You need to realize it’s not your fault. It’s not God’s, it’s not theirs, and it’s certainly not something that’s permanent. If you can’t get out of bed, don’t force yourself. Tell them that:
“I’m sorry, but I can’t go out tonight.” Actually, don’t apologize. Tell them that you can’t “Think Happy, Be Happy.” Tell them that their Life is Good shirt pisses you off. Be honest. Be brutally honest with yourself. It’s okay that their “Everything happens for a reason” tattoo is bullshit. Bob Marley was wrong. “Don’t worry, be happy,” he says. You tell Bob Marley not to tell people what to do.
If you can’t do something right now, don’t. You can’t, after all. Tell them: “No, my mind isn’t foggy.” “Yes, I take that many pills.” “No, I can’t pronounce the names of them, either.”
Tell them the hospital wasn’t fancy. No, you didn’t make friends. You weren’t allowed to. Skipping school was not fun, and nobody wanted to call you on the phone because they wouldn’t have heard what they wanted.
When you’re in the hospital, you will notice that you take way fewer pills than most of the other admits and you will feel a sick sense of pride. As if you’re somehow stronger than them for needing less. Don’t do that. Rolling your tongue upwards and having them look inside to make sure you’ve swallowed those pills isn’t cute, and neither is the paper suit you’ll have on your thinning waist. You’re no better than they are. You’re all in the same boat.
They do head checks here. You won’t be sure what a head check is, until it’s happening to you. Every fifteen minutes you’ll be stared at. Once the staff can count two breaths, you’re off the hook. Your doctors will be honest. “I can tell you’re not sleeping,” they’ll say when you walk away. You’ll want to turn and give them a snide look and say, “Wait, really? Is it the black circles under my eyes or the damn head checks that gave it away?” but you won’t. You will crack your knuckles a lot, and you’ll look more dead than alive.
The staff told you the Adult Wing was full indefinitely. You doubt this. You hate the Children’s Wing. You’re eighteen, you shouldn’t be sharing this experience with a nine-year-old. That’ll make you sad. She’s only nine. But you accept your fate.
Take a shower. Showers always help.
You’re drowning, but it’s not because of the water running down your face. It’s much deeper waters than that. The sweat of your palms, your nails bitten to the ends, and the sound of the girl throwing the chair down the hall will not lull you to sleep any better than the head checks every fifteen minutes every night. Stand in the shower, or sit if you want. Do whatever you want to relieve the stress.
Head check.
Pop your head out of that shower like a fish out of water, and remember that if you were allowed to bring makeup you’d have raccoon eyes right about now. You weren’t trying to drown yourself for Pete’s sake, but you might want to know that your hair is dripping on the floor and your ears are cold. You will look in the shatter-proof mirror that’s nailed to the wall and wonder how long the circles under your eyes have been this dark. But who cares, you’ve got nobody to impress. Especially not Rico, even though you’d really prefer a female staff member to make sure you’re alive in the shower. Rico is cool, but you’ll be pissed to see him. This wouldn’t happen in the Adult Wing. That’s what you’ll tell yourself, at least.
You might go to close the door and remember there are no doors here. You might hate administration, but they’re here to help, and they are helping. They’re keeping everyone safe, including you. Remember that. And yes, “This too shall pass,” so you’ll ask yourself why it doesn’t feel that way. Cliché on top of cliché. You will want to replay the stupid tips the Happy People have told you in your head. They tell you how to feel better, as if they’ve found the cure in the midst of their wellness. Damn the Children’s Wing.
The Children’s Wing is set up with two gendered hallways. The left is girls, the right boys. You don’t like that either. Each room has a roommate.
Roommate?
Don’t stress too much about not liking them. You won’t be allowed to stay in your room very long anyways. As far as sleeping goes, if they don’t snore or talk in their sleep you’re going to be fine. And don’t worry that they’ll strangle you in your sleep. There will be head checks, so they’d have a small window to work with if they wanted to do the deed…That was a joke.
Try your best to remember the things that make you laugh, even if you haven’t mustered up the motivation to laugh out loud just yet.
As far as the Children’s Wing goes, there’s a small recreation room in the middle of the two hallways. They have a radio and “stress relieving” coloring sheets with crayons. No colored pencils, though. If you ask why you can’t have them, they’ll make something up. You will soon realize it’s because they don’t want you to gouge your eye out with them, or do some other horror movie type of shit to yourself.
While you’re there, you will talk to everyone you see and won’t be sure if it’s from your newfound ability to act happy or aching loneliness. Try to make friends. Actually, since friends aren’t allowed, maybe just acquaintances. You won’t be sure as to why this is the rule, but the staff will tell you a story about a boy who made a friend once; when he got out, his friend showed up outside of his house with a knife. Liars.
You will miss the outdoors, and you’ll be in counseling groups all day. You will realize acting can take you far, that you can get more “outside time” if you just go with the flow. Once you get a blue band on your wrist, you’re set. You’ve been awarded this for good behavior. You might even get to meet Barney. He’s the therapy dog. Act like you love groups—like you love talking about your past—and Jennifer will sneak you more snacks. If you want to be smart about this, just don’t be yourself. Be friendly, be helpful, and don’t sleep through group activities even if you want to.
You will certainly want to get out of there as soon as possible, so why not just get out and figure out what you’ll do after that? You will lie when they ask you to rate yourself from one to ten, and you will circle the smiley face with a slight smile to describe your mood. Don’t circle the smiley face with a big smile—that’s too suspicious.
Upon discharge, it’s worse. When you eventually get out it’s not because you beat depression, or because you worked really hard to get out of there. It’s because you jumped through the hoops and survived the process. You might even miss the hospital, and wonder why you’d miss something so sterile and cold. You will think back to the times when you prayed to some type of God to get you out, and wonder why you weren’t happy when He delivered. You’ll miss it. Not because it helped, but because it was one of the only places that allowed you to truly acknowledge the issues you have. You might not even know what your issues are, but lying probably wasn’t a good first step.
Discharge is like being thrown back into a reality you didn’t even like in the first place. It’s the worst part. It’s the worst because, although you’ll start your admission terrified, you’ll also start with a strange sense of hope. A hope that maybe it will help you. But it won’t unless you let it, and you didn’t. Discharge is like looking back at another missed opportunity.
You’re cured, right?
You must be. You were discharged, after all. You can’t put this feeling into words, and you shouldn’t have to. You know you shouldn’t have lied, but what else could you have done? The hospital wasn’t helping, nor their lack of understanding. But don’t blame them. Don’t ever blame them for not understanding this feeling. This isn’t something you would wish on anyone.
You will feel stuck. You will wonder why you don’t feel better like everyone expects you to. You’ll be mad: mad at those people; mad at your family; mad that you aren’t feeling better. You checked all the boxes. You took the pills. You went to the hospital. And now you’re in counseling. This will make you wonder why nothing works. You’ll want to give up.
Don’t give up.
Instead, accept.
Accept that people are assholes and judge pain they don’t understand. Accept that when you don’t feel like getting out of bed, sometimes it’s okay to just not. And accept that, like the ice cream cones in the cafeteria, nothing is permanent, not this feeling, and not how it got you there.
In the meantime, hang in there. There are moments during your stay that are useful. If you talk to Rico at lunch, he’ll teach you how to make a Baja Blast by mixing the blue Powerade with the ginger ale. Portions are important to get the perfect mix. He’ll show you.
Not all of it is awful, but it’s still pretty bad.
You can acknowledge that it’s alright to appreciate the help you’re getting, without believing it’s going to work at this moment in time. “You’re not alone” is going to sound like bullshit.
When you’re standing in that hospital cafeteria, eating your ice cream, remember this: This isn’t your fault, and you’re an asshole, too. We’re all just little assholes, shaking our fists at God, or whatever the hell is up there, on our way towards something bigger.