13: Bridge

The thirteenth 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

11: Light // 12: Steps

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For those who have ever crossed a bridge.

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I started writing “semi-colon” for myself. It was a natural extension of the journaling I began at HopeWay. I hoped I would get some readers. I really hoped it might help a few of them. The night I posted Slippers, I asked my dad how many people he thought would subscribe. His guess was 100.

Fourteen weeks later, “semi-colon” has nearly 4,000 subscribers and collectively the articles have been viewed over 100,000 times. More importantly, I have heard from many who can relate in some way to the journey. People who need help, people who have sought help and never talked about it, people whose children or siblings or parents need help, and so on. I am forever grateful for the support, love, and vulnerability readers have shown in expressing what “semi-colon” has meant to them.

A few people have reached out to me saying they wish they could read semi-colon. But they can’t. It is too dark. Too real. This is completely understandable. The real-ness is kind of the point. I have also heard some readers love my posts, but had to stop reading. Again, I get it. These entries have tried to encapsulate my suicidal ideation in its truest form. 

But now, we have reached HopeWay. So, for the readers who found the previous posts too intense…let out a deep breath. This is where things get better. Do not get me wrong. These posts will still be extremely real. There will be hesitancy to move forward. There will be self-hatred. There will certainly be anxiety. Depression will return. But my suicidal ideation will fade away at HopeWay. 

The following entries have been on my mind for the last few months. Mostly because they are my favorite part of the story. I really did not intend for it to take 13 weeks to get to HopeWay. I considered not making Blue and Jonny such a big deal so we could get here faster. But understanding the “before” was crucial to understanding my recovery. The impossible needed to be defined – so we can defy it. 

As in previous entries, I will change the name of anyone discussed in the context of HopeWay. For their privacy, of course. But the names will also have meaning. Sometimes these will be obvious and sometimes they may be more subtle. But I hope they will all make sense in the end. 

I am a little nervous to share the second half of this journey. Up until now, I was just writing about another person. Yes, it was still me, but I feel disconnected from the version of myself who wanted to die back in the fall. But in these posts, you slowly get to know me. At least, you will get to know who I am now. You already know the old guy. 

This is starting to feel like I should type “without further ado” and then start this half of the story. And that is exactly what I am going to do. 

I thought about the construction of a bridge as I walked over the little stream. My mind was stuck on how we build large bridges. Did stuff ever fall in the water? Are there nets? Did the first person who built a bridge think they had conquered water? I could probably build the best bridge ever. 

My mind was a mess as my tight-laced shoes followed my parents to the glass doors. The doors were locked. Do we get to go home? After my mom's enthusiastic wave to the woman at the front desk, the door made a little noise. My dad, decked out in the most country club attire you can imagine, opened the door for my mom and me.

I looked pretty normal, whatever that means. Freshly shaven, athleisure shirt and sweatpants, and my brand new running shoes. It looked like I had just had my post-workout green juice. When I asked my mom about her recollection of my outfit that day she said I looked “surprisingly healthy, all things considered.” Mental illness clearly does not have a universal uniform. 

The lobby was bright, but a warm and cheery bright, not the clinical fluorescence of the Emergency Room or Davidson. It was more of a wide hallway, with decorative vases lining the wall behind glass cabinets. I can assure you Davidson Behavioral Center lacked such pottery.

I stood behind my parents, examining the whole situation, while they checked me in. There was a little sitting area next to the front desk. It looked like the the designer for the Ritz-Carlton lobby has decorated the place.

The luxury hotel theme carried over to the staff. Many of them were wearing seasonal Santa hats. No hazmat suits here. Every staff member spoke to me in a gentle, respectful manner. They made me still feel like a person in a time when I did not feel like one. 

Before I knew it we were sitting. My mom explained how all three of us would go back to the offices, which were behind the front desk, and get a rundown of what my next thirty days would be like. While we waited, my parents said all of the right things. I was barely listening. 

I think I was confused. How did I even get here? I tried to assess every decision I have ever made that somehow landed me next to some decorative vases at a residential behavioral treatment facility. 

Whatever. I would be on my way in a few days. This was just one big miscommunication. I was just “better” than them. Clearly, they were jealous that I was intellectually superior to them.

I am still not sure who “they” are, but this was a recurring theme. “They” followed me on my way to school because I was the only one who knew about “them.” Remember, my dad was suspect – a potential secret agent. I felt like my mom was the only one who might be on my team. 

Eventually, a nurse told our trio to come back with her. She was lacking in the height department, so she naturally asked me if I played basketball. I went with my go-to reply. “Not very well,” I said with a shrug and a forced smile. I managed to get a little laugh out of her as we went through the maze of slim hallways. She opened a door to a little conference room and we all huddled inside. 

I remember all of the details on Davidson Behavioral Center. I remember the smell of the hallway, the pictures on the walls, and the temperature of the rooms. My stay there still feels fresh in my mind.

My first few days at HopeWay, on the other hand, are a little blurry. So much so, I needed to ask my mom about the sequence of events at check-in. I would have thought it would be the other way around.

But those three days at Davidson have stayed with me in a weird, yet beautiful, way. It is interesting to see the events I remember, but even more intriguing to examine the details I’ve forgotten. 

I do remember the pens. On the round table in the conference room, there was a little basket filled with pens. On the side of the writing utensil, was the elegant HopeWay logo. My mom gets very excited when she finds a pen that both looks great and writes smoothly. Way too excited, but that’s her thing. 

“Is there any way I could have one of these?” she asked, almost immediately as a bearded man walked into the room.

He gave us a kind nod, followed by a cheerful “Of course!” to my mom. 

I was too focused on my shoes. My laces seemed to be cutting off all blood flow to my feet. My mental pain was converting into physical discomfort within my heels. When would I get my slippers? 

When he pulled out the daily schedule, I was interested. What would I be doing until I could convince these doctors I was fine? He explained the concept of group therapy and the benefits of the other activities after sliding a big white binder my way.

Have you ever read something but been totally spaced out? Then before you know it, you are flipping back a few pages to the place you remember. I flipped through the binder using this strategy. For whatever reason, I was flipping through the book in reverse.

The first page was the schedule, printed on bright pink paper. I finally landed on it after skimming through the benefits of yoga. There was no way I would actually be doing yoga. 

I did not know it yet, but this pink paper would encapsulate my life for the next month. I listened to him explain the three different “tracks.” The tracks pretty much corresponded to the three different groups of patients. I had this idea I would be able to do whatever I wanted at HopeWay. Instead, I would move through each day with the same group of people. Spoiler alert: the track system probably played the biggest role in my recovery. But at the time, I was very skeptical. 

I just stared at the schedule for the rest of the meeting. I am not sure how long it lasted, but it left me plenty of time to develop a few first impressions of the group activities, all of which were quickly disproven: 

Substance Use – No point to this one. I would probably just stay in bed. I bet there are some hardcore people in here. No one will get that I am just a high schooler who enjoys their beer with a heavy hand. Skip. 

Self-awareness – Well, that is my whole problem right now. I am simply too self-aware. Maybe they will teach me how to ignore myself a little bit? 

Process group – Eh. It’s not like I’ve had a hard life. Did I have anything that would give me some street cred amongst other patients? Probably not. Skip. 

Horticulture Therapy – Funny. Skip. 

Art Therapy – Okay, this sounds alright. I really hope they let us do whatever we want, instead of following directions to make a paper mache snowman. 

Meditation – A time where I get to focus on the voices in my head? Wow! Every single aspect of that seems like some sort of torture. Skip.  

You get the idea. I analyzed every detail with a keen sense of pessimism. Throughout this, my parents asked good questions while telling me how proud they were of me in seemingly timed intervals.

I did not really understand why they were proud of me. What had I done? Maybe I would figure it out during my little stay at HopeWay. Remember, I would only be here for a few days after telling everyone I was happy. My mind clung to this fact. 

“We are all set,” the bearded man said, “Dr. Marsh, the psychiatrist, will be in soon.” 

We said our goodbyes as he left the conference room. 

“I can’t believe I get to have a pen! It is great here,” my mom exclaimed. My mom is energetic, eternally optimistic, and very amusing. She’s the only person I know who might be able to lighten the mood in a tough moment with joy over a pen. We made small talk about pens, the schedule, and how I was feeling. “I feel pretty good,” I kept telling both myself and my parents. 

After a few minutes, the door swung open. A young, blonde-haired woman in a standard medical white lab coat entered. She smiled at me with her eyes despite the COVID-protocol mask covering her face. She approached me directly, before addressing either of my parents. 

With a voice that was simultaneously enthusiastic and calm she said, “William, it’s lovely to meet you. I am Dr. Marsh. I will be your doctor during your stay at HopeWay.” 

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“Bridge” is the thirteenth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the nearly 4,000 followers of semi-colon and automatically receive the next installment please subscribe:

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I share poems about mental health on my Instagram:

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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.