12: Steps
The twelfth 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 scared to heal.
The sixth-grade mother-son dance was a big deal. A chance to dress up and have a big dance party with our moms. It was off to a great start. My buddies and I were out on the dance floor while the moms chatted.
Remember the Harlem Shake? It was the song of the moment and my buddy Cross and I had requested it from the DJ. This was going to be the peak of the night when the dance floor went crazy.
So Harlem Shake comes on, right? Cross and I, like the rest of the kids, go berserk. Even some of the moms were Harlem Shaking after a few glasses of rosé. For some reason, Cross and I decided it was a great idea for me to get us on his shoulders. Party animals.
We kept dancing, the dance floor turned into a mosh pit and before long, I fell from my perch atop my best friends’ shoulders. I hit the carpet with a thud and tweaked my neck. At the moment, not too big of a deal. We all just kept gathering in circles and jumping up and down to the beat of the newest remix. Stay with me here. This is not a post about the dangers of the Harlem Shake.
The next morning I woke up unable to turn my head to the right side. My mom and I made our way to the orthopedic urgent care, where they assured me I’d done no serious damage to myself and would just be sore for a week or two. The prescription for healing would be a little quicker with a neck brace.
A cast on your arm is cool in the sixth grade. So much so, that we sign them for some reason. Want to know what is not cool at all in middle school? A neck brace. I wore it and I did the exercises, but I felt a little weird.
This is not a sob story about how the world was so harsh on me. Just one time where I was a little embarrassed by something but knew it would be fine in the long run. Also, the “neck brace story” is now hilarious. Cross can tell the story way better than I can.
The embarrassment of the brace wasn’t too bad – I knew it was short-term and I knew my neck would get better. Our minds can get through lots of emotions when we know they will pass. Depression is not one of them.
Depression blocks the light at the end of the tunnel. Genuine happiness seems impossible, even comical. Depression's compounding tendencies create a seemingly permanent shadow over any sense of normalcy. Not a broken arm or tweaked neck that we know will heal. With no shining light to strive for, numbness is often the only comfort. For me, it felt like the only way to survive.
As I prepared to leave for HopeWay, a piece of me was hesitant to heal. Part of me did not want to get better. It was a struggle to take off the mask of lies I had created to protect myself from the pain of the world. The hole of depression was at least familiar; it seemed more comfortable than a residential behavioral health facility.
Over the prior months, my persona was blinded from my once happy self. Before I knew it, I was writing suicides notes. But before any of that, depression had caused me to forget hope. Just as it had with love, depression slowly chipped away at all of my reasons to live. And it happened fast – I went from the Harlem Shake to a behavioral health facility in 614 words.
I stared at the ceiling for most of the night. My mind played through books and movies – seemingly projecting different stories on the ceiling. I peeked my head up to check on my dad on my golden brown couch. Paranoia drifted in and I thought perhaps he was some sort of secret agent. After all, he had opened his eyes to check on me every time I turned over my pillow to the cooler side. Visions of life as nothing more than an experiment became extremely real. I was not suicidal – just painfully aware of every detail of the world. For me, there was always a thin line between the two.
I decided to count to distract myself from my father, the spy on the couch. But, I did not really decide anything. I needed to count. I bit the inside of my cheek after every odd number. Somewhere near eight hundred, I dozed off.
In those few seconds between being asleep and awake, I forgot it all. I did not think about the Emergency Room, Jonny, Blue, Tay, or the coffee machine story. But after a few moments, reality returned. I would be going to HopeWay in a few hours.
Weirdly, I felt pretty awesome. With more energy than I knew what to do with, I hopped out of bed to brush my teeth. Looking in the mirror, I was convinced I was the most attractive person in the world. Did I still hate myself? Or did I just hate what I had become? Later, I would learn mania ignites a fire of grandiosity. This checks out. I felt like a god.
In the shower, I drew blueprints for something on the steamed glass. Probably a rocketship or skyscraper. My mind was on fire. Sometimes warm and sometimes scolding.
Surely, there was no point in going to HopeWay. I was just smarter than everyone. They were trying to tell me I was crazy. The world was against me. I was no longer suicidal. I was fine. Irrational thoughts sprinted through my mind. The importance of time faded. I was going through my morning routine without even thinking about it.
I was in the closet putting on a long-sleeve t-shirt and sweatpants. I think my dad was making casual conversation from the couch. Probably analyzing my every move. Remember, he might be a secret agent.
I looked down at my feet. My parents had bought me new North Face running shoes to use in the HopeWay gym. I was wearing them with the laces in a firm double knot. I had just tied my shoes without a second thought. This kind of freaked me out. I quickly stuffed my slippers into the duffle bag. I wanted to change back into the slippers immediately, but I did not want my dad to think I was crazy.
I sat on the edge of my bed for a few minutes, trying to organize my mind. I did not want to go to HopeWay. But there was no zero chance I could get out of this. I would just stay a day or two until they knew this was all one big mixup and then send me home.
I think a part of me knew my depression and suicidal ideation would return. A few days of energy did not mean I was okay. But, I was not that sad. Perhaps, I was just being dramatic. Maybe, I did not mind the depression. Especially if it made me feel like this every once and a while.
Simply put, there was no point in trying to get better. Happiness felt impossible. Why waste a month if I was just going to let myself down?
I trotted down the stairs in my new kicks. The night before, the twins had been debriefed about my departure. Even though I would not be leaving for a few hours, they hopped up and hugged me. My mom started to cry. Naturally, this spread to the rest of the family.
What was the big deal? I felt fine. I would be hugging the twins again in a few days. During our hug, I realized I did not know much about HopeWay. Was it going to be like Davidson Behavioral Center? We pulled up the website – yoga, a basketball court, music, and art classes. Maybe it would be okay? But throughout the rest of the morning, my mind was riddled with questions that would only lead to more questions.
After breakfast, the whole family went up to my room. My mom had put letters from friends, stationery, and tons of old pictures in a small plastic basket, which now sat on the couch. The twins and I looked through the old pictures. I told Caroline and Emily about the day they were born. I seemed to remember every single detail.
While my memories of their childhood were vivid, I seemed to forget my own. Looking at my five-year-old self in the picture album, I wondered when that part of me faded away. Where did that smile go?
Towards the end of the book, there was a picture I did not recognize. A little boy with bright blonde hair, holding a toy stuffed animal dog. After a few seconds, I realized it was me. I wondered if it was impossible to ever feel normal again.
Our family hugged on the porch before we left. I felt disconnected from everything. Even them. They felt like people I happened to live with. Once again, my mind dismissed their love. But, I thought of Blue and hugged my family a little tighter.
That was the thing about my broken mind. I would serve months of depression, only to be broken by a few days of extreme energy. There was always this little period in between where I felt normal. I was lucky enough to spend some time in normalcy the night before I left. But now, my brain was back to playing tricks on me. Somehow, I was happy and depressed at the same time.
Before I knew it, we waved goodbye to my sisters from the car window. Wishing it was a Blue Moon, I cracked open my La-Croix as we drove up the street. I have little recollection of the car ride to HopeWay. I remember anxiously resting my forehead on the glass and trying to make conversation with my parents about how I was “ready” for this experience. The truth is, I was not. Why would I try something impossible? I had ventured so far from a version of myself I loved.
The drive was less than 15 minutes long. As we pulled into the parking lot, I saw a series of low-slung buildings that seemed to share one large, uneven roofline. I spotted a dark green Christmas tree peeking through the glass doorway. Weathered teak outdoor tables adorned with bright blue umbrellas sat next to a creek fed by the small pond. A small bridge over the creek connected the parking lot and the entrance. If Davidson Behavioral looked like a giant Hampton Inn, HopeWay looked like a carefully curated office building.
My feet began to shake when we parked. My shoelaces felt like boa constrictors. I needed my slippers, but we would leave the bags in the car while we checked in. I would be stuck in laces for a while.
What was HopeWay going to teach me that I could not figure out on my own? My paranoid happiness convinced me that I was genuinely okay. I forgot about the fall into hopelessness I would experience in a few days. I seemed to cycle through remembering and forgetting the pattern of pain.
I was scared of getting better. Absolutely terrified. Part of me wished I had not asked for help. Stepping out of the car, I wished I had just turned from the window and gone to bed. My growth has certainly not been linear.
Walking through the parking lot, I examined the buildings’ many windows. The outdoor tables were empty, and their umbrellas closed. I looked down at my palms and into the light of the building. Eventually, my tight shoe extended onto the firm wooden bridge. My other foot anxiously followed in its path.
“Steps” is the twelfth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the over 3,500 followers 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.
You have turned something painful into something beautiful. I love reading about your journey. I think no matter what one’s specific pain is, we can all relate on some level. Showing your personal pain helps others confront theirs and feel less alone. We’re all human!
🙏🏻❤️🙏🏻❤️🙏🏻❤️🙏🏻❤️🙏🏻