04: Palms
The 4th 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.
For those who have ever wished to not wake up.
Dr. Whelan looked hopeful as he disappeared from the screen. My dad and I did not say much to each other. We were both a bit rattled, just in different ways. I think he was trying to balance the parental instinct that wanted to take me home and the clinical logic of Whelan making sure I was safe. I was caught off guard by feeling content with going to a secure facility.
We waited for a nurse to roll my gurney back into the hallway. My legs hung just past the bunched-up white sheets at the end of the bed. Trauma Two was colder than the hallway and I asked my dad to grab me a fresh heated blanket from the cabinet.
I examined the cords, machines, and drawers which lined the perimeter of the room like the patients lined the hall on the other side of the thin curtain. I imagined how many injuries had been treated and healed in the room in the past.
It is difficult to judge time in the emergency room. There are no windows and the lighting is constant fluorescent. Eventually, a nurse arrived to wheel out the computer monitor. She was very short, but her voice made up for her stature.
As she rolled out the computer, she loudly said, “Y'all can stay in here for some privacy. At least until we need room for physical trauma.” Physical trauma. My mind grabbed onto this with appreciation. She could have easily said “emergency,” but she knew that I was in a crisis of my own.
The biggest benefit of Trauma Two was the availability of a light switch, which offered an escape from the ever-present fluorescent glow of the hospital. My dad had moved his little wooden chair next to me and suggested I try to get some sleep. I hoped to wake up with more optimism to live.
I hoped to wake up with more optimism to live.
I had developed a complicated relationship with sleep since middle school. When I was in a depressive state, sleep usually helped me feel better. Sleep was so comforting that at times I went to bed hoping I would not wake up the next day. Sometimes I wished I could fade into sleep and simply never return. I always felt a little better in the morning.
By my senior year of high school, I had grown all too familiar with this cycle. In October I decided to go to bed after my pen ran out of ink in the middle of wishing some of my favorite teachers goodbye. When the pen died I decided to go to bed. When I woke up, my mind was not quite as busy.
But that was the last time my sleep strategy worked. By the late months of 2021, I started to feel a combination of sad, mad and annoyed when my eyes opened every morning. Moreover, sleep did not always come readily. Some nights I was plagued with insomnia. My parents often found me asleep on a couch or a chair downstairs, where I had finally dozed off while watching Netflix or reading.
Sometimes I wished I could fade into sleep and simply never return.
I always felt a little better in the morning.
Other times sleep was impossible because my mind raced and my body coursed with energy. Over Labor Day weekend I stayed up for three nights in a row reading Robert Green’s “Laws of Human Nature.” My depression seemed to be distracted by anything I read or did over that holiday weekend. I was on top of the world and maintained endless energy over the break. I viewed myself as brilliant, enlightened, thinking on a higher level than all, ready to take on any challenge.
It all crashed by the following Wednesday. My suicidal thoughts were as loud as they had ever been. I wrote my second suicide note. I tore up the note when I realized my twin sisters’ 11th birthday was a few weeks away. While I did not think much about the aftermath of taking my own life, for some reason I did consider Emily and Caroline. The idea of ruining their birthday forever made me decide to wait.
By dawn on December 12, 2021, I was exhausted from fighting, covering, and surviving every day for so long. In the hospital, I could finally rest without the temptation of making my suicidal thoughts a reality. I have never had better sleep than my rest in Trauma Two that morning.
I viewed myself as brilliant, enlightened, thinking on a higher level than most, ready to take on any challenge.
I woke up around noon. My dad was now asleep in a recliner. The nurses decided ten hours in a wooden chair was enough for him. They had borrowed a recliner from the maternity ward and rolled it next to my bed. He joked that it was better than a vacation.
“Are you hungry?” My dad asked me as we both woke up.
“I could use some apple juice,” I mumbled. “And maybe some salt and vinegar chips.”
The truth is I was in pain, but I had become comfortable with being hungry. In the weeks leading to “Slippers,” I did not eat much. When I did, I would often overeat to the point of nausea. Then I would wait a day or two to eat again. I skipped breakfast and lunch and was ravenous at dinner time.
Sometimes I made myself a lavish meal in the middle of the night during periods of insomnia. In the worst moments, I would throw up before going to bed. My hunger pains kept me from thinking about my desire to sleep forever.
I became very self-conscious about being skinny. I avoided conversations about my eating habits. Like my depression, it felt like something I should feel shame for as both a person and a man. I learned to ignore both my hunger and the shame that came with it.
“He explained to me that his gluttonous food favorites such as Cherry Garcia ice cream, jelly donuts, and the Big Mac from McDonald’s were not just consumed by him often because he enjoyed them, but because these were the few comfort foods that he was mentally tolerant enough to eat.
Again I began to remember all the times where I saw him eating just a small rationing of grapes for lunch. In those moments I sometimes would say to him ‘Is that all you're gonna eat?’ to which he would always respond with ‘I’m not very hungry.’” - C. Canady
My dad returned from the cafeteria with apple juice, chips, a pizza, two bananas, and a fresh sandwich. I was very hungry but only ate the juice and chips. Hunger had become a welcome distraction from my emotional pain.
My dad and I talked about Davidson for a while. We would later understand the logic of a secure facility. When people move from suicidal ideation to suicidal action, they often act quickly, even impulsively. The impulse can stem from a traumatic event or simply from the burden of prolonged suicidal ideation.
Whatever the reason, time is a suicidal person’s best friend. Specifically, time when they have no means to harm themselves. It is common to move away from suicidal intent in a matter of days (or even hours.) This was the rationale for Davidson. A cool-down period where I absolutely could not hurt myself. While part of me just wanted to go home, the part that had chosen the slippers knew this was a good idea.
Hunger had become a welcome distraction from my emotional pain.
Suddenly, something dawned on me. It was early Sunday afternoon. I had a weekly meeting with Scott Hansen, the host of NFL Redzone. While Trauma Two lacked a television, we did have my dad’s iPhone and a wifi connection. Within minutes we were watching the beginning of seven hours of commercial-free football on his phone.
Depression has a way of not only making you worthless but causing you to care little about anyone or anything. As I struggled with depression I fought hard to keep a few interests alive so I had something to focus on. Books, music, and my fantasy football team were my healthiest chances at trying to keep my suicidal mind busy. Sunday afternoons had become my favorite part of the week when I could lie on the couch and focus on nothing but football.
We watched on my dad’s phone for the rest of the day. A nurse loaned us her charger, which we plugged into a stainless steel outlet next to the defibrillator and oxygen monitor. The cord barely reached the bed.
We must have been a funny sight, my tall frame in a hospital bed, my dad right next to me in a maternity recliner, taking turns holding the phone at an odd angle so we could both watch the action. We sat like this for nearly seven hours, dozing in and out of sleep, a constant flow of nurses and orderlies coming in to retrieve supplies. The staff brought regular meals and constantly offered me snacks, which piled up on the counter next to my dad’s chair.
Time is a suicidal person’s best friend.
Specifically, time when they have no means to harm themselves.
Before I knew it, NFL Redzone was signing off by showing every touchdown of the day. I turned to my dad and told him I was starting to feel a little better, but I was not sure why.
He patted my leg and calmly said “I think that’s called relief. Relief that you aren’t facing this alone anymore.” I agreed. “What else is going on inside?” he asked. “How are your thoughts?”
“Same as always,” I said quietly. “Part of me wants to live, part wants to die.”
My dad did not waste words with a pep talk. He put his hand on my shoulder, looked me straight in the eye, and said gently but firmly “Listen to the part that wants to live.”
“Part of me wants to live, part wants to die.”
“Listen to the part that wants to live.”
It was close to 8 PM when the transport vehicle to Davidson Behavioral Center finally arrived. I was mysteriously unphased by this development. My legs were numb as I slowly got out of the hospital bed. My blue socks gripped the cold linoleum floor. My dad walked with me through the curtain until we reached the center of the emergency room, back to the fluorescent lights, desks, and computers.
There was a thin man, probably in his twenties, sporting a toboggan and a Novant Health quarter zip. His name was Kevon and he held a large plastic briefcase in one hand and a pair of keys in the other. He gave me a kind nod and introduced himself as I sat down in a chair outside Trauma Two. He stood casually, leaning over the front desk chatting with one of the nurses. Kevon had clearly made this trip before.
The nurses needed my vitals one last time before I could be discharged. I overheard the driver telling my dad Davidson was the “best mental hospital” in the region. I thought about learning about oxymorons in middle school. I continued to eavesdrop and learned a patient with a name that started with the letter “J” would be joining me on the ride to Davidson. I couldn’t hear every detail.
Another psychiatric patient? This took me by surprise. My imagination took over and I assumed the worst about this unknown patient. Little did I know, this fellow traveler would calm my nerves when I needed it most.
Little did I know, this fellow traveler would calm my nerves when I needed it most.
The nursing assistant who took my vitals was young. She looked close to my age and bore more than a passing resemblance to my older sister. Her nametag read “Katherine” – also my sister’s name – and my dad and I exchanged a glance of recognition. Katherine had kind eyes and a warm demeanor. I looked back and forth between her and the floor as I trembled in the chair. The reality of being involuntarily committed to a behavioral facility had hit me. Katherine suddenly broke me from my blank stare and asked how old I was.
“Eighteen,” I mumbled.
“Me too. I was homeschooled. Started working here when I was fifteen.” I didn't say anything back. I felt embarrassed that I was being cared for by someone my age. As I stood up she patted me on the back and said quietly, “It gets better.”
I would have never guessed, but when she said that I could tell she had been through her own battles. I wondered if that was why she chose to work in the emergency room. Her eyes, pat on the back, and words of reassurance quieted my mind. Not feeling alone made me want to live a little more.
Not feeling alone made me want to live a little more.
Doctors and nurses came over and wished us good luck. Alyssa, back on the night shift, hugged me. Katherine asked if she could say a prayer for us. At some point, I was handed my slippers. They did not feel the same with the grippy socks.
Kevon the driver and my dad talked about the details of the transport. It is an oddity of hospital regulations that my dad could not drive me. I had to go with someone approved and licensed for such a trip. My dad was less than pleased about this and made it clear to me that he would follow us there.
Kevon was friendly and told me we would go down the hall to pick up the other patient. A security guard large enough to play on the Panthers offensive line came to escort us out of the emergency room. We walked down a long hallway until we reached an unmarked door. Inside it looked like a small conference room. The lighting here was soft, and comfortable chairs and couches lined the wall.
The other patient, Jonathan, was sitting in a large leather chair. He was older, very thin, and had a short white beard that contrasted with his dark skin. He was staring blankly across the room and talking quietly to no one in particular. I crossed my arms and sat with my dad on a couch.
Jonathan broke free from his trance for a moment, looked over at me, and said “How you doing, big man?” I tried to say something, but I could only offer a soft smile and a nod. Jonathan was accompanied by his own security guard, who was somehow even larger than mine.
As I sat on the couch I wondered what the older man thought of me. I started to make up a story about how he broke out of his retirement home. I caught myself in my false assumptions. I knew as well as anyone how misleading outside appearances can be. I was slowly becoming aware of who I was pretending to be.
I knew as well as anyone how misleading outside appearances can be. I was slowly becoming aware of who I was pretending to be.
Once the paperwork was sorted to Kevon’s satisfaction it was time to go. I stood up quickly. It took a moment for Jonathan to process the direction. Before I knew it, I was standing by the door right next to him. We were flanked by the two security guards. The driver stood in front of us and my dad stood right behind me. Someone opened the wooden door and the group began to walk in unison.
Jonathan hummed a song as we walked down the bright hallway. He hummed so quietly only he and I could hear it. I slowly walked with him on my left and the security guard on my right. Ahead I saw a set of sliding glass doors, dark against the night sky. I shortened my strides to stay on pace with the group’s slow steps toward the exit.
The temperature had dropped considerably over eighteen hours. My dark green scrubs were not much defense against the cold air and it stunned my bones. Jonathon started to hum louder as we approached the dark gray Dodge Durango, parked in a restricted area, hazards flashing.
The security guards walked very casually. At this point, they could tell Jonathon and I were not too much of a threat. Halfway there my dad broke off to retrieve his car. “I will see you soon, buddy. I love and am so proud of you,” he said before parting.
The security guard opened the door rear passenger door for me. I climbed in and he gave me a kind nod as he closed the door. There was a thick plexiglass divider in the center of the backseat, separating Jonathan and me. The Durango’s seat was cold against my scrubs. I went to reach for my seat belt. Ironically, there was not one available. My dad was already idling behind us. Kevon had the stereo cranked up pretty loudly, and music blared as soon as he started the car.
I went to reach for my seat belt.
Ironically, there was not one available.
As we began to move, Jonathan began singing and rocking rhythmically in his seat. Soon he was using the plexiglass divider to keep the beat. He was singing loudly with a big smile across his face. The song he was singing did not always match what was playing in the car.
Davidson was about a 30-minute drive, but Kevon’s Durango lacked enough gas for the trip. So at 9 PM on the evening of Sunday, December 12th, I found myself sitting in the backseat of a stranger’s Dodge Durango, under the bright lights of a Shell station in Huntersville, with my dad parked ten yards away, and Jonathan singing his own personal rendition of “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” on the other side of a thick piece of plexiglass.
Suddenly, Jonathan stopped singing and dancing. I turned toward him and he looked directly into my eyes through the plexiglass. I felt like he was looking straight through to my soul.
“Pray with me, William” he almost demanded. How did he even know my name?
He put his thin hand against the glass. I lifted my hand without hesitation, placing it palm to palm against his on the barrier. He bowed his head. I was very confused. What was happening?
After a brief pause, he began reciting the Lord’s Prayer clearly, gently, and without a stutter. The man who had only mumbled for the last hour now spoke with perfect clarity. I sat in awe and watched him pray with his eyes closed. I started to cry.
“Pray with me, William” he almost demanded.
How did he even know my name?
He finished the prayer, but not without adding an extra line after a brief pause. “Lord, I pray you guide Mr. William and I on this journey of healing and growth.”
“Amen.” We said in unison.
“Thank you, Jonathon” I mumbled in between my falling tears.
He looked shocked. “Jonathan?” he paused, “William, you call me Jonny!”
“Thank you,” I said with a smile on my face and water in my eyes.
The car now gassed up, Kevon slid behind the wheel for the rest of the drive to Davidson. Jonny sang the whole way there.
“Palms” is the fourth 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:
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.
Your words are so profound and moving. I am bursting with pride for you, our grandson and for your dad, our son. At the same time I am brought to tears in knowing what you (and your dad and mom)were going through. I found myself feeling such empathy for you mother who could only wait in anguish. You are blessed with wonderful parents and wonderful loving sisters. Each of your articles have touched your Mimi and me so deeply. We love you and your 3 sisters so much and would be devastated if we lost any of you. Your courage and concern for others is so obvious to us. We are here for you in your journey. We love you all so much. “Meems” and G’dad
William, I’m sorry we haven’t met, but I’ve known your Dad for as long as I can remember and was by his side the day he met your Mom. I can tell from reading your articles that you are an incredible person. You inspired me to look up the definition of “hero” which only confirmed what was already obvious: you are one in every way. I greatly admire your courage and am certain you are changing and saving lives with every word you so beautifully write. Please keep it up. So proud of you, and your parents and family for supporting you, in speaking out and telling your story.