"Do you believe you are a danger to yourself "

I stared at the reflection of myself in what looked like a mirror, but really was just a cloudy acrylic fiberglass, also known as, a 'glassless mirror'. The blue scrubs that I now wore were made of a thin material and the pants were so long that they were dragging on the cold tile floor. The Nike tennis shoes I had been wearing were confiscated when I arrived because the shoe strings were a hazard. Now I wore light blue socks with no slip grip.

It may sound like a simple question "Do you believe you are a danger to yourself?", but answering that question did something to me. Answering that question broke me. Through the tears I managed to whisper, "Yes, I do believe I am a danger to myself."

I laid in that twin size bed each night in my blue scrubs and a thin white sheet watching my roommate, Faith, do crossword puzzles. I thought of the day I had decided I needed help. The phone call I made to one of my closest friends, Allison, asking her to take me to the psychiatrist, how I sat in silence with her as I waited to be taken to the hospital. I remembered the view of the road through the small window of the ambulance as I made the journey from Milledgeville to Atlanta.

I was scared and alone. Things could never go back to the way they were. Not after this.

When I arrived at 3:00AM the nurse took my backpack with all my belongings in it and handed me paperwork to fill out. She then took a photo of me and printed me out a bracelet that had my information and psychiatrist name on it.

I waited for about an hour before she came back out and took me to a small room and asked me for the thousandth time, "what brings you here today?".

I went off my medication that past spring without consulting with my doctor. A medicine that I had consistently been on for the past 2 years. I had also stopped meeting with a therapist completely.

My grandpa, a man that had been like a father to me, had been diagnosed with cancer that August.

I had just started my senior year of college and I was consumed by my class load. I needed to graduate on time. In 4 years. I had made the decision to cram those last few hours in even if that meant taking 18 hours in one semester.

I was broke. I could only work 12 hours a week with my class schedule and I was only making $8.25 an hour. A month of income could barely cover utilities let alone food and gas.

I had always made sure that I had control of any situation I was involved in, but that control was slowly slipping away.

On September 13th, 2018 after 6 hours of school and 4 hours of work, I pulled into the driveway. Finally home.

It all happened so fast.

"I don't think that this is what's best for either of us. I can't stay here anymore, but we will figure out the rent."

That's how my 4 year relationship ended.

My mind switched back and forth between anger and disappointment.

We had been together since I was 17 years old. We had experienced prom together, high school graduations, we had started college together, we had moved in together, we even had a dog together.

This being said I would be lying if I said that I thought it would be a good idea for us to spend the rest of our lives together, but he was my best friend. He knew everything about me. He went with me to the counseling center at our college when my depression had gotten to me 2 years earlier. He had been there at the hospital with me when my cousin was born, he had sat next to me at my cousin's wedding, and he had been there by my side while my family laid my great grandmother to rest.

How could he leave me now? Why couldn't he just make it work for just a little bit longer? What happened to our life plan? I needed that plan. It was the only thing that I had any control over anymore.

After explaining all of this to the nurse, she stared at me for a second.

"How old are you again?" she asked.

"21" I said.

"That's a lot for one person of any age to handle." she said.

We continued to go through my medical history.

When we were done she stepped out to grab the next nurse.

This nurse was the nurse that was going to be in my wing of the hospital. She led me to yet another room where she explained to me the process that I would go through.

"First I will need to take some blood to test your thyroid. I also need to check your vitals. Then you will meet with your psychiatrist. It's a Friday so I'm not sure if you will be able to see him until Monday morning, but we will see what we can do" she continued "you are a 10:13. Do you know what that means?"

I didn't.

"A 10:13 is a suicide risk. Neither you, your parents, or your doctor can check you out of this facility. The only way you can leave is if a judge signs off on it. You must stay in our care for the next 72 hours. However the 72 hours will not begin until Monday."

The weight hit me like a freight train. The shock of this information must have conveyed on my face because she placed her hand on top of mine and assured me that I was going to get through this.

"Next I'm going to need to document any scars or tattoos that you may have. Do you have any?"

I nodded. And pulled up the side of my shirt to reveal my tattoo on my right rib cage. "I can & I will." I then proceeded to pull up the back to display the scars I had from shingles.

"Once the 72 hours is up and you have been cleared by your doctor you will meet with a social worker who will go over your ideal treatment and recovery once you leave here. That next day you will sign paperwork making you a 10:12. This means you will be able to leave once your doctor determines that you are no longer a threat to yourself."

I stared at my hands. Trembling.

Whatever pride was left then disappeared when I had to change in front of the nurse. I traded in my favorite Kentucky Shirt and black and white Nike shorts for those horrible blue scrubs and was escorted to my room.

I didn't have a roommate so I spent that first night crying and giving myself pep talks about how I would get through this and making promises to God about how I would be a better Christian if He could just get me through this.

The next morning I took a shower with a curtain as a barrier between my room and the bathroom. I used shampoo that doubled as body wash. The tears continued to fall from my eyes as I went about my morning routine. I was scared to go out into the day room or the cafeteria because I was wearing these blue scrubs, not just because they were ugly, but they also screamed, "Look at me, I'm on suicide watch!" I was ashamed of myself.

I was supposed to be stronger than this.

Eventually the nurse forced me to get out of the room and I decided to make my way to the day room. I held my head down trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. Once I arrived in the day room, I lifted my head and saw the most beautiful sight.

Every single person in that room was wearing those terrible blue scrubs.

Looking around I saw that we were all here whether we admitted ourselves or our parents or siblings or spouses admitted us, we were all there for the same reason.

We ranged in age from 18 years old to 54 years old.

People from all different walks of life.

There were people who had grown up adopted or rich or without parents.

There were people who had been in the military, some who had been in prison. Some were parents with multiple children others were newly engaged.

The shame I felt when I had first been admitted was replaced with a sense of courage. I saw myself as brave for facing my inner demons and getting help.

In a place where all hope seems lost I found myself. I found that I love who I am, I discovered my strengths and I acknowledged my weaknesses. I made lifelong friendships with people I would have never met if not for this place.

I admitted myself into Anchor Hospital on September 15th 2018, thinking my life had ended.

I was released on September 21st, 2018 and I realized my life was actually just beginning.

"Do I believe Im a danger to myself?"

Sounds like a simple question. It's not.