**Trigger Warning: I wanted to tell my own personal story and make a point, but I also understand that this may be a huge trigger for many people in the earlier stages of recovery or for those without treatment. Although I am currently in recovery and getting endless amounts of support, I would hate myself if anyone felt triggered because of this. Please if you feel it may trigger self-harm or suicidal urges to read my story, do not continue reading.**
For at least the past ten years or so, probably even longer, I've suffered from severe anxiety and depression. These two mental illnesses went undiagnosed and untreated until I was old enough to make my own decisions based on my physical and mental health care. They became debilitating, disrupting some of the easiest day-to-day tasks a young person is expected to complete. I missed weeks of school due to my anxiety, my life situation at home feeding into my mental illnesses and not receiving a single bit of support from friends, family, teachers, administrators, or anyone else in my life. I was alone, and I felt alone for so many years.
In October of 2013, I started self-harm. Though I may have thought about it in the past, I never physically went through the act of getting the knife or scissors and actually cutting into my skin to purposely harm myself until then. I was going through personal tragedy that I could not mentally handle; at the time, my family was being evicted from the home I had lived in for eighteen years of my life, almost my whole life, and we had two weeks to pack up and leave – and I didn't have anywhere to go. I knew I had to drop out of school because of losing our home, and I couldn't take it. The suicidal thoughts became so overwhelming, taking over my every thought it seemed, until the urge became way too strong to overcome. So I cut, again and again, until I could breathe again, because I was finally in control of the pain I was experiencing.
Months later, it didn't really change. I went months without severe self-harm until May of 2014. I was experiencing horrible episodes of depression, attacking my friends and family members with my words of anger and hurt about how I was feeling, even getting violent. I just remember my father coming into my room to fight with me about one thing or another, and I completely lost it – flailing my body around, knocking things around in the room, screaming at him and trying to hurt myself in any way I could. My father had to physically restrain me to stop me from hurting myself any further, blood from my wrists getting on his shirt, my entire body shaking and crying uncontrollably, my life feeling as though it was coming to an end... but it wasn't.
The next day, I insisted on going to work, but my dad was there to pick me up immediately after my shift to take me to the hospital. I walked in, my hands in my sleeves, and checked myself into the emergency room. Naturally, I expected for my problem to be taken seriously, which it wasn't. I remember a nurse coming into the room to examine me, running her fingers over my cuts and writing notes. I was assigned a very nice bodyguard named Ray, who literally wasn't allowed to leave me alone until I was assessed. That actually made me feel comfortable as if they were actually going to do something, and he did a really good job of making me laugh in a time of such despair for me and my father.
But the rest of the staff wasn't too sure that my condition was serious enough. A doctor came in and examined some of my other pain, telling me that there was nothing physically wrong and that the cuts and bruises I had were minor. A case worker came in, handed me a few pieces of paper, and basically told me that my attempt wasn't legitimate enough for me to be checked into some sort of short-term treatment center, which is what I had wanted at the time. She didn't believe me when I said I needed help, and turned me away from staying in the hospital where I actually felt safe from myself for the first time in months. My self-harm apparently wasn't severe enough, the cuts not long or deep enough, not covering enough of my body. She said it wouldn't be productive for me to stay, but it felt counterproductive to leave. Yet I left, because the hospital staff insisted that my condition wasn't serious at all and that there wasn't anything else they could do for me.
What constitutes someone's mental crisis being better or worse than someone else's? I understand that there are certain actual medical problems that may need more medical attention to save one's life, but does that mean that something with less blood and urgency isn't as serious and important?
Despite the fact that I managed to get myself into a place where my suicidal thoughts and tendencies are gone, the situation I was in two years ago still bothers me to this day. As someone who wants to one day work in the field of mental health, I can't even imagine turning someone away who was desperately asking for help. Instead of turning away patients who aren't seconds from death to treat their mental illnesses, centers and hospitals should be taking any patient who has the bravery to ask for help and giving them the help they need to get to a comfortable place of recovery.
