Chapter 1
“You’re awake.” The bright lights of the hospital room mixed with the sounds of the various machines startled me as I slowly opened my eyes. I looked around the room to see a doctor staring at me, clipboard in his hand, a look of relief painted his face. Oh, it didn’t work. I looked at the doctor, then to the multiple tubes and wires connected to me, then back at the doctor. I had so many things I wanted to say, some of them nice, some of them not so nice.
“Yes, yes I am.” I said hoarsely.
“You gave us quite a scare for a while there, Ella. We weren’t sure if you were going to wake up.” He walked over to the chair next to me and sat down.
“I’m Dr. Norris, the head psychiatrist here at Quailridge Hospital. I’d like to discuss your next steps. First of all, we are putting you on a mandatory 72 hour suicide watch. Second of all, you are going to be sent to a mental health facility. Not only is it recommended, but your chosen healthcare proxy has already signed off on it, you’ll be discharged and sent there once the 72 hour hold ends. Can you please tell me if you remember what prescription pills you took?” He had a look of sympathy in his eyes, he looked almost sorry for me. I looked at my hands, tears welling up in my eyes.
“My bipolar medication, Lamictal. 2 handfuls.” In this very moment, I hated myself. I hate that I took those pills, that I put my friends and family through this, the pain of watching me suffer from my own internal pain. The last thing I remember before blacking out was my roommate finding me on the floor, minutes away from unconsciousness.
“Okay thank you. Now what was the reasoning behind your overdose?” I didn’t want to talk about it. I wasn’t ready. I wanted to talk about it when I could talk about it without crying, but I knew he only wanted to help me so I complied.
“I was stressed out from school, from work, family, life in general. I wanted to just be free of my mind and my responsibilities! It was all too much!” I cried out. And it was. I was failing school because I wasn’t showing up to my classes because I was too depressed to go. I wouldn’t go to work because I couldn’t get out of bed. My grandmother was a constant stressor in my life due to the fact that I’ve been her personal therapist since I was 6. All of it was too much to bear. I just wanted everything to come to an end, including my life. Tears were rolling down my cheeks as I sobbed.
“You’re going to be okay. You will get help, and you will bounce back from this. You are not alone. I know that it’s cliché to say that and that’s probably the last thing you want to hear, but I’m just telling you the truth. We are here to help you. What happened wasn’t your fault, but your brain’s fault. You’re going to be okay.” His reassurance was comforting, although it made me cry harder. At this point I don’t know what I was more sad about: the fact that the overdose happened or the realization that I survived knowing I had planned on not surviving. The consequences of both were sure to come soon, it was just a matter of time.
