When you’re eighteen you have the rest of your life to look forward to. College, maybe take a gap year and move out of your hometown to start the adult years of freedom that come with being eighteen. You don’t think of yourself going to a hospital just for your mind and depression.
Depression doesn’t knock on your front door to ask you if you’re ready to feel it. It happens when you’re crying in your room with the lights out and you don’t know why. The reality is it doesn’t let you go as you feel alone and like an outcast who tries to enjoy the little things and life itself, but eventually you give up. I didn’t know depression held me in its grasp until close relatives asked my mother if I was okay. When she had no answer she’d try to make up excuses for me. She’s just tired. This lie became a reality and my answer for everything in life. The truth was I was tired. Tired of fighting my depression and being in its chokehold. Fighting for what seemed like my life.
I contemplated for as long as I could remember what the fight for my life was for, and if it would have been worth it as I didn’t have a reason to believe it was. Little did I know this was the first step to realizing I had depression. Acceptance. The pain of it held me in dark moments where I wanted to end it and that would solve my problems. In the moment I thought I’d close my eyes and be gone, but my memory would live through who I’d leave behind. Who actually cared, who I impacted, and who I made feel welcomed in times I didn’t. I didn’t know that this would be a good reason to hold on.
The ride to the ward was a scene out of a prison movie where everything slow motion as the protagonist realizes what they’ve done to lead them to the present moment. I was supposed to go look for prom dresses and be asked what color and style I wanted to try. Instead, I was asked what led me to feel the way I’ve been feeling by the EMS worker in the back of an ambulance. My mother was mortified trying to put the pieces together, but failing as she looked to me for answers. I didn’t have them myself. The doors of Maimonides hospital opened and my feet carried me. It was the first sign my body showed of wanting help before my mind could even agree. It was still fighting, keeping me emotionless as a hospital worker asked for my name, date of birth, and why I was there.
They led me to a gurney in what felt like the middle of the first floor with commotion to give me a check-up. I felt embarrassed and wanted to scream, but nothing came out. No one would listen as my voice came out as nothing but a whisper. In the distance, I saw my father coming towards me with a slight jog with worry on his face. Sitting in the bed I remained motionless and still like a doll who was waiting to be played with. I was told I wasn’t allowed my phone in the place I was going and that I was allowed one visitor at a time. The blanket I was given was scratchy as was the white clothed one to match the bed in the corner with a curtain on both sides of it.
There were no windows or anything to keep track of time, just white-painted walls, the nurses’ hideaway, and the rest of the patients. I was bored, numb, and lifeless watching the nurses in their long white jackets study me like I was them. They had a front-row seat on my bed as their wide windowed box watched my every move. I noticed there was a door that led into the hallway and into their box with another door that led into the ward if they kept walking straight. Little did they know I paid attention to plan my sweet escape.
The patterns on my gown made me think of a maze, the same maze that made me forget where and how exactly I got to the front door of such a place physically. It was no match to the maze that presented itself in my mind mentally as the seconds, minutes, and hours went by the bigger my internal maze became.
The outside world quickly became a fantasy I didn’t know if I’d ever return to. If I played my cards right and told them what they needed to hear then maybe I’d be set free. I was reminded of just how true that had been when the doctor I waited hours for came to see me.
“How are you feeling?’’ she asked “Numb” I replied. She jotted down notes and kept asking me what felt like the same question over and over as if my answer would change over the course of minutes. I could feel myself losing my mind, slipping down a slide I didn’t want to go down. Feeling defeated and low on energy I would have to wait for the nurse to come back with her clipboard and pen pointless questions at the ready. In the morning all three of my family members took turns to see me. My sister was first.
“How’d you end up here?” she asked. “ I told Dr.Paley I wanted to jump off the sixteenth floor”. I replied, slowly refusing to look her in the eye. I imagined my feet dangling over the edge after climbing over the wall looking down at the street and the park across from it. The wind blew as the Manhattan skyline said goodbye to me, and the eulogies close friends and family members would recite at my ceremony. I shifted the blanket to cover me completely looking at the nurses’ box.
Following my gaze. “What did the doctor that came to see you last night talk to you about?” she asked, waiting a few minutes, being careful of her words and mindful of her questions. After somewhat chewing the tiniest bite I replied “She asked me what I enjoyed and I said car rides”.
“That’s depressing, that’s what depressed people say”. No shit I wanted to say. No shit. I was depressed. I remembered the moment of my confession and telling Dr. Paley when the white door closed behind my sister. Sitting in the chair opposite her the window behind her displayed a sunny day and her phone ringing like it did every appointment.
The next minute she put her phone back to use and called an ambulance. The police arrived first with two officers standing in the doorway analyzing me as she stood outside her office upon their arrival explaining to them what I had confessed.
Great I thought I’m a fucking statistic. I knew they weren’t going to take me forcefully as they could see I was shocked and out of it. My hair was a mess and my tears were evident. I could see they didn’t think an arrest was necessary. They asked me questions and approached me calmly, but I still couldn’t help but feel intimidated as this could’ve gone left at any given moment.
The sound of my dad sitting down took me out of what happened the day prior. He too asked pointless questions that were too soon for me to answer. Questions like “What college are you going to? Is this because of college? Is this because of school? Do you think They’re helping you?” I felt my hands go into tight fights. So tight I saw the imprint of my hands on my palms. His presence alone wanted to make me scream.
My mother was the one to be the bearer of good news. The nurses allowed me to go home. My mother switched with my sister who had a change of clothes in a shopping bag for me. “I didn’t know what to bring so…” she hands me the bag awkwardly. “Mia, do you feel ready to come home?”. I didn’t have an answer for her.
I was in the Psych Ward for less than twenty-four hours. They wanted to keep me for a week and evaluate me, but my parents refused and told the nurses I was a senior and finals were coming up as well as school events I was looking forward to. I packed up my little belongings after another round of answering the same pointless questions as the night before after my father came for his one-on-one, followed by my mother. After my release, my family took me to Long Island ignoring my request for Sonic. I couldn’t help but feel helpless and numb after my time in the ward. The rain hitting the car window didn’t help as I thought there was not a place or person on this earth that could help me.
I didn’t go to school the next day as my mother didn’t seem fit. She took off from work as did my sister and took turns watching me as I watched shows. With the hospital washed off me and the wristband tight on my wrist I didn’t feel free, especially with how I scared my mother when I stared at one place for too long. My body is present physically and my mind is elsewhere. I didn’t have much of an appetite as my body rejected everything I ate and my mind did the opposite for everything I thought.
At school, my guidance counselor made sure to have a one-on-one with me in her office. I tried to tell her what had happened as my mother called her the previous day, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her or anyone. I had to see Dr. Paley as soon as the last bell rang and made sure to be a few minutes late. Out of pettiness and not knowing what to expect. When I got to her office I went straight towards her office, passing the usual busy waiting room only to sit there for thirty minutes silent, still traumatized by what took place because of a phone call she had made. I got up at the end walking towards the door.
“Mushka, will you go straight home?’’ she asked me. “Dr. Paley, I’m tired. I’m going home.” I replied defeated.
