I distinctly remember the white walls and the scratchy bed sheets that lay on top of those matts that gymnasts used. I remember these things because the walls and the sheets were riddled with names and dates of people who had been there before me, slept in that bed, craved their name into that wall. I remember their voices too, the ones that were compassionate but not really caring at all, just doing their job.
It was April 1st, 2013, to be completely exact, when they brought me to the hospital. I'd broken down crying earlier that day and I finally caved and told them I wanted to die. They picked me up off the floor and drove me to that white walled prison. I'll never forget the way my mother told the recprtionist, "our daughter is suicidal and needs to be admitted," and the way the receptionists face stayed constant and showed no emotion. She slapped a hospital bracelet on my wrist and sent me to the waiting room. I sat there for a few hours.
Finally, they came for me.
We walked into the emergency room and they put me in a secluded room with absolutely nothing I'm it. Police officers and nurse came in to collect my clothing and other belongings I'd had with me, which they then placed in a locker.
I sat alone for more hours.
It was night by the time I was evaluated. I'll never forget the monotone voice of the women evaluating me.
"You're suicidal?"
"Yes..."
"Have you ever been admitted to a hospital before?"
"No"
"Well, were going to admit you for a little while, and keep an eye on you."
Her voice was emotionless. She was emotionless.
They brought me upstairs to the adolescent behavioral unit at 11:00 PM, and checked me over a few times, took my vitals, and sent me to a room with a sleeping ******* one bed, and scratchy bed sheets on a second empty one. I cried myself to sleep that night.
When I woke up they took more vitals and blood tests and evaluated me again. The new doctor was the same as the nurse, absolutely monotone. It was as if these nurses and doctors didn't feel anything, because they worked with children trying to take their lives.
At the time of my hospitalization, I didn't believe that happiness was a choice, and that I would actually get better. To be completely honest, I thought I'd die just as sad as I'd been for the past two years. Although I thought this, the doctor continued to tell me after each session, "being happy is your choice, you can choose whether you want to live like this forever, or if you want to be happy."
Now that I'm out of the hospital, and in recovery, those words mean more to me than they'd ever meant before. Happiness truly is a choice to some people, and it's a choice between being sad or being happy. I'm aware that being sad is a natural emotion, but not depressed, depression was a trap. It took me a week in the hospital, plus 9 months, to finally understand that my happiness was a choice.
I needed to write something.
This year in my English class, were studying personal narratives, and it got me thinking. I needed to write about that day, about my most life changing experience.
