My mental health wasn’t a topic I openly talked about. November sixth was proving to be a pretty typical Sunday for me. Which really means laying in bed until about 5 PM, drinking a latte, and finally starting the work I should’ve started that morning. I was studying chemistry when I missed a call from my psychiatrist. A few minutes after I listened to his voicemail, saying that he would try me again in a couple minutes, public safety knocked on my door. I answered the door, and then they came into my apartment. They were two men, not big but big enough to be intimidating to a 5’2” girl, especially because they both had guns.

The previous day had been a particularly gloomy day with my depression. I’ve had suicide as a “back-up” plan since I was 14, but that Saturday I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The thing is I don’t want to commit suicide, so I messaged my psychiatrist telling him I was having suicidal thoughts. He had previously requested I do this if I had suicidal thoughts again.

So when the Public Safety officers asked if I knew why they were at my apartment I said yes. They asked me what I said in my message to my psychiatrist and I told them. The message was two sentences “I have planned my suicide. I am feeling very empty and emotionless.” It was at this point that the two public safety officers could’ve evaluated the situation and deemed that I was physically safe and left. Instead, they moved closer so that they were on either side of me and in a harsh tone asked me to tell them what I had really said to my doctor. I just want to be clear that if you truly believe someone is a danger to themselves because they are severely depressed you shouldn’t stand over them and yell at them. This will definitely not make someone suddenly open up to you. Feeling scared that these two men with guns were yelling at me, I started crying. They told me that they were going to take me to the hospital for my own safety, per protocol. After telling me I could pack a bag, they followed me upstairs. One of my roommates saw that I was crying and asked the officers if she could talk to me, to comfort me. Their answer? No. So a crying student, who is being involuntarily taken from their dorm isn’t even allowed to talk to their roommate. I still would like to know the rationale behind this because after speaking to several staff members this is most definitely not part of public safety’s protocol.

After being admitted to Cayuga Medical Center I was put into an evaluation room in a separate part of the ER. It was a few hours before I was evaluated by a nurse who would then call a doctor at home and review my case over the phone to either release me or admit me to the psychiatric ward. The doctor who admitted me to the psychiatric ward didn’t even speak to me, let alone meet me in person.

At 12:30 on Monday afternoon a hospital staff member escorted me and my dad from the ER to the psychiatric ward. Walking into that wing of the hospital was possibly the scariest moment of my life. The psychiatric ward of a hospital is a very bleak sight. My dad and I both started crying; just thinking of this moment still makes me cry. In the common room of the ward, there is a large whiteboard with the schedule of group therapies and activities for every day of the week. Since at least half of these group therapy sessions don’t actually meet, many of the patients read or sleep all day. There is a single TV, locked in a glass case that isn’t turned on unless all patients want to watch a movie before bed. I attended two group therapy sessions during my admittance and both were run much like my college lectures are run. Meaning that the facilitator of the group talked to us about mindfulness, anger, and depression. Patients only spoke when answering short questions.

I have now been at the hospital for approximately 17 hours, and haven’t spoken to a doctor, social worker, or counselor. Despite the fact that I was admitted because my psychiatrist was worried about my worsening depression, no one in the psychiatric ward had asked me about it. The hospital is legally required to have a doctor evaluate you within 24 hours of your admittance to the psychiatric ward. On Monday night I asked one of the nurses what would increase my chances of being discharged as soon as possible. She told me that I should make a recovery plan. I made a very detailed plan of what I would do if I ever felt suicidal again, when my next appointments were, and how my mentality had changed since Sunday night. I presented this to the social worker who spoke to me the next day. By lunchtime on Tuesday I was getting really antsy, the hospital had 20 minutes to have a doctor evaluate me before I would be able to sue them. Sure enough five minutes before legally required, a doctor came looking for me. We spoke for 15 minutes before he deemed me safe enough to discharge. 15 Minutes. I had been in the hospital for 41 hours because I was such a danger to myself that I could not even be in my dorm with three roommates to watch me and it took approximately 0.006 of that time to say that I was totally fine and I’d get through it?

Even though my experience in the hospital was not the therapeutic safe space my psychiatrist had dreamed it would be, it changed my perspective. I couldn’t stop smiling when I was discharged. The day I was discharged was that kind of rare autumn day that is a perfect sixty-five degrees and sunny. Before I was admitted I tried very hard to hide my depression and anxiety. While I think it was noticeable to my friends that I didn’t want to be around people that often, that doesn’t really explain everything I was feeling. I thought that if I told my friends how hopeless I was feeling that they would start to feel this way too… that my burden would also become theirs. I realize now that’s not the case. My parents and friends came to visit me in the hospital, and I hadn’t realized that letting myself feel that love and support would help me without hurting them. I hope that if you are reading this and have ever felt hopeless and alone, you know that you are not. I hope that this essay encourages you to talk about mental health with your friends, your family, and your peers.

I wish I could say that those 41 hours “cured” me of depression and anxiety. Like many other health conditions, there isn’t a cure for either of these illnesses. Although medication can subdue the crippling effects of anxiety and depression I have yet to find a medication that helps with both at the same time. I still have anxiety attacks, meaning that there are days where my heart feels like its trying to beat its way out of my chest, and I can’t focus on any one particular task so doing homework and going to class is a feat as looming as climbing Mount Everest. There are also days where I feel as if all my energy, and hope has been sucked out of me. On those days I lay in bed and wonder why any of this matters, the college education, the drive to want to save the world, the living in general. On days when I feel like this I think of how I felt when I was taken to the hospital, and I know that I never want to feel that way again. So I get out of bed, and brush my teeth and face life anyway. It is cliché to say that I took everything I had for granted before I was admitted to the hospital but it's true. For instance, I often go running or on a walk when I’m having a particularly rough day but in the hospital that’s not feasible. In the hospital, there is no walk outside or basking in the sunlight. The windows are locked, barred, and covered in blinds that cannot be moved because they are also behind their own protective wall. It is small things like watching a movie marathon, hiking, and comfort food that motivate me to get out of bed. Even though sometimes I feel like I have the weight of the world on my shoulders I know that I can share that weight with my family and friends, and then we can all binge watch Netflix and eat the unhealthiest, carb filled meal, and after that, I will feel O.K again.

You will be okay again, too, and you are strong. I urge you to think of the small things that you do every day that bring you comfort and to take solace in knowing that they will be there for you as long as you live.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1-800-273-8255

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/