Science Leadership Academy: Four Years of Experience

The ceiling was white. The tile was cold. My wrist was warm. “Emily? Emily come on baby talk to me. MARK! Get the car! Come on Em sit up that a girl come on.” Why am I awake? This isn’t suppose to happen. I’m suppose to be dead. What went wrong?

In the car I sit in the back seat, my father speeding, my mother spewing comforting words in my direction I can’t hear. I don’t want to hear. Dad looks at me from the rearview mirror. His eyes are grey, the color they get when he is sad. This isn’t suppose to happen.

The emergency room is loud, children crying, a TV blaring. Nurses and doctors shuffling and talking. We walk to a room that a nurse in pink scrubs directs us to. Another nurse asks me questions. I don’t speak, so my mother talks for me.

“Are you on any medication Emily?”  “She’s on lexapro. 50 mg.” more questions. I rest my head on the wall behind me.

A doctor Is taking of the tissues taped to my wrist. Did I really cut that much? It seems like hundreds of little slashes decorate my arm in crimson ribbons. They begin to pool blood. He wipes them with a cloth that burns. I don’t wince. “well none of them need stitches. But you sure did a number on your self, kid.”

I’m in a different room. Someone is crying, others talking in hushed voices. Then I’m in an ambulance. I am strapped down. My mother is holding my hand. The brief moments were outside is cold. It’s almost winter.

 

At a desk, more people ask more questions. I stare at the wall. My parents are hugging me. Where am i? They say goodbye and then I am in a room. A cold room. The windows have bars on them. Two women come in, order me to take of my clothes. They lift up my arms and take note of my scars. One of them says where they are and how many, the  other scratches the numbers on a clipboard.

They leave the room, and turn off the light, and give me back my clothes. There’s a bed in the corner that I didn’t notice. I climb in. the sheets are itchy and the blanket is thin. I shiver, and somehow, manage to fall asleep, my bandaged wrist crinkles beneath me.

Someone bangs on my door. “Time to get up!” the light is turned on. I put the pillow over my head, pray my mom will go away, give me a few more minutes of sleep before school. “Come on new girl, community meeting starts now!” then I remember, im not at home. I’m in a mental hospital.

The hallway is filled with girls shuffling towards a door at the end of the hall. A few staff members in white are standing around. I walk towards the door, averting my eyes from the other girls.

“Welcome to Fairmount dear, what’s your name?” I mutter the answer and sink down into my seat in the circle. She says something more but I don’t hear her. I can feel her staring at me, but after a few seconds she leaves me alone and bothers someone else.

I don’t like it here. I want to go home. I want to go home and try again, this time pressing the razor down harder. Frustration and disappointment flood my head. Why didn’t it work? How could I have been so weak? I remember overhearing one of the emergency room doctors that i hadn’t even cut the right way. How could i have been so stupid?

Later, I am at in someone’s office. A big, bald African American guy sits at the desk across from me.

“I think I know what’s wrong with you. Borderline personality disorder.” This gets my attention.

“What’s that?” I say slowly, cautiously. He smiles.

“So she speaks. It’s a personality disorder very common in young women. You fit the criteria, but unfortunately we can’t diagnose you until you’re 18. But it’s very clear you have the traits. “

No one had ever told me what was wrong with me before. No one told me why I could see things other people could see, why I was afraid of irrational things, why I hurt myself, why it felt so good. Why somedays everything was perfect, the sun was shining, birds chirping. And other days were dark and grey, and i could barely get out of bed. Black and white thinking, this is called. For so long I had bounced back from these two extremes, forgetting that life was about the gray areas.

We talked and talked, about how I felt. What went on inside my head. His name was Doctor Salam, “like salami!” he would say, and he gave me hope. He told me I would be taking a different medication that night, to help with the nightmares. He was the first person I ever told that I was raped.

Once that was off my chest, I felt lighter. My shoulders and neck didn’t hurt as much. I felt better, for the first time in months. He dismissed me, told me he would see me tomorrow. I left his office smiling. The nurses gaped at me. The girl who wouldn’t speak smiling? Blasphemy.

At lunch, I sat with other girls like me, girls with bandages on their wrists, girls who couldn’t have forks and knives. We ate with plastic spoons. “So what’s your story?” a girl with pink hair asked me. “What do you mean? I don’t really have a story. I’m sad. I cut. I hate life. End of story.” They laughed at my bluntness, but I was completely serious.

 

The hospital was scary. People were restrained, medicated with needles against their own will. Often at night, people would scream and cry. Sleeping was hard. Some girls couldn’t go to the cafeteria because of behavior. Some couldn’t even have their own clothes. They walked around in hospital robes. I made friends. Girls that ran away from home, from abusive relationships and girls who fought compulsively. Girls who overdosed on drugs, girls who had eating disorders. We were a diverse bunch.  Over the next few days, my parents visited, I met with more nurses and doctors and social workers, and I just kept asking “when can I go home?” not so I could kill myself, so I could be at home with my mom and my dad and my dog. Everything I loved. I wanted to go home so I could live, because I had hope. I knew what was wrong with me. Dr Salam recommended Dialectical behavioral therapy, a type of therapy for people like me. I was excited for the first time in weeks.

For a year following my release i attended a DBT group on tuesday nights. It was an educational group, we did worksheets, had discussions about triggers and how to remain mindful under stressful situations. After a little over a year i graduated from the program.

Now, almost 4 years since my suicide attempt, I no longer see and think in black and white. I am still depressed. I still have anxiety. But I am aware. I have the tools and resources to help me. It’s not easy, there are still days where I wish i could escape back into the hospital, run away to the white walls and floors, where i felt safe.

I heard somewhere that it takes a lot of strength and courage to kill yourself. I disagree. I think it takes way more strength and bravery to survive, to keep going even though it doesn’t feel worth it.