The ER Drama

So, as mad as I am right now, I can't help but laugh at this whole situation. The entire thing is utterly ridiculous and insane! But before I really get into that, let me back up a bit and give you some history.

I get depressed sometimes. If that's not clearly evident to you in some of my blog posts, then you need to have your emotions examined.

On Sunday, I was feeling down, as does happen, and I had previously talked to my mother about it. We talked about future steps of going back to my therapist and possibly seeing a psychiatrist to get some medication. Then I went home and continued my evening. Later, I received an email in which I felt personally attacked and humiliated by what was said.

And then I had a nervous breakdown. I do freely admit that I was not in a healthy place. In my expressions of my feelings to a few close friends, I told them I was feeling trapped and that suicide had crossed my mind.

Pause...Just because suicide crosses a persons mind, does not make them suicidal. Let us continue...

As good friends are, they were concerned. I gave them a promise that I wouldn't hurt myself, I wasn't planning on it anyway, so that they would feel better. But that wasn't enough. Not that I'm complaining! I'm grateful for their help. I slept over at a friends' house and the next day called my therapist and a psychiatrist and moved on.

Tuesday was a bit of a rough day. I started crying later that night and felt really alone and unwanted. I texted some of those same close friends expressing my feelings of being alone. One in particular called me and we talked for a few minutes. He encouraged me to call me therapist. So I did. My therapist and I talked for about twenty minutes and I was feeling much relief and was about to hop on my computer to do some therapy homework for my appointment later today.

Little to my knowledge, the friend that I had been talking to right before I called my therapist called the police. There was a loud bang on my door. I ran downstairs to answer it and there were two police officers.

They came in, told me that there had been a report that I wanted to kill myself. I showed them my text messages which clearly showed that the ONLY text that could've been seen as suicidal was sent on Sunday, and not that night that they showed up. They asked me some questions, were pretty polite and understanding, and left.

I went upstairs and began talking to my roommate about what was going on. Then there was another bang on the door. Aaaaand, they were back.

Apparently, when they left and updated my concerned friend, my concerned friend then told them that I had actually sent him a text *that night* saying I was suicidal. Um...ya, not true Mr. Popo. I showed you my texts.

So I began arguing my case. I said I wasn't suicidal and that that certain text was sent Sunday. This is when the police start not liking you. 'Cause they're always right...

They basically forced me to go to the hospital. There were threats made of legal action against me, my concerned friend was in a panic, and so me, being incredibly frustrated but wanting to appease everyone, went to the hospital.

I'd never ridden in a police car before. Wee it was fun! He wasn't that great of a driver, I hope you know. But there were no flashing lights, so I didn't cause too much of a scene as we were careening down a residential road going at least 60 MPH...

I arrived at the hospital. All the paramedics and firefighters were just staring at me. And mmmmm they could stare all they wanted 'cause those boys were SO ridiculously attractive! And this is where my psychology degree kicked in. For better or worse. But I'm thinking worse, but with a light humor added.

They sat me down to take my vitals. I turned to the nurse and asked, "Do you guys use Q15's here?" which is a system we used at the RTC I worked at to monitor patients. Then I was like *Doh!*. My brain was like, "Steven, that makes it sound like you've done this a lot before. That's a bad choice..." I was like, "Oh crap, you're right, shutting up."

They made me take off all my clothes, good thing I had shaved my chest earlier that day so I looked super hot, and I was left to put on that ridiculous hospital gown over nothing but my hot pink American Eagle underwear.

If you're not laughing at this point, I think you're broken. I was giggling inside actually. Which probably did not help my case seeing as I was in the psych ward of a hospital in the suicide watch room!

I sat in that discolored white room for about three hours in total. During that time, everything I did was analyzed by my psychology degree and my brain told me to cut it out. If I picked my nails, I had OCD. If I put my head down, the voices were talking to me. If I scratched my head, another personality was emerging. If I relaxed in the chair, I wasn't taking my situation seriously and must obviously be suicidal. If I tried talking to the nurses, I was schizotypal. He he he, it was very amusing actually. So the moral of the story is, don't major in psychology. It ruins lives! :P

I did the usual hospital stuff: I peed in a cup, answered questionnaires, and gave blood. Have I ever told you how much I hate needles? Ya, it's not quite a phobia but there is definite anxiety around those things.

A doctor came in after I was waiting for about an hour and a half and asked me a few questions. I told him about my previous plans and that I was going in to see a therapist and see a psychiatrist. He was very polite and told me it sounded like things were blown out of proportion and asked me if I needed anything. I was starving. I hadn't eaten since lunch. So he said he'd get me some food.

Liar! The food never came...

But at least by this point the nurses knew I wasn't completely insane. They began talking to me little by little. One even asked what he could get for me. I said food. It never came.

Oh will the lies never end?!

Later on, I had a social worker pop her head in and tell me my mum had called. Crap! Not my mother! She's been through so much in her life I hated to give her more stress. I told the social worker I was worried about her.

And she jumped on that like Oprah on a honey-baked ham! She instantly pulled out her notebook and said, "oh really? Why are you so concerned about your mother? What's going on between you two?" Bother... Apparently I'm not allowed to have human emotions of worry either without them being connected to some Oedipal complex embedded deep in my psyche.

She left. A while later, a different social worker came to talk with me. I wish I could describe how she talked to me. It was as if I was five years old with a hearing problem. You know in movies, if someone doesn't speak English, people around them speak really slowly and loudly? That's what she did. I hid my smile as best I could.

Then my mum walked in. She was perfectly calm. No tears, no puffy eyes, no runny mascara. All was well. My dear mother attested to my mental stability and I was soon discharged.

I laughed the majority of the way home. My mum did too. The whole ordeal sounded like some twisted version of a B-Movie gone horribly wrong.

And so, I'm ok, dear reader. I am annoyed beyond all reason because my entire extended family knows about the situation, but not from my perspective.

So I wrote this post. I hope you have laughed, or at least smile at the irony of placing a psychology major in a psych ward. I took excellent field notes, don't worry. And there were some *very* interesting people I heard/saw while I was there. Let's just leave it at that.

Now, however, I am a bit stuck. I'm sure my bill will be coming in the mail soon. That'll be fun to pay for! And I have my entire extended family to reassure along with some of my friends who still, for some bizarre reason and against all the opinions of the social workers and doctors that I saw, think I want to hurt myself. I don't! Bah!

As for my concerned friend who made all this possible? I'm not sure how to feel about him. I'd like to let you all know though that if a person: 1. Doesn't have a suicide plan, 2. Doesn't have a history of suicide, 3. Has made a promise of safety to friends, 4. Has made immediate steps to remedy the depressed mood, and 5. Is no longer hysterical on the phone, they are most likely not going to attempt suicide.

I am not saying this out of malice or anger. It's more simply out of what you should know. Do I think my friend made the right decision in calling the cops? Hell to the no! *snaps the z* But do I believe he was feeling malicious and wanted to put me through that? Not at all.

He cared for me. A lot, so it seems. Maybe a bit too much ;)

Ahem...so, I am alive and well with a medical bracelet as a souvenir for my trip to the ER. Hope you enjoyed the read.

P.S. This is not just based on a true story. This actually happened!