07: Keys
07: Keys
The seventh 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 been lost in their own mind.
When I woke up there were about five seconds when I wasn't sure who or where I was. In the fall, these five seconds were the best part of my day. A brief period when I would forget my living nightmare for a breath or two. Lonesome Dove was next to me on the bed, its pages now riddled with my tears. Reading about the adventures of Hat Creek Cattle Company and Livery Emporium had made my first night at Davidson pass quickly.
I pulled myself up from the bed and trudged to the door. Before going into the wide hallway, I took a glance around room 2019. My toiletries basket was on the floor, illuminated by the bright lights that I kept on to read and then to cry with Blue. When I peeked out of the doorway, Blue was walking down the hall.
My soon-to-be favorite nurse, Steven, was preparing the equipment to take everyone's vital signs next to the nurse's station. As my slippers squeaked on the floor, Blue looked back and gave me a kind nod. I focused on her red eyes, irritated from a night of crying.
For a moment it was just Blue and me in the hallway. Within a few seconds, the flock of patients began pouring out of their rooms. The 2000 hall was awake. Blue sped up her pace, assuring her position as first in line with Steven. I closed the gap between us, trying to focus on my slippers as I walked down the hallway. I read somewhere making eye contact with the “wrong” guy in prison could get you in some real trouble – I hung onto that concept for my first few minutes of that day.
I thought of myself as “better” or “different” than the other patients. I woke up feeling like I didn't belong in a place like this. Later, I would learn that every patient thinks this on their first day.
I thought of myself as “better” or “different” than the other people at the behavioral center. I woke up feeling like I didn't belong in a place like this. Later, I would learn that every patient thinks this on their first day. Even though I had been close to taking my own life just 36 hours before, I thought this was a bit extreme. I had no idea my stay at Davidson would eventually be credited as a reason for my survival. I stood a few feet from Blue, who was now sitting in a wooden chair with Steven rapidly taking an inventory of her “big four” vital signs – heart rate, respiration rate, temperature, and blood pressure.
I felt the presence of the other patients behind me but decided not to introduce myself. The hall was quiet, except for the chatting of some nurses and the gentle hum of the machines. After a few minutes, Blue left the chair and moped back down the hall. I was lost in my own head, so I did not realize it was my turn. Instead, I stared blankly at my leather shoes.
“Hey, big guy,” the nurse said, “My name is Steven, want to take a seat?”
I broke from my trance and sat down. As I fell into the chair, I was embarrassed to be so spaced out. I didn't want Steven to think I was “crazy”– a word I would later learn to hate. It was hard not to feel a stigma attached to the occupants of a secure behavioral health facility and I wanted to separate myself from both the place and people as much as possible. At that moment, it meant convincing myself and others I shouldn’t be there – so losing myself in my slippers in front of Steven was a bad start.
I didn't want Steven to think I was “crazy”– a word I would later learn to hate.
Steven strapped the thing around my arm and the other thing onto my finger. I wasn't sure of their official names, yet. Looking up from my slippers, I turned my head and saw the line of patients. I subconsciously expected all of the patients would be some variation of Blue or Jonothan, but this was disproven immediately. The only thing these people had in common was their tired eyes.
The dozen patients came in all different ages, cultures, and demeanors. Some looked at their shoes, some directly into the panels of lights above, and some looked like they were trying to look into their own mind. They weren’t just “other patients,” they were individuals – all with different stories of pain.
Seeing everyone with tired eyes and tan scrubs broke the first piece of the stigma-ridden shame that I had been carrying on my walk down the hall. After about a minute, the machine beeped and random numbers appeared on the screen to my left. The display on the screen was foggy – I wondered how many patients it had read.
Out of nowhere, Steven said “Amazing vitals, man.”
“Thanks?” I mumbled.
The only thing these people had in common was their tired eyes.
Again, I hated that my vitals were not a representation of my mental state. I stood up and started my trek back down the hall, feeling less afraid to look at the other patients as I passed. Everyone was lost in their own mind, so there wasn’t much fraternizing. I wondered if I could still get a nicotine patch as I walked into my room and closed the door.
I picked up Lonesome Dove from the bed, my page bookmarked with my dad’s note. I read the letter a few times before delving back into the welcome distraction of the book. I read for what seemed like an hour, stopping to get some rest after a passage in Chapter 19.
Shortly after setting the book down, a nurse poked her head in my room and asked me if I wanted to join the group downstairs for breakfast. I was painfully hungry but declined before I could really think about it. Staring at the light pattern on the ceiling, my body and mind continued to separate. I was somehow thinking about how I might escape from the secure facility and how awesome Lonesome Dove was at the time. Meanwhile, my bones hurt, my stomach begged for food, and my eyes stung from the tears I had shared with Blue a few hours before.
Staring blankly at nothing and letting my mind wander had become one of my favorite pastimes over the last few months. Although often terrifying, I had spent many nights inside the playground within my mind. On one side, a deep dark crevice of agony. I spent most of the prior months trying to pull myself out of such a place. But every once in a while I would be able to escape into a paradise of creativity, imagination, and depths of understanding I still do not comprehend.
In my house, there is a Yamaha electric piano stationed outside of my sisters’ rooms. My sister, Emily, spends much of her time on the small leather bench playing the keyboard. One very late night in October, I slipped out of the creaky door to my bedroom and went to the piano. I turned up the volume ever so slightly, as not to disturb my sleeping house. I set down my small notepad above the keys and started to hit them randomly.
But every once in a while I would be able to escape into a paradise of creativity, imagination, and depths of understanding I still do not comprehend.
My mind began to understand the complexities of the piano with what seemed like perfect clarity. I reached for the notepad and began to write a song. I have no idea how to read music, so I made up my own shapes, signs, and signals and scribbled them down with a sharpie. Before I knew it, the paper was filled with marks bleeding through the thin pages. I set the paper over Emily’s sheet music for Beauty and the Beast and began to play. As the sun rose, I hit the final notes from my scribbles. I thought I was Beethoven.
I only played the song once and then snuck back into my room before the twins' early Saturday morning shenanigans. I tossed the paper next to my bed and fell asleep. I woke up a little past lunchtime. I felt like I had been punched in the face by Mike Tyson, both mentally and physically. As I rolled over to reach for my phone, I found the notepad next to my bed.
I remembered my night, the piano, and the feeling of genius. But there was a minor detail missing. I had no idea what my scribbles meant. Absolutely no idea. I had hit random keys on the piano and convinced myself I was playing a masterpiece.
Over the next few days, thoughts of suicide loomed large in my mind. This cycle of grandiose belief in myself followed by dark depression ruled my life. I found myself either in heaven or hell within my own head. I explored this mind often, by blankly staring off into the distance – often at the stars.
As the sun rose, I hit the final notes from my scribbles. I thought I was Beethoven.
Eventually, I broke my trance from the fluorescent lights and decided to see if the phones in the hallway were open for the day. As I walked out of my door, I saw Blue using one of the phones. She had also skipped breakfast. Her tears filled the empty hall. I would later learn she was speaking with her mother, who told her she wouldn't be picking her up when she was discharged. And worse than that, that Blue wasn’t welcome back at home. Her mom offered to pay for a taxi to a motel, where she would arrive a few days before Christmas.
Another phone was open, but I let Blue have her space. Before I turned back into room 2019, a woman with a kind smile came from behind the nurses' station. She wore a long white lab coat, large eyeglasses, and high-heeled shoes that clicked on the tan floor. Finally, a doctor. Maybe I could convince her to get me out of here. Or at least ask politely for a nicotine patch.
“Mr. Burleson, I have been eager to get to know you,” she said loudly down the hallway.
Blue looked up from the phone with a faint, momentary smile. I went back into my room assuming we would chat in my own territory. Faster than I anticipated, a white coat swung through the door.
“Mr. Burleson, I am Doctor Carter,” she said as she looked from my slippers to my bedhead. She paused for a moment. I did not think to introduce myself, as it appeared she already knew plenty about me. “Follow me, honey,” Dr. Carter gently said.
I slowly rose from sitting on the bed and followed her down the hall, passing Blue by the phones. I continued to stare at my slippers until we reached a large metal door with a sturdy lock. Dr. Carter grabbed a large bundle of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door. I slowly followed her into the room, stunned by what I saw inside.
“Keys” is the seventh 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 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.
I send you HUGE hugs this morning and continued prayers of strength. KEYS is so powerful; I am on the edge of my seat with eyes wide open..... I can hear my heart beat inside my chest. I love you dearly🙏🏻
I’m on the edge of my seat wanting to know what’s in that room, how Blue is doing, what Steven is like, if you still see Johnny and how Dr. Carter is helping. But most of all, it is encouraging and enlightening to read your insights as you recollect them with such clarity.Your kindness, intelligence and empathy are beacons of hope for a better world. Write on!