First, they take my suitcase away from me. This is so they can search my clothes for drugs and weapons. Who are they? They are hospital staff, a specific check-in team that I never see again during my time here. They are warm, but not too warm, hardened from years of dealing with bullshit from patients who check in against their will, who are angry to be here, and who take their anger out on the first line of duty. However, they quickly accommodate their approach to you based on how you approach them. If you are difficult and have an attitude, like the young redhead checking in next to me, they will be short and direct. If you, like me, have chosen to be here, are relieved, even happy to be here, they will speak to you in soft voices, ask you if you're comfortable, and offer you snacks. I only accept a paper cup of water.
I sit in a room by myself for five minutes. The room has beige walls, gray carpet, and a wood-carved sign hanging on the wall that reads Hope. A friendly nurse in her mid-fifties comes to get me and brings me into an exam room. She asks me many questions.
"Why are you here?"
"Intense suicidal ideation, self-harm, disordered eating."
I try not to cry, saying it out loud for the first time in such a matter-of-fact way.
"What medications are you allergic to?"
"Sulfa."
The nurse then assesses me for suicide risk.
Have you thought about taking your life in the past 48 hours?"
"Yes."
"Do you have the means to carry out this plan?"
"Yes."
"Do you experience feelings of worthlessness?"
"Yes."
"On a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being the greatest, how great is your desire to die?"
"Eleven?"
Apparently, my risk is high.
Dit verhaal komt uit de August 2024 editie van ELLE US.
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Dit verhaal komt uit de August 2024 editie van ELLE US.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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