Member-only story
Life in a Mental Facility
Get well or get out
“So, I’ve called an ambulance and I want you to go to the hospital.”
“What? Why? I’m fine; I’m okay; I want to go home!” In mere seconds I’m sobbing, the pain in my throat and chest; too great to hold back.
He’s calm like he always is. “I’m sorry, Elle, but you’re manic, and I’m concerned for your safety. The EMTs are here, and I want you to go with them.”
“Please, Dr. McMillan, please don’t send me to the hospital. It doesn’t help. I don’t wanna go. I’m okay, I promise! I’m just gonna go home now.” I’m inching towards the door.
“Elle, you either go in the ambulance, or I’m calling the police, and you’ll go with them.”
He’s still calm, the bastard, and I’m in a panic — anxiety amping me higher and higher. My chest is tight, and I’m having trouble catching my breath between involuntary sobs. I’m trapped.
He stands up and walks me to the door as my whole body slumps in defeat. If my only choice is ambulance escort or cops, it’s not much of a choice. I’ve been picked up and driven to the hospital by trained medical professionals and law enforcement on enough occasions that I know there’s no way I’m going anywhere with cops unless I have to. EMTs treat me like I’m sick and…
