My roommate drove me to the Crisis Center. It was chilly and grey outside, but my sweater was protecting me from more than that. I was shaking from the moment Stacie told me to leave. By the time we got there I could barely hold the pen to fill out the needed paperwork.

We sat in the waiting room for too long–the longer we sat, the more real this became. I was having a hard time grasping it (did I really want to die? Did I really feel unsafe enough to risk being committed?)–I could only imagine how my roommate must be feeling.

When they finally called me back the crisis counselor asked me what was going on. I cried when I tried to tell her, and already I knew it was worse than last time. Last time I was preventing what by now had already happened.

“On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being very little thought, and 10 being planning suicide, how suicidal are you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I guess 7.”

I asked for my roommate to come. She called in another counselor to keep the numbers even, she said. They asked me again. On a scale of 1 to 10. I said 7.

“Why 7? What does 7 mean?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

How had I been feeling? What lead up to this moment? Had this ever happened before? I held on to my roommate and she rubbed my shoulder. I broke down more than once, unable to answer, sobbing into her shirt.

They couldn’t help me until I gave them more information. What was 7? Why was it 7?

Finally I broke: “Because I never want to say it’s more than that.”

They asked me to pick again. I told them 9.

I could feel my roommate reacting beside me. I felt awful. The counselors were dragging things out of me I’d never admitted to anyone, and I told her almost everything. She was hearing for the first time about my suicide attempt from the previous summer, hearing more information about my past, my history, my fears, my feelings. Things I never wanted anyone to know about me. It all had to come out. All on the floor, so they could pick through it, spread it out, smear it everywhere. I felt raw, exposed, vulnerable. Dissected.

They asked me if I could keep myself safe tonight. I said I didn’t know.

In that case, they told me, I should let myself be committed.

My roommate and I sat for at least two hours total during the visit to Crisis. The counselors kept leaving to work things out, then coming back for more information. Finally they told me all of the spaces were full at the treatment center, and the only way for me to get in would be to go involuntarily. And given what I had been saying, they thought that would be a good idea.

So much for avoiding the police car ride. I was questioned again, searched, patted down, dragged away from my roommate, cuffed, and lead to the police car, where I couldn’t even buckle myself in. I had to sit sideways so my cuffed hands didn’t dig into my back when pressed against the plastic seat. This was my second police car ride this year.

The officer was as nice as possible given the situation. He talked to me about my roommate, saying she seemed like a wonderful person. She was, I emphasized, the best I knew. I couldn’t think of anyone else I would rather have had with me at that time.

He asked me if I needed any number from my phone, and when we were at a stoplight, he asked me to walk him through opening it and pulling up my contacts so he could write some down for me.

When we got to the treatment center, he helped me out, and the first thing he told the staff upon our arrival is that I had been very cooperative.

I was relieved that my experience with the cop had been so positive. I was lucky that I’d gotten one of the campus officers who knew me from RA training. He was the one who had taken me to Crisis this summer. I hoped he wouldn’t have to do this with me again.

I was processed like a human, and I think it’s kind of sad that that surprised me. When they saw I was cooperating, they took off my cuffs. A nurse lead me into a small office and read me some paperwork, explaining what would happen while I was here and what my rights were. I signed a lot of things. They checked my vitals. They took away my shoes. They let me keep my piercings in. They gave me a tour. Showed me my room. The door didn’t lock. The bed creaked loudly when I sat on it. They gave me toothpaste, mouthwash, and deodorant. They had mango water. I went through ten paper cups. They gave me soy milk with a vegetarian dinner. At 6pm my roommate was allowed to see me. I cried again. She hugged me. They wouldn’t give me the pants she brought me because they had a drawstring. I couldn’t keep my phone. They let me keep my gel pens and my coloring book and my journal. I told my roommate what had happened so far. She offered to contact all of my supervisors for me to let them know I would not be at work this week. I was scared. They said I would be here for 72 hours. I couldn’t see my cat. I could only see my roommate once a day. My friends didn’t know where I was.  My cat would be worried about me.

My roommate said she would reach out to my closest friends to let them know what was going on, without giving too many details. I couldn’t stop crying and hugging her. I just wanted to go back home. I wanted to be okay.

She had to leave. One of the nurses held a group for those of us who were there. I met some interesting people. Not all of us were scared. Some of them had been here for a long time. I felt selfish and scared. I didn’t want to be here for that long.

I went to bed early. Every time I moved, even a little bit, my bed creaked loudly. The door didn’t lock and they checked on me every fifteen minutes. I worried that someone might come in and try to do something to me. I tried to analyze how I felt. I was scared and lonely. But I couldn’t tell if I still wanted to die. I could barely feel anything.

I woke up. I didn’t want to shower. But I did get dressed. Good sign. I was less scared. Still nervous. I colored my book. Breakfast was pretty gross. One of the patients asked if I wanted to be friends. When I said yes he kept trying to touch me until I yelled at him to stop. Another asked for help opening her food. She couldn’t stop shaking. Another kept murmuring to herself about machines and wires. She said she had PTSD. I wondered what had happened. She cried to another patient who told her to talk to Jesus. Everything happens for a reason, she said. I lay in bed and listened to them and felt angry. Sometimes things just happen.

They asked us to do chair yoga which was silly because we still used our legs. I was the only college student there. The third group I went to was run by an exasperated man who didn’t now how to talk to us. I felt I could have done better after only being here for a day. I wrote a letter to my roommate. They took my vitals again. I talked to a doctor, a psychiatrist, a social worker. They called my roommate. They asked for my insurance. If they could call my parents. I almost yelled no.

My counselor called and asked if i was okay. I told her I felt better. It was true. I wasn’t planning anymore. She said she thought I would be okay. She told me to tell the truth. Don’t lie to get out faster.

The third time I saw the social worker I cried when she told me I could go home today. I called my roommate. She was picking my up at 3:30. I missed a group because I was talking to the social worker. They got to go outside. I heard them come back and one of the patients said “It almost got scary.” I felt bad for missing and almost wanted to stay a little longer to be with these people more and learn their stories. I felt very privileged. One of the nurses talked to me about that. I was an easier case, she reminded me. I was actually pretty okay. I felt that now more than ever. I was going home. Most of the others had to stay. I packed my things and sat on the creaky bed waiting. I jumped up when they came to take me out. I hugged my things. Dropped most of them when I ran to hug my roommate. I felt like a child. But it was okay because I was going home.

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