To Anyone That Will Listen

To anyone that will listen,

I’ve been going through my pictures from last year--the ones leading up to the day I ended up in the ER. Everything seemed fine just days before. I was going to events, spending time out in nature, all the stuff that made me seem... ok. I don’t remember that morning very well. I think I’ve blocked that part out. But I remember them checking me into Emory’s ER and taking all my belongings. I remember them putting me in a special room with all the equipment locked up and leaving me there for 16 hours. The social worker left after about 4 hours, and after that I was alone. They gave me nothing to eat. Nothing to keep my mind busy. I thought they forgot about me until the EMT’s came rushing into my room at 4 in the morning. They were there to drive me to my home for the next week, the only mental hospital that took my insurance in a 30 mile radius, but I wasn’t done waiting. When I got there, they took me to a holding room full of addicts, suicidal patients, and lonely children waiting for intake. Everyone looked like they were dead already, and even though I was sleep deprived and delirious at this point, I vividly remember the exact shade of green lighting in that room. I was convinced that I was in hell. I cried and begged the nurse to let me go home. I swore that I was ok and that I regretted the steps that got me there. She calmly told me that once you’re checked in to a mental hospital you can’t leave without a doctor’s permission. It felt like a prison in that way.

I was in that holding room for a few more hours before they finally had a bed ready for me. My clothes were deemed a danger to my safety, and I had to change into disposable scrubs. The mental health hall was completely full, so they put me in the rehab unit. They allowed me to sleep in the first day, but after that I was put on a strict routine. Up at 7, lights out by 10, and medication every few hours. I was on Lexapro the year before, and it made me throw up and faint on a regular basis. I will admit that if they got anything right, it was the medication they prescribed. The Prozac and Vistaril (a hulk version of benadryl) they gave me only made me slightly nauseous, and once I left it helped my depression in a way that Lexapro never could. However, the medication only put a small dent in the daily struggles I dealt with that week. Since I was on the rehab unit, I was forced to go to all of the addict meetings--alcohol, cocaine, and narcotics anonymous. I bonded with the women on my unit, and empathized with the many struggles they faced. But I didn’t personally struggle with addiction. I struggled with desperately wanting to die, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I would’ve had a better experience if I was on the proper unit.

The days took forever to end, and the strictness of the schedule was not enough to keep my mind busy. Our rooms were locked during the day, so during free time I started obsessively doing every single puzzle I could find. I would do this until it was time for my depression and anxiety medication which made me promptly fall asleep in the nearest chair. We had every meal as a collective group. I ate until I felt like my stomach would explode. The girl next to me ate nothing. I guess we both found our ways to cope over the years. Every day went like this. I woke up, had my vitals taken, took my meds, went to meeting after meeting after meeting, ate, cried, took my meds twice more, finished puzzles, and--if I was lucky--I would meet with a psychiatrist to discuss my progress. The first time I met with a doctor, they told me I could leave on the fourth day. The fourth day came and went, yet I still hadn’t been discharged. I was confused and scared, but I got lucky and had the chance to speak with a psychiatrist again. It was a completely different doctor, and this time they told me that I couldn’t leave until a week had passed. I stormed out of his office with tears streaming down my face. I was so lonely. No one knew I was locked up in this place except for my partner who lived in a completely different state. Every day, when visitation hour came, I watched all the other patients with their families and friends and thought about how my loneliness was the reason I wanted to die in the first place. Every day that passed in that place reminded me of how little my absence meant in the real world. I was allowed to leave after a week with multiple prescriptions in my hand and a stigma that would forever be a stain on my history. This place that was supposed to fix me somehow made me even more suicidal than before. I won’t go into details, but the following weeks I was filled with an unbearable emptiness that pushed me into the arms of self-harm.

I went back to my regular life and was somehow expected to continue with school and work as though nothing happened. My suspicions were correct--even though I openly discussed my depression on social media no one reached out or even seemed to notice my hiatus. Neither did anyone question my absence from class. In truth, I didn’t expect it, but a part of me was praying that I would go back home to something, anything that could make me feel less invisible. I remember how angry I was at the world. I wondered what would have happened if I actually accomplished my suicide. I wondered if the same people who ignored my cries for help would have the audacity to mourn me. I was enraged, but underneath it all I was heartbroken. The world failed me, and I failed myself. Where was I supposed to go from there?

Despite this disappointment, it’s important to me to acknowledge the people who were rays of light through all that darkness. My therapist, my roommates for taking care of my cat, Vanessa for being the only person who even texted me during that time, and, most importantly, my partner. I completely blindsided him when I told him I was in the ER. I didn’t even have time to tell him which hospital I was in before they took my phone away, but he kept calling the school’s hospitals until he found me. And again for flying all the way from New York to come and check in on me even though the hospital wouldn’t let you stay for more than an hour. Last year was the worst year of my life for reasons only he and my therapist know. His support saved my life more times than he thinks. I spent all of my life struggling alone, and I could continue doing so if it came to that. But it has been a blessing to know what it’s like to have someone there to help me carry the weight.

As I’m coming to the end of my letter, I want to say thank you for getting this far. Writing this has been a much needed cathartic experience. October 16th is the anniversary of the day that could’ve been my last. I’ve spent the last few days crying, unable to sleep, and dealing with random panic attacks every time I think about this experience. I’m terrified, and each day that passes brings about even more fear. I’m scared of once again finding myself exactly where I was last year. That loneliness that I mentioned is still inside of me, and though I’ve come a long way from where I was last year, I know my truth. I don’t spend every day longing for death anymore, but I also can’t say that my will to live is very strong. The journey up was difficult. The journey back down will not be. I hope that my catharsis saves someone else and helps destigmatize the discussion around mental health. I refuse to stay silent when I know I’m not the only one who feels broken. I know what loneliness feels like. I know how all-consuming it is. Our lives are so fragile, and being told we’re not alone could make a world of difference.

-Alexandra