03: Blankets
The third 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.
I recently asked several of my close friends to share their impressions of my behavior in the time leading up to “Slippers.” I am grateful for their help and will be including some of their observations in future installments. The first is from my friend Christopher O’Leary:
“It was getting to the point that I could tell that he was so deep in denial, that he began to start believing he was okay when he was really in a very dark place.” – C. O’Leary
For those who have ever lied to themselves.
After she finished checking my vital signs, Nicole motioned for me to stand up. She loosely held my hand as she guided me down the hall. My dad was worried about not being able to stay with me, but Nicole assured him I would not be alone and he could rejoin me shortly. He watched me the whole way until I went to another set of doors.
Nicole and I eventually arrived in a small room where I'd be physically evaluated. She gave me a kind nod and left. I wondered if she held my hand out of both kindnesses or as a minor restraint. The room was small; it held a chair and another set of machines to check vital signs. Having my “vitals” checked would become a recurring theme over the next several days.
I sat in the chair and looked into my palms. For some reason, I did not recognize my own hands. My mind and body seemed separate. It felt as if they were strangers to one another. After a moment, a new nurse named Lindsay swiftly opened the curtain and asked me standard medical questions. She was kind but efficient, and clearly in a bit of a hurry. The hospital was overbooked and understaffed. I felt uncomfortable. Physically, I was a healthy 18-year-old. I began to feel insecure. Was I wasting the nurse’s time? My illness was invisible. I felt alone.
Lindsay asked me if I had consumed any alcohol that day. I had way too much to drink at the party earlier in the evening, but I was afraid to corrupt a stranger's opinion of me, so I lied. She checked off “no” and moved on to more questions. I did not even think about the question. I was uncomfortably accustomed to lying about my behavior to conceal my depression. I did not want to be labeled as someone who was depressed, suicidal, or drank too much – I thought of myself too highly for that.
I did not want to be labeled as someone who was depressed, suicidal, or drank too much – I thought of myself too highly for that.
In the months before I chose the slippers, I tried to use a blanket of normalcy to cover my seemingly endless sadness. Eventually, I realized I could put the same blanket over my mind. I felt like two different people. One was charismatic, social, and clever. The other wanted to kill himself every day. I did not want anyone to know about the second guy – so I tried to keep it a secret from everyone – including myself.
Lindsay led me past the burly security guards and into the actual emergency room. The air was just cold enough to keep the doctors both comfortable and alert. She led me to a chair and my slippers hesitantly followed. I had to bunch up my long legs so I would not trip anyone walking by. I lifted my heavy skull and took in my surroundings.
The emergency room was a big square, with treatment rooms around the perimeter and a large partitioned workspace in the middle. Doctors and nurses sat at desks, staring at computers and charts, many of them taking a moment to eat while they were not with patients.
Bright lights illuminated every part of the scene. The treatment rooms were all occupied. Beds lined the wall of the hallway, mostly filled with sleeping patients. At that point, it was pretty quiet but everything in the hospital moved fast. I sat in the chair and tried to recognize my own hands. I was afraid of my thoughts.
I was afraid of my thoughts.
Lindsay moved me to a gurney along the wall, just between the rooms labeled “Trauma One” and ”Trauma Two.” She put a wooden chair next to the bed for my dad, who came running in after moving his car from his unorthodox parking spot. His presence helped release me from my state of relative shock.
I sat on the gurney working up the courage to ask my dad to take me home. Maybe I should not have chosen the slippers? My thoughts were interrupted by an older gentleman in dark blue scrubs and a serious look on his face. In his hand, were a pair of dark green scrubs. My favorite color. The same way I focused on the smell in the waiting room – my mind was consumed by the color of the scrubs.
He explained to me that everything happening was for my protection. They were protecting me from myself. A security guard came over and used a metal detector wand to scan me. He did this quickly and he apologized for the inconvenience. This was a common theme among the hospital staff. They all acted with haste, care, and genuine kindness.
With my scrubs in hand, I went down the hall to the bathroom to change. I walked past other patients, some in tan scrubs, some in dark green, snoring on their hallway beds.
He explained to me that everything happening was for my protection. They were protecting me from myself.
It took all my strength to open the bathroom door. I took off my sweater, pajama pants, and slippers and put them in a clear plastic storage bag. In their place went the dark green scrubs and a pair of blue socks. The socks had rubber bottoms designed to grip the floor. The right sock ripped at the heel as I struggled to put it on. I missed my slippers.
I looked at myself in the mirror and felt like another person. This new outfit assigned a physical label to my depression. I felt emasculated for being in the hospital with no physical injuries.
A nurse had followed me down the hallway and was waiting for me when I left the bathroom. He looked at me with concern but no judgment. The nurse walked me back down the hall to my dad, who tried to lighten the mood by telling me I made the new outfit look good. We would later learn psychiatric patients were required to be within the vision of hospital staff at all times. They also wear dark green.
This new outfit assigned a physical label to my depression.
I watched my surroundings, not saying a word. My silence was oddly comfortable when there was so much going around me. I watched people come in and out of the trauma stations. I still felt completely numb to my surroundings.
A shotgun wound was brought in by helicopter from Salisbury. A drunk driver who had caused a car crash from Statesville was rolled into Trauma One, his bloody foot nearly touching me as his gurney rolled by. There is little privacy in the hospital, and later we would hear a man who overdosed on fentanyl revived with Narcan and a Panthers fan found so drunk in a parking lot that he could not function.
These people’s physical ailments were a stark contrast to my emotional pain. My thoughts were racing but there was no emotion attached to anything. The absence of empathy scared me. Although I had grown to find comfort in my numbness, my lack of any feeling in the emergency room was eerie. Had I numbed to a point that I could not empathize with others?
I felt emasculated for being in the hospital with no physical injuries, but everyone there seemed to understand my pain was real.
Eventually, we were approached by a young doctor. Her name tag read “Alyssa” and she wore a bright and colorful scrub cap. Her eyes were kind, yet nervous, as she walked from behind the center desk. I decided to analyze the puppies on her hat instead of looking into her eyes. I can imagine teenagers wearing dark green are a difficult sight for any medical professional. Her look was gentle – like someone holding a newborn for the first time.
I had to look at the floor when I told her how I wanted to kill myself. She spoke to me kindly, gently patted my knee, and told me I had done the right thing to ask for help. She asked me questions and took a series of notes. I lied again, telling her had nothing to drink that day. At this point, I was sober but still did not want to admit I had been self-medicating. I was scared the doctors would judge me. She gave me another kind look, nodded her head, and walked away.
It was past 2 AM now. My dad finally convinced me to lie down on the gurney. I kept waiting for my life to get better. I wanted an immediate fix because I had chosen the slippers. I thought I deserved some sort of immediate salvation. I expressed this to my dad. “I still feel nothing,” I whispered, breaking the silence.
He reassured me the hospital was only to keep me safe. The healing and growth would come later. For the same reason I looked at the slippers instead of the window, I trusted him. I leaned back in the hospital bed and closed my eyes. I was not sure if I wanted to live or die, but clearly, the part that wanted me to live had asked for help.
“I still feel nothing,” I whispered, breaking the silence. He reassured me the hospital was only to keep me safe. The healing and growth would come later.
I had been acting like I was “okay” to my friends, family, and doctors for my entire first semester. I had given them pieces of the puzzle at times, but never the whole story. As my condition worsened, I would lie about almost anything regarding my depression.
Sleeping all day? “I was just tired.”
Gambling too much? “It was Sunday night football.”
Drinking too much? “Dude, we are in high school - give me a break.”
Behind on schoolwork? “My classes are boring.”
I had an excuse for everything. At first, I was very aware I was lying. But eventually, I started lying to myself. I never mentioned my suicidal ideation to my parents, friends, therapist, or doctors. For the same reasons I did not tell anyone else the truth – I would not tell myself.
I was so accustomed to lying about my mental state it became second nature. With my eyes closed in my hospital bed, I began to lie to myself again. I told myself I was fine. I told myself everyone had these thoughts. I told myself I was just being dramatic and would feel better after some rest.
I was going through the loop of these lies as I waited for my psychiatric evaluation. I slept for an hour or two. The emergency room has an ample supply of thin, soft blankets. They are kept in warming drawers and the staff uses them liberally to soothe people who are waiting for help. At one point, my dad laid a heated blanket over me and put a pillow under my head. Half of my brain was asleep, the other half busy trying to convince me I was fine.
I had given them pieces of the puzzle at times, but never the whole story. As my condition worsened, I would lie about almost anything regarding my depression.
Sometime near dawn, I awoke to my bed moving and my dad standing next to me. The blanket, no longer warm, was still around my upper body. “Privacy” in the emergency room does not exist, but we were moving to Trauma Room Two for my psychiatric evaluation.
Trauma Two was filled with hospital equipment. Defibrillators, ventilators, and heart rate monitors lined the walls. The blanket heater was in the corner. I glared at the machines, still upset they could only read my blood pressure. An orderly came in with a new machine – a large portable computer screen mounted to a roller-wheeled stand.
The screen flickered to life and we met Dr. Wheelan. He was probably 40, had small tortoiseshell glasses, and an academic beard. He looked exhausted, but his voice projected loudly through the small speakers. My dad and I spoke to him together for a few minutes. My dad understood, though I still did not, that Dr. Wheelan held the key to where I would spend the next few days. Then my dad closed the curtain on his way out, leaving the two of us alone.
I sat on the very edge of my bed. I had been ready to talk to a psychiatrist ever since I took the six strides to my parents’ room and now I had my chance.
For the same reasons I did not tell anyone else the truth – I would not tell myself.
“Tell me about yourself,” he requested. I gave him the synopsis of siblings, school, and sports. The trinity of small talk. I told him all about my church league basketball team and my three wonderful sisters. For a second, I forgot where I was.
“What brings you in here, buddy?” Wheelan calmly asked.
“I was just having a bad night. I am feeling a lot better now.” I was still suicidal, but I had just spent the last two hours convincing myself I was fine. I had returned to the loop of doubt I had been stuck in for the past few months. He knew why I was in the emergency room, yet I was somehow still subconsciously scared my new doctor would judge me. I mustered the thickest mental blanket I could find and downplayed my emotions without even thinking about it.
For the last six months, I had given my therapist, doctor, friends, and family only a little to work with. I would mention having a hard time but would never tell them of the true extent of my emotions. I was a good actor and had subconsciously formed a painfully effective way to keep my suicidal thoughts a secret.
Whenever asked how I felt, I would provide a piece of the puzzle. I would say I was sad, but not depressed. I was antsy, but not paranoid. I was jittery, but not anxious. I did not tell them the truth because I had not accepted my pain. I was afraid of it becoming real. My regular therapist is fantastic, but I sat through many sessions with him only giving part of the story. I told my doctors I was having a hard time but never mentioned wanting to die.
I have since learned suicidal ideation is much more common than I thought. I always assumed I was alone. That admitting to such dark ideas would make me a pariah. I think this was because I never planned to get to the point of being suicidal. The same way no one plans on getting struck by lighting. It felt like a rare occurrence that would scare everyone off.
I continued to give Dr. Whelan a watered-down version of my night. We talked for a long time before my dad rejoined us. My dad was clear that he and my mom were taking this very seriously.
I never planned to get to the point of being suicidal. The same way no one plans on getting struck by lighting. It felt like a rare occurrence that would scare everyone off.
Wheelan chewed on the end of his pen. He kept looking up and to the left as if the answer to my pain was somewhere just off-screen. “I want to send you home,” he said, “but I can’t do it. We have to send you to a secure facility. I don’t want to do it. I really don’t, but there’s a new, really good Atrium behavioral health hospital up in Davidson. The way to make sure you are safe right now is for you to spend a few days there while your parents sort out the next steps for treatment.”
I was caught off guard. I did not say anything. My dad seemed to understand what he meant more than I did. Wheelan was the first person to look directly through my act. I had removed my ability to fool people when I checked into the emergency room.
When I knew the jig was up, the side of me that wanted to live was quietly content. The other, darker side of my psyche was so shocked and confused that it stopped for a second. As he explained the concept of a secure facility, I looked back down at my hands. For the first time, I appreciated that I had given myself a chance to live. I had not yet realized I could be glad and nervous to live at the same time.
“I have school on Monday, will I be able to leave?” I questioned, still looking at my palms.
“No, it's a secure facility.” He said calmly, “Right now we have to keep you safe.”
“Blankets” is the third in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To automatically receive the next installment please subscribe:
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For those struggling with their own mental health, please talk to a friend, a parent, a teacher, or anyone you know who cares about you. If you are in immediate crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
Your writing is spare. elegant, and beautiful. I don't think I have ever been so close to the mindset of someone contemplating suicide and it is harrowing and windshield-clearing to read your story. I look forward to learning more from you and I am so glad you took those steps across the hall to your parents and into the hospital. So glad.
Crushing it once again, really powerful piece William!