4. Checking In
I walked out of my room and was quickly greeted by a older woman who claimed her name was Tracy Harbold. Tracy is my personal psychiatrist. She says she wants to talk to me and that we can go to her confidential office and have a conversation. I guess that means I have to. As we walk down this narrow hallway I glance into a few rooms. There's girls and guys of all ages here. Not only here for suicide, but other mental illnesses as well. Bulimia, anorexia, self-harm, schizophrenia, sleep terror disorder, and also a couple people with night eating syndrome. There were so many people here, I wonder how they felt when they woke up here. We all were stuck here expected to be 'cured'. I know not everyone here would make it, and I hope that isn't me. I want to be out of here as soon as possible.
Tracy pulled me into here office and said she had to examine me and go through a series of daily questions. The quicker I open up, the easier these daily rundowns would be. She looked at my arms, stomach and thighs for scratches or cuts then asked me to get onto a scale. I hadn't gained or lost any weight since I got here which she said was very odd. Normally we would lose weight since I have just been eating through an IV for the past three days, but for some reason I was just the same. She then moved onto her annoying questions, asking what was going through my mind, why I thought it was the only option, and if I thought about my friends or family. I decided I wasn't going to talk to her today so I just glanced around the room. She had floral window curtains, a floral rug, and red seats. Tracy also had a small bowl on a coffee table in the center of the room that held little Hershey kisses. I reached down to grab one and then glanced back over at the window. I didn't want to make eye contact with Tracy just yet. I feel as if she would automatically judge me and my decision, if she hadn't already..
My psychiatrist told me a male named Luke brought me to the hospital. He was a guy my age, maybe a couple years older. He had watched me as I descended into the oncoming traffic and witnessed me getting trampled over car after car. And then, next thing you know, I'm here in this piece of shit place. They say I can't leave until I complete a 40-day intervention program. It will include individual therapy sessions, alone time, group sessions, and daily visits with a pyschologist. My three days out cold don't count, however. So, from here on out, I will be counting down the days until I am free again.