08: Shades
The eighth 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 they could go back.
“Earlier in his life, he had done many foolish things in order to convince himself that he was not worthless”
― Larry McMurty, Lonesome Dove
My slippers stopped in the doorway for a moment as I examined the room. It was small, not much bigger than a walk-in closet. My eyes were immediately drawn to the four cameras in the room. There was one in every corner, each with blinking red lights next to the wide lenses. A rather large nurse stood silently against the back wall, only a few yards away. He was wearing sunglasses, which took me by surprise. Was this going to be a good cop / bad cop routine?
Dr. Carter acted as if Sunny wasn't in the room as she motioned for me to sit down. The fluorescent lights were bright and reflected in his sunglasses. I couldn't tell if he was looking at me when I sat in the cushioned wooden chair. My long legs splayed out before me.
I went back to staring at my slippers as Dr. Carter walked to the other chair, behind what looked like a desk from math class. Atop the desk was a Dell computer. It looked like the same model I learned to type on during computer lab in lower school.
No one spoke for a few minutes as Dr. Carter entered her credentials into the computer. Sunny was a mouth breather, and the sound of his audible exhales filled her office. I focused on the red lights of the cameras and my slippers as I came up with my scheme to lie my way back home. Dr. Carter took a deep breath.
“William, do you know what day it is?” she asked casually – probably a routine question. The only problem was that I had no clue what day it was. Was the party on Friday or Saturday? How long was I in the Emergency room? How long had I been at Davidson? Time had become meaningless and I had absolutely no idea. So I sat still without saying a word.
The only problem was that I had no clue what day it was.
Time had become meaningless and I had absolutely no idea.
Dr. Carter adjusted in her seat before asking “Do you know what year it is?”
For whatever reason, I felt slightly offended by that question.
“Twenty- twenty-one,” I mumbled.
“Good,” she said with a tone of sincerity.
She asked me more fact-based questions, I assume to measure how my mind was functioning. I aced the rest of her test but was stuck trying to figure out what day it was. I was answering her questions on auto-pilot, but what I really wanted to do was ask why the hell the nurse next to me was wearing sunglasses.
At some point in her questioning, I blurted “I shouldn't be here. I need to go home.”
My sudden shift in demeanor seemed to catch both Dr. Carter and silent sentinel Sunny off guard. They both looked at me for a moment. I slumped back into my chair. I felt guilty for interrupting Dr. Carter. She excused my rudeness without acknowledging it and returned to her gentle interrogation.
Finally, she started asking me about alcohol. I lied my way through this section. I tried to convince Dr. Carter I only drank a beer or two on special occasions. In reality, I thought most nights were going to be my last, so I had many special occasions.
In reality, I thought most nights were going to be my last, so I had many special occasions.
I had tried to master the art of deception to conceal my depression. Which became a problem in my interview with Dr. Carter, because I made it sound like there was nothing wrong with me. The look on her face as her fingers clicked on the keyboard told me she could see through my facade.
“Are you still suicidal?” she asked.
“Not at all,” I said with the most persuasive tone I could muster.
After what I would guess was half an hour of questions, Dr. Carter stood up from her chair. Before I rose, I asked her how long I would be there.
“Until you are safe, honey,” she said kindly. “But, it usually takes five to ten days to figure out the plan after this.”
Plan after this? Was I not going to go back to school next week? How long could I make Lonesome Dove last? I stretched my legs from the chair and followed Dr. Carter out of the room. My mind was racing and I regretted lying in the meeting.
“Thank you, William. We will speak again soon,” Dr. Carter said as we approached the nurses’ station.
Dr. Carter went behind the desk and I stood blankly in the hallway. Assuming we were finished, I turned around to go back to room 2019. I peered through the glass windows of the common room. Other patients, including Blue, were sitting in a circle talking.
A therapist with rounded glasses and a week-old beard was leading the discussion. He looked like a history teacher teaching a boring lesson. The patients sat still, only moving to adjust their positions in the wooden chairs. I wondered how their breakfast was – reminding me of my hunger. I was used to the empty stomach but knew I should probably go to lunch in a few hours.
I hesitated for a few moments and thought about joining the group therapy session. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was painfully aware I would lie to everyone in the room, including myself. I was accustomed to telling half of the truth in my therapy sessions before Slippers. It is one of my biggest regrets.
I was accustomed to telling half of the truth in my therapy sessions before Slippers. It is one of my biggest regrets.
I often wonder how things would be if I had always been honest when someone checked on me. I used the line “I’m fine. Just tired,” almost every time. I was always very tired, but never fine. I debated killing myself every moment, except of course in the first five seconds of the day, before the pain re-exerted its control on my life. Perhaps I said I was fine because some part of me didn’t want to get better. It still confuses me how my loneliness felt so awful, yet eerily peaceful at the same time.
When I reached my room, I stared at the slim window across from the door. The shades of the window cast alternating stripes of shadow and sunlight across the room. I walked around my bed to examine the window a little more. Peaking my head down to peer through the wooden shades, which were behind a locked panel, I examined the hundreds of pine trees on the Davidson property. Squinting, I saw one of the trees had fallen over – only to be propped up by the other green giants.
I used the line “I’m fine. Just tired,” almost every time. I was always very tired, but never fine.
My slippers turned to the bathroom and the rest of my body followed. Before I knew it, I was looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes somehow seemed bright, which only made the deep dark circles beneath my eyes stand out more. The tan scrubs contrasted with my pale skin, which seemed to me to match the color of the bathroom tiles.
I slowly took off my tan top and tossed it on the cold floor. For a few minutes, I looked into my own eyes. I did not recognize the person I had become. This wasn’t the six-year-old child who picked little yellow flowers during his soccer games to hand to his mom during water breaks. Looking in the mirror at Davidson Behavioral Center, a part of me realized who I almost lost.
I came close to killing the little kid who couldn’t go to kindergarten without telling his mom he loved her exactly three times in a row. Inches from sending the chubby-cheeked toddler who talked to his stuffed animals to a grave. My suicidal thoughts paused as I looked into my tired soul. I remembered my eyes from my childhood and thought maybe I could get those back. Now sobbing, my bony knees dropped to the floor. I kept crying, still thinking about the kid who picked the little-petaled flowers to give to his mom.
When I was all but cried out I decided it was time for a shower. I didn’t know if it had been two days or three or four since I’d last bathed, but my unkempt hair told me it was well past time. I retrieved my self-harm-proof toiletries and the world’s tiniest bath towel and let the water wash over me.
It felt good to stand beneath the warm water, although not for very long. Each shower at Davidson Behavioral is allotted only three minutes of warm water. I never got a clear read if this was something to do with self-harm or simply a cost-saving strategy on the part of Atrium. But I did learn that three minutes is just long enough to get yourself clean if you hurry.
I had just put my scrubs back on and sat down on the bed when I heard “Lunchtime!” belted through the hallways. I thought about skipping but decided to go. Mainly because I wanted the doctors to think I was “okay” enough to leave. I pulled myself from my bed and went into the empty hall. All of the other patients had been in group therapy, so they were already waiting with Steven and the rest of the nurses near a distant elevator. As I walked down the hall, I gazed at the phone bank on the wall. Somehow I completely forgot to call my parents after my meeting with Dr. Carter.
I would have assumed calling my parents would have been in the front of my mind, but the screaming within my head muffled any rational thinking. Passing the phones, I knew I should call them right after lunch. As I rounded the corner past the nurses' station, another patient came out of Dr. Carter’s office. He looked like a slightly older version of me and we both recognized this immediately. As our eyes met it felt almost like we had known each other in another life.
We looked at each other for a few seconds until he said “Hey, man. I’m Taylor. Everybody calls me Tay. I just got here. How is it?”
I paused for a moment.
“It's alright. I’m William,” I said in the most social voice I could manage.
Then, in front of the nurses' station, Tay and I shook hands.
“Let’s go to lunch,” I said as we strolled to the rest of the patients.
I didn't want Tay to feel alone.
“Shades” is the eighth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the over 2,500 members of semi-colon 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.
That sweet, precious, loving little boy is still in you as an older version. Always considerate and loving to Mimi and me. Always friendly and kind to others. You have done amazingly well to cope with your situation for such a long time. As we all know, and as you have conveyed, at some point the burden becomes greater than you can carry alone. Your articles are helping so many to not continue trying to go it alone but to seek help! I don’t believe there is any greater contribution than helping others who are hurting and feel desperate! We are so proud of you! You are such an asset to our family and now to so many others. You have taken pain and desperation and and used it as a tool to help others. You have set a high standard of success at 18 years of age, you have shown strength, perseverance and courage when your mind was telling you otherwise. We love you, Meems and G’dad
I doubt I could have told anyone what day it was, either. We went into the ER in the dark and came out in the dark and saw no daylight in between (no windows, obviously.) It was only a day, but it felt like a week.