Hospitalization is a term that no one wants to hear; this word can mean a numerous amount of things, and neither of them host a good definition. Imagine, you’re a mother whose daughter was always unhappy and barely smiled when around family. Your daughter never told you why she was this way, mostly because she didn’t know herself, and you get a call from her university one morning saying that she was being admitted for extreme suicide thoughts. You’re at work, and now you have to drop everything you were doing to try and figure out why this is happening as well as figure out where the school is placing her.
My mother is the strongest person I know of. She lost her husband, lost her home and had to figure out how to take care of two kids on one income. Both of her kids are extremely intelligent, witty, beautiful and, overall, smart asses. Donielle not only had to manage two girls dealing with the loss of their father, but also had to deal with the sporadic moods of me, her oldest.
Most would chalk it up to being a teenager because my depression was displayed around age 12, but in all honesty, I didn’t know how to hide it anymore. I didn’t know why I was always so down in the dumps, why my leg wouldn’t stop convulsing when I sat, or why I felt comfort from sticking a finger down my throat or sliding a blade across my arm. Trauma did play a huge part in the epic of my life, but I didn’t know the lasting affects created havoc in my brain.
I have always used forms of self-immolation to cope with certain situations. Age nine, I remember getting into a spat with my uncle and going into my room and banging on my head; age 12 , I remember getting the sharp end of a compass and carving into my arm; age 15, I remember the first time I made myself throw up my food. At the time, I had no idea that these actions were ones that were frowned upon in a major way. I always take the anger out on myself in order to gain some form of control. These bad habits ran so deep and was so routine that it became my default action whenever I had panic attacks, felt alone, failed a test or felt like I was getting too fat.
February 29th of this year was the day I was admitted because around one o’clock in the morning I cut myself in a way that exceeded my usual limit. The cuts were many and the cuts were deep and hiding it was not possible anymore. In the wee hours of the morning, I proceeded to have around seven panic attacks, written a suicide note and texting my mother something doesn’t feel right.
Later on that day, I was sent to a hospital that, to this day, I have no idea where it was located. The car ride to that place was lonely, it was cold and it made me want my mother more and more. When I finally saw her face, the look she gave me felt helpless, like she couldn’t help me and that was killing her.
Unit four became my place of residency for the next four miserable days, and during this time, I increased my smoking habits, cried myself to sleep, got tested for every STD known to man and participated in group therapy. The only thing I looked forward to, other than the glorious smoke breaks frequently given, was visitation day. Saturday and Sunday, I stomached through the day with the only reward of seeing my family, finally letting them see how I looked without my mask.
I started my story from age 12, I told them why I did it, I told them what being in my head was like. My grandparents, bless their heart, said my anxiety came from having a creative mind; my little sister, mother and I just cried; my aunt gave me a magazine and everyone constantly told me that I was brave for being in a place that was supposed to “make me better”. I didn’t feel like I was brave because I felt like I was cowering away, while the world around me kept on moving.
Visitation day ended with my eyes swollen and my head throbbing. In the pen, you had one hour to talk to your loved ones and waiting by the door to go into the room gave me so much anxiety. I never wanted the visitation to end, I knew that once they left, I would be alone with women I feared because I didn’t know who they were.
One hospital day was equivalent to two normal days; after a while, I stopped crying and started faking my happiness. I showed my doctor that I was just exhausted and didn’t know how to cope with it. I maneuvered my way through the unit because I wanted to leave as soon as possible and my façade was the best act known to man. The last night I was there, my roommate and I explained what our first meal “on the other side” was going to be, but we both knew that jumping back into our frozen life was going to be difficult. I knew, now, that all eyes were going to be on me. I don’t regret going to the hospital, not for one second. Being there forced me to come clean about my self-harm habits, got me on the right meds and allowed myself to try and find better ways to deal with my four little illnesses that live in my head.
Hospitalization, to me, means a forced vacation from hell, yet one that was needed. I needed to find grounding. I needed to try and figure things out all on my own. I needed to confront that something was wrong with me for the longest time. Hospitalization defined in the mind of my mother was heartache, fear, confusion and feeling like a failure. My mother always wants to save her daughters no matter what the issue is; she is the designated fixer, and when she couldn't fix me it gave her a sense of defeat. I praise her for trying to understand. I praise her for keeping an eye on me.
Anyone who asks me what my biggest fear is, it's waking up and noticing that I’m trapped in Unit Four. I can still smell the combination of bleach, piss, and throw up. I can still feel the itchy hospital socks, the shivers whenever I took a cold shower and the increasing fear I had once I realized that I was in there because I was not okay. However, now I learned that not being okay is okay once you realize the source of your problem and work on it.
