10: Doors

The tenth 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 struggled with being part of the group.

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Sometimes it felt like I did not “deserve” to be depressed. I was blessed with a supportive family, great friends, and the gift of therapy. Apart from my mind, everything was pretty great. Everyone wanted the best for me. So why on earth did I want to kill myself? Seriously, why?

I knew many people had been through “more” and it felt like they had a “reason” to be sad. But me? I couldn’t answer. This question haunted me for a long time – only making me feel more alone. An odd sense of guilt infiltrated my mind for seeing life in such darkness. This contributed to the secrecy regarding my depression and suicidal ideation. Surely, people simply would not understand why I was so sad. Hell, even I wasn’t quite sure. 

It was late Wednesday morning at Davidson Behavioral Center. My parents were waiting outside to pick me up. I had spent most of my 72 hours at Davidson reading and sleeping. There was more boredom than excitement. One of the highlights was watching the movie Office Christmas Party with Blue and Tay on Tuesday night. I am keeping a few moments from Davidson Behavioral Center to myself. None of them provide any real depth to the timeline of recovery. But if you ever see me around and want to hear a story – do not hesitate to ask about the drama at the coffee machine on my second morning.

During morning vitals, Steven reminded me to pack up before my parents arrived in a few hours. I laughed, which brought a strange look from Steven.

“Dude, I came here in green scrubs,” I said with a smile.

Nothing was allowed in the facility except what you wore checking in, which made my slippers my only personal item.

“Oh, right,” he said with an embarrassed chuckle. 

Steven and I had become friendly during my stay. I could tell he always had my back. He even came to talk to Tay and me after the coffee machine debacle. So after my vitals were recorded, I felt comfortable asking him an important question. 

“I found a book my first night, can I take it with me?” I said, trying to keep a casual tone. He got the idea. 

“That copy of Lonesome Dove? I thought you brought that from home,” he said with a subtle wink. 

I gave him a grateful nod and went back to my room to “pack up.” After setting Lonesome Dove, with my dad's note as the bookmark, by the door – I spent my last hours at Davidson Behavioral Center looking at the pine trees. As they swayed in the distance, I grappled with my fear of going to HopeWay, a residential long-term behavioral health facility in Charlotte.

My mom worked fervently behind the scenes to transition me from Davidson to HopeWay as quickly as possible. When we discussed it on Tuesday, she told me I would be there as long as I needed to get better. When I demanded she gave me a set number of days, she replied, “Around a month, Sweetie.” 

When she told me that, I dropped the phone for a moment; luckily it was connected to the wall by a short and thick metal cord. A month in a mental hospital sounded terrifying, so I kept telling myself I was getting an extended spring break as I looked at the tall trees. For the first time, it occurred to me that people were going to find out about my hospitalization. 

My tears dropped onto the tan tile floor of room 2019. Would my life ever be the same? How could I get out of this? Could I tell people I had to get my appendix removed and needed some time off? What would my friends think? I paused on this question. What would they think?

We live in a world that stigmatizes mental health but mourns suicide. A paradox I am yet to understand. Looking out the window, something hit me. I felt so alone for so long. So unbelievably helpless. I planned my suicide when I got bored and cared nothing about life. Words could not describe the utter numbness. But meeting Blue and Tay ignited a sense of meaning into my life – something that felt impossible for so long. Maybe, just maybe, I could help other people not feel alone. 

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We live in a world that stigmatizes mental health but mourns suicide.

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I have never cried while writing a “semi-colon” post. Odd, because people frequently tell me the story brings them to tears. But now, sitting in the school library during my free period, my eyes are watering as I write the tenth post. Not because of my own journey, but because of those still fighting. Those who silently struggle to survive every single day. 

The statistics regarding suicide are often glossed over. It’s just human nature, we try to not think about what the numbers mean when a devastating fact is displayed before us. But focus on this for a few minutes: One hundred and thirty people die every day by suicide in the United States. One hundred and thirty individual souls with their own stories. One hundred and thirty stories we will never truly hear. One hundred and thirty. That is why I am crying in the library. 

Even though I did not know that number at the time, it is why I was crying that morning in Room 2019. That’s when I knew I had to tell my story. Maybe it would become a part of another’s survival. After a few hours of staring at the pines, I came to terms with sharing my pain, and eventual growth, with everyone I might be able to reach. 

Tay came by my room at some point. Standing in the doorway, he started to cry too. We said a brief, meaningful, goodbye. He gave me a final nod and went on his way to group therapy. I never did try therapy in the common room. As I had in the fall, I felt an eerie sense of comfort in isolation. 

In the bathroom, I took one more look in the mirror. The stubble on my neck matched the dark circles beneath my eyes. Examining the tan scrubs loosely draped over my hungry body, I saw my two-inch toothbrush on the sink. I grabbed it and stuck it in the waistband of the baggy tan pants. 

I heard Blue’s creaky door open and echo through the 2000 hall. She walked past my room, her eyes wide and steps jittery. To my surprise, she was looking down at an iPhone. She tapped at the screen, the same way your grandmother would when trying to figure out how to use Siri. Without much thought, I grabbed my things and followed her blue hair down the hallway. 

Blue approached Steven, “I cannot get any signal here, can I use someone’s hotspot,” she paused. “Please,” she added with a sense of desperation. Steven pulled out his phone and obliged immediately.

As my slippers brought me toward the duo, I realized I had no change of clothes. I was going to be leaving in this outfit. I had felt disconnected from reality for months. Almost like I was a character in a book or movie, observing my own life through a third-person lens. I used this coping mechanism, which I would later learn is pretty common, during my time at Davidson. Part of the reason I can recall the experience so vividly is that some portion of my brain was storing the details to populate the most important chapters and scenes of the tale.  

Staring at my feet, I thought about how oddly badass a shot of me walking out of Davidson in my tan scrubs and tattered leather slippers would be. I wasn’t sure what medium I would use to share the story, but I knew my slippers walking through the sliding doors would be a great closing scene to my time at Davidson. 

“It will be here in ten minutes,” Blue said, breaking my train of thought. 

Nine days before Christmas, Blue was calling an Uber. She told me during our movie night that her mother had told her she was no longer welcome at home. But I vaguely assumed someone would at least be there to pick her up. Instead, she would begin the next leg of her journey with a stranger taking her from a behavioral care facility to a motel room.

Blue and I had very different lives – everyone at Davidson did. Tay was formerly the president of his fraternity. Blue had dropped out of high school. Stacy was a mom to three children. Jason had recently gotten a huge promotion at work. Mark was an all-state quarterback back in the eighties. I eavesdropped on these details during my time in the cafeteria. I would usually look at my book, but would often listen to everyone else’s stories. 

Before I arrived, I had a preconceived idea of how the other people at Davidson would act, look, or even talk. I bunched all of these individuals into a group – a group I was trying to convince myself I was not a part of. But after my three days, I realized two things about both myself and the other patients. 

First, I am proud to be associated with every single person there. I am proud to be part of the group. 

Second, mental health knows no boundaries. The guilt of not having a “reason” to be depressed was thrown out the window. Spending time with my new friends taught me I did not have to have an answer to the cause of my depression.

I chatted with Blue and Steven in front of the nurses' station while we waited. Probably breaking some sort of employee guideline, Steven told us about how his father had died by suicide when he was in middle school. That is why he gave his time to a place like Davidson. 

“Ready?” he asked, a little teary from his own story. 

Then on the morning of December 16th, Blue and I began to walk down the hall. Tay gave us a little wave from the common room. I was not sure how to feel. I was excited to see my parents; but part of me would and still does, miss the people.

As I walked past the calm paintings in the hallway, I tried to come to terms with this chapter of the story ending. I think Steven had the same funny feeling. I like to think he enjoyed our company. As we strolled silently through the halls and down the elevator I thought about the next thirty days at HopeWay. What other stories would I join? 

Before I knew it, Blue’s bright hair lit up the lobby. First, I saw her UberX, a beat-up Volvo, through the glass doors. Parked just in front of it were my parents, waiting anxiously in front of my mom’s dark gray BMW.

Blue and I have nearly opposite lives, but we shared a few very meaningful days at Davidson Behavioral Center together. Moving my book to the other hand, Steven shook my hand and gave me a look so meaningful I cannot put it into words. Blue went first, her de-laced shoes walking right by my parents and into the Uber. 

I hesitated for a moment. Then, my slippers began to move toward the sliding doors. The winter air penetrated my baggy scrubs as the bright winter sun hit my eyes. After a second of shock, I walked out of Davidson Behavioral and took a few steps towards my parents.

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“Doors” is the tenth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the over 2,500 followers of semi-colon 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.