Cargo
It takes a long time to get mental health care in this town- at least three months, sometimes more. I couldn’t wait that long. I was a danger to myself. Furthermore, I was afraid I was going to do something irreversible to destroy my relationship with Andy. This, more than anything, was the reason I sought help.
As J drove me to the hospital, we chatted along the way. I felt so much better with her around, knowing I was going to get help and that things would be better soon. I was delusional to think that things would get better according to the quick clock in my head, but I must have needed to believe that at the time. We walked into the hospital and ambled up to reception. I told them, regrettably, that I was having suicidal thoughts. As I said this, I felt like I had I tripped into a wall of shame. I knew I needed help, but I despised myself for asking for it. This is what shame around mental illness does. It traps you into thinking that the only way out is death.
Once I was admitted, J and I were led into a small room lit by horrible florescent lights. J’s brother, also a friend of mine, was sending me encouraging texts which worked to cheer me up. I sent him silly pictures of myself and forgot, just for a few minutes, that I was sick. A young, curt nurse came in and took my vitals. She asked me a few questions about my mental health and about my suicidal thoughts and recommended that I be admitted into a psychiatric hospital. I was repulsed. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. I asked her how long I would have to be there, and the nurse replied brusquely, “Forty-eight hours.” Forty-eight hours? I could DO that. That was a weekend. If that’s what it would take to get these horrible thoughts out of my head, I could do it.
They made me ride in an ambulance. Let me repeat that. They strapped me to a board and made me ride in an ambulance. I felt like such a fool. Even my ability to make small talk in the face of uncomfortable situations failed me. I closed my eyes and imagined I was instead in the car with J as she followed behind. When finally reached the hospital and I was unloaded like a piece of cargo, I felt sick to my stomach. I hadn’t eaten in hours. As J and I sat in the front office of the hospital, I couldn’t stop moving. My whole body was quaking with the fear of my own insanity. J sat with me the entire time, her calm character never wavering. I see why the horses love her so much. She’s a steady hand in the presence of another creature’s suffering and fear.
We waited. We waited so long.
Just when I thought I couldn’t long for the comfort of my bed any more, a nurse walked in with a stack of papers. I hesitated as I asked how long I would have to be there, and her response was, “It usually takes around 10–14 days.” I gasped and instinctively wrapped my feet around the legs of the chair, a gesture saying, “No. You can’t make me.” Maybe it was something J said, or I slipped into resignation, or maybe it was desperation and a commitment to getting better, but my mind made a determined decision to stay. I could feel hot, salty tears rising as I struggled to breathe under the elephant on my chest. It was decided, and J was going back to my lonely apartment to take care of Abby. I had nothing with me but the clothes I was wearing but because the caring nature of my friend knows no bounds, she drove across town to my apartment and brought back clothes, toiletries, a book to read, and my own pillow. She drove through a terrible storm to get there, not knowing where she was or how to get there. I’m forever grateful to her and cannot express enough the joy I feel in her friendship.
It was now past midnight and my tears had dried, leaving my eyes scratchy and raw. The elephant was off my chest, but I was left choking on my shame as they slowly removed everything that was comforting to me. Two young woman, girls really, led me back to a sterile hallway and into a small room where they took my phone and my purse away. They went through every single bit of my belongings to make sure I had nothing with which I could hurt myself or anyone else. Finally, they made me strip down to my underwear, checking my body for bruising and signs of self-harm. The shame of it all left me feeling like a helpless little lab rat, squeaking to escape its prison.
