My experiences in the Emergency Room, Part 2

My brain has gotten me to the hospital emergency room more than the rest of my body. I’ve been twice, both in 2011. I read an article about people who had bad experiences in the ER with their mental health so I thought it might be good to share what’s happened to me. I wrote about my first experience in the ER in the last blog entry. You can find that here.
 
The content below is an excerpt from my memoir, Fiercely Lonely, which will be released at some future date.
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The second time I was in the emergency room it was as though I was another person. This time was for an actual suicide attempt, as opposed to the first experience, which was for suicidal thoughts. After my attempt to take my life I became dead inside, but somehow still functioning. It was as though my mind kicked into a role it knew how to perform, but one which I was unaware of until that moment.

I went to a different ER than the first occasion, one closer to my apartment. In fact, I walked through Harvard’s Arboretum on a sunny, warm June morning. I listened to the birds chirp and saw the squirrels play and then proceeded to stroll into the hospital. I carried with me my gym bag packed with clothing and items I knew I would need for a week at a psychiatric facility.

At the hospital nurses and doctors asked me questions and with no shame I answered them in a blunt manner. I told them exactly what I did and spared no detail. The staff acted cool and calm and casual. Sometimes they were friendly. At other moments alienating, their conversations mechanical and detached. A suicide experience heightened their senses, though. I understood they took it seriously by the questions they asked and the way they approached me. The questions were the same as the first time I’d been in the hospital: “What did you try to do?” “Why did you try to do it?” And down the line it went.

I didn’t have to spend the night at the hospital the second time. Once again, through this new survival role that my brain possessed, I advocated for myself. I made sure to speak up for what I believed to be the best option for me.

The first time I was in the psych ward, people who could talk and were coherent shared everything related to their mental health experiences. They rated meds and doctors and other hospitals. They told me the best hospitals to go to, and while in the hospital the second time around I still remembered their words. “Can you see if there is room at Lochstead for me?” I asked the ER doctor. “I want to go to Lochstead.” Time stopped and I exited. Lochstead it was.