and running away. Anxiety's cold fingers squeezed my chest, confining me to the small ward. The only thing keeping me relatively sane was the people I was in there with. There was a girl, a few years older than me with a really nice smile; and a guy my age who was a homeless addict. Another man in his 60s would ramble and ramble, then sing that old Bob Dylan song; "Everybody Must Get Stoned." He'd ask how I was doing a lot, and say, "Yeah you looked really rough when you first came in." People told me that a lot, even that old group of friends I sat with in the McDonalds on the first day.

Then, sometimes one of the men would stop, give me a funny, wide eyed look and ask,

"What's a pretty girl like you doin' in here?"

I really didn't know anymore, I didn't feel like I belonged there because I didn't actually attempt. That thought process was just part of the lesson I was soon to learn.

I realised a lot of things in there, because there wasn't much else to do but sit and think. For starters, we're all created with potential, it just depends on what you do with it. The kid my age told me, "Just promise me one thing, you won't fuck your life up as bad as I have." The things we have potential in are the things we are passionate about; rather than artificial happiness these things have the capability to keep us alive. Some days It's really hard to muster the motivation to do what I love, but I've been trying. I'm not going to lie to you and say that It's all easy, I'm a human being, not an advertisement.

Secondly, I realised how much people actually do care. When you're suicidal, sometimes you don't understand how much your family and friends love you; or you don't feel like you have a reason to care. I'll tell you, I felt ignored by my mother, I felt like my friends didn't understand. Despite these feelings and doubts, my parents visited me twice a day when I was there. I watched my mother break down and cry multiple times over those four days, which I've never seen in my life. Since I've gotten out, my dad and I especially have been a lot closer. I'm lucky for that, and I figure it's best to count my blessings now so I know what I can be thankful for. Even a distant aunt has thrown me tremendous support, giving me books and reading materials. I never realised how much people cared because I never told them how I felt.

Lastly, I've learned that happiness comes from taking things one step at a time. I'm almost finished high school and the pressure has been on to figure out a life long career. The influence of family members to go into a field I hate has made me forget one thing: I am an artist. I've tried over the past two years to be the best at everything, and coming out short caused me to break down. This has impacted my writing, my music, and my mental health. I know now that I am only human, I need time to learn and grow.

The restlessness of being admitted into hospital forced me to find peace with some aspects of my life. I'm not saying that it's easy, I'm not saying that my life is a miracle now and my mental health is amazing. I just hope my story can resonate with someone else out there. I'm lucky enough to still be alive, and to have had an amazing support system. I reached out and got help, which has been essential in my recovery from bulimia, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts. I urge any of you out there who may be feeling the same way to reach out too; because I care about you, and so do many others.

recovery
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About the Creator

A Z

A Canadian, teenage writer

through my writing I will give myself to you; in little pieces which you must digest. Maybe one day I will see the beauty in what I've gone through, but for now it is just pain.

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