06: Blue

The sixth installment of the "semi-colon" series.

“semi-colon” contains a discussion of mental health struggles. It may not be appropriate for younger readers or those sensitive to candid descriptions of suicidal ideation or other depressive symptoms.

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01: Slippers // 02: Detector

03: Blankets // 04: Palms

05: Hazmat // 06: Blue

07: Keys // 08: Shades

9: Winnie // 10: Doors

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For those who have ever missed their mom.

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“All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.” – Abraham Lincoln

To my angel mother: Thank you for creating a safe environment for me to take those strides to your room on December 11th. You are a blessing of a Mom and my best friend. – William

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I held my new book close to my chest. When I turned around from the water cooler, the girl with blue hair gave me another smile. Without a word she motioned for me to show her what I had found. Taking a break from her puzzles, she looked up to check out my vintage copy of Lonesome Dove. She seemed just as excited as I was for my discovery. I gave her a longer look as she sat behind the desk a few feet away. Her hair wasn’t just a little bit blue. It was a Billie Eilish-inspired vibrant blue, made all the more dramatic by the contrast with her tan scrubs. 

I tried to give my new friend a smile but quickly looked back down at the tiles and prepared for my journey back to the glass door. My long legs were shaking as my slippers moved across the tan floor. I held my breath as I walked past House of Pain, but she did not say a word this time. I reached for the cool metal handle of the common room door and pulled. The door wouldn’t budge. Was I locked in here? 

“Push it,” Blue said from across the room. With Lonesome Dove tucked under my arm, I used both of my palms to shove the door open and loped out the room. The nurses behind the front desk were distracted by their computers. I walked past the station and started my trek down the hall. My slippers scraped against the newly cleaned floor as I passed the Jurassic-era telephones. My mind could only focus on my new book. I had forgotten my room number after the common room experience. I slowly turned around and walked a little faster back to the nurse’s station. Carol sat behind the wooden barrier. 

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I missed my mom. I wrapped my arms around my cold body and imagined my mom hugging me. That was enough to stop my tears for a moment.

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“Excuse me,” I mumbled “What’s my room number?” 

“2019,” she said without looking up from her screen, “down the hall on your right.” 

I turned my tired body back down the hall to find my room. The dorm-like hallway had large numbers above every door. I was confused as to why I hadn’t seen the digits on my walk with Hazmat. About halfway down the hall, I found room 2019. The wooden door was propped open and I stood blankly in the hallway for a moment before I forced myself to walk inside. I reached instinctively to my right for the light switch and the room lit up. 

The twin-size bed was in the middle of the room. Upon closer examination, I realized it was bolted to the floor. A slim window sat above a cushioned chair on the wall opposite the door. To my left, was a small desk with a light above. Everything about the room was designed to prevent patients from hurting themselves.

I absorbed my new suite for a moment before I made my way to the bed and sat down. The comforter was bulky and somewhat stiff. I thought about how the design would make it very difficult to twist into a noose. Atop the gray blanket was a small basket of toiletries. Toothpaste and shampoo were doled out in very small quantities, in case anyone had the idea to ingest enough to harm themselves.

It was the toothbrush that really caught my eye though. It was small, with a rounded handle only about an inch long. I actually laughed when I saw the mini toothbrush. Instinctively, I thought my friends at home were going to love seeing this. Another small glimmer of hope – the part of me that wanted to live thought of a future with friends and laughter.

My chuckle ended as quickly as it began and I began to cry. My fingers reached into my unwashed hair as my tears hit the leather of my slippers. I wept for a few minutes. I missed my mom. I wanted to hug her. I wanted her to rub my back and tell me everything would be okay as she had 24 hours earlier. 

My mom spent years helping me build the strength and courage to take the six steps across the hall on the late night of December 11th. Even before it was clear I had a problem, she talked to me about mental health and depression. As my condition worsened over the last several months she did everything she could to find the right therapists, psychiatrists, medications, and solutions. My mom seemed to have a sixth sense about what I would need in the future and she made sure our house was a place I could ask for help. 

I wrapped my arms around my cold body and imagined her hugging me. That was enough to stop my tears for a moment. I took a few deep breaths before I looked up and continued to take in my surroundings. I had my own personal bathroom. The bathroom had a shower, but no rod or curtain. The bath towel was the size of a dishtowel. There were no sharp corners on the counters – everything was rounded. I started to realize that “secure facility” was a multi-faceted term. 

As I walked out of the doorless bathroom, Carol walked into room 2019. The tears had made my eyes red. I was embarrassed for her to know I had been crying. Our eyes met and she quietly spoke.

“William, your dad left you a note,” she hesitated “I am going to let you use the phone to call him, but don't let the other patients know.” I began to cry again as I realized I might not see my parents for a while. She handed me the note and patted my delicate shoulder. I read the note from my dad, written on a large yellow sticky note just a short time before.

I read the note several times, like a home-sick kid at summer camp after getting the first letter from their parents. Carol watched me stare at the note for a moment in silence. There were a few tears on the note. I was not sure if they were from me or my dad. I repeated “one hour at a time,” in my head as Carol led me to the phones. I pressed cold metal numbers with shaky fingers. The short cord required me to huddle against the wall. As I dialed, Carol went back behind the desk. When I lifted the phone to my ear, there was nothing but silence. 

“Dial 9,” Blue said from behind me.

When I turned around, she was already strolling down the hall. I watched her until she turned into the room next to mine. I pressed “9” and tried again. After one ring, I heard my dad’s voice. I cannot claim to remember much of this phone call. All I remember is his shaky voice and the muffled sound of the hallway. I had only seen or heard my dad cry two times in my life, but over the phone, in the halls of the behavioral hospital, I heard his tears for the third time.

My legs continued to shake as we talked and he tried to comfort me from afar. Later I would find out just getting me the note required an intense negotiation with the staff at the front desk. After a few minutes, we said our goodbyes. 

“One hour at a time, son,” he said after reeling back some of his fear. 

After I placed the phone back on the wall, I regretted not telling him about my new book. I stumbled back down the hall and into my room. I did not even think about brushing my teeth or showering. Instead, I moved my basket of toiletries off my bed and picked up Lonesome Dove. I collapsed into the bed, my legs hanging off the end. I kept my slippers on my feet underneath the sheets, turned on my side, and opened the winner of the 1986 Pulitzer Prize for fiction.

As I would for the majority of the next three days, I distracted my mind by immersing myself in the wild west. After the first chapter, I looked up at the ceiling. The reflections from outside came together to form a light pattern of dots and crescents. I missed the moon on my way to the emergency room. After reading several chapters, I heard crying from the other side of the thin wall. It sounded both painful and exhausted. Between sobs, I heard a voice ask “why me?” and I realized it was Blue. I wished I had the right words to say through the wall to comfort her, but nothing came to mind. 

I read for hours, setting Lonesome Dove down after reading “He wondered if all men felt such disappointment when thinking of themselves. He didn’t know. Maybe most men didn’t think of themselves.”

I joined Blue’s muffled crying and decided to try and close my eyes and get some rest. I was too tired to get up and cut off the lights, so I did not notice when the sun began slowly peeking through the window. It seemed that I had just drifted off when there was a loud knock on my door. For that brief moment between being asleep and awake, I thought it was my mom knocking on my door on a school morning. 

“Good morning!” a loud voice echoed through the hall “Time for vitals!” 

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“Blue” is the sixth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the over two thousand members of the semi-colon community and automatically receive the next installment please subscribe:

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For those struggling with their own mental health, please talk to a friend, parent, teacher, coach, family member, or anyone you know who cares about you. If you are in immediate crisis, please use the buttons below to text the Crisis Text Line or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.