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No Turning Back Now

By John Keslin

“Either I get help, or I kill myself.” That’s my shitty justification for driving myself to the hospital one December evening. My Mazda keys jingle out of the plastic tub our family keeps their keys in. “John?” My mom calls out to be met with an unfamiliar silence. I didn’t want to talk to her that day. I was in a trance, not thinking of anything. My mom sounds confused, but I don’t stop to answer her calls. I can’t. I pull on my jacket, and I slip into my laceless shoes with a small hole in ‘em. I make my way to the door.  

Yeah, my brain’s not hearing nothing. Not my mom calling my name, not the squeaky door shutting behind me. Just the engine of my CX-5, its rumble sending me on my way. I pull up to Richert Drive, to that stupid 3-way stop on West Street. Turn onto Osler, past Linden Oaks. Feels like I’m on autopilot. I pull into the ER parking lot.  

Inside, the place is dead quiet, except for some distant beeping. Rows of stiff blue chairs. Some conversations I lowkey don’t wanna care about right now. I walk up to the guy at the front desk. My voice comes out awkward, like I’ve never used it before. “Yeah, uhm… I’m here ‘cause I wanna kill myself.” The receptionist doesn’t flinch. Just nods. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Why don’t you sit somewhere I can see you?” 

I sit down in one of those stiff chairs, the faux leather crunching underneath me. Some part of me is yelling at myself for saying the wrong things to the receptionist. “I should’ve just said I was having suicidal thoughts, not that I wanted to kill myself.” Another part of me is second-guessing the whole thing. “Bro, you could’ve just not told anyone. Did you really have to put yourself through all this?” 

My hands shake, my legs turn to jelly. Should I really have come here? Regret starts creeping in. Welp… looks like I walked myself into a bear trap. They’re not just gonna let me out of the jaws of the ER. That’s when the nurse calls out to me: “John? Right this way.” There’s no turning back now. 

I don’t remember much except the nurses putting me in a chair in the hall to check my vitals. Eventually, I’m moved to a hospital bed, and a plastic bag is handed to me to store my belongings. My clothes, my wallet, my keys… even my beloved Samsung. I kiss my phone goodbye, realizing just how little I have to entertain myself. I ask the nurses for something to read, but of course, all they can find is New Moon. The flower on the cover taunts me as I wish for my phone back, for something that could actually distract me. But I flip through New Moon anyway, even though I’ve never even read Twilight.  

After an eternity, the EMTs come in. A “whir” lifts me into the air, the stretcher sliding into the back of the small ambulance van. “Dude, this thing’s so cool!” I say to the EMTs. The surface beneath me is stiff. It’s a stark contrast to the cushy hospital bed I’d been waiting on for almost six hours. When I went to the ER, the sun was shining. Now, the world outside is swallowed by darkness. 

I’m wrapped tight in a thin, scratchy hospital blanket, its rough fabric trapping my body heat within. The blue-and-white striped gown clings awkwardly to my body, the strings at my back poking into my skin. The ride is short. When the doors open, the cold rushes in like a slap. It fills my lungs, stings my nose. The EMTs ring up the intercom. “We’ve got a patient.” I’m led through the entrance. The air inside is warmer, but the chill lingers. A printer hums, spitting out paperwork. My journey at Linden Oaks has begun. 

At this point, I didn’t doubt my decision to come here. When they shoved a stack of paperwork in my face, making me self-admit into the inpatient facility, it all just became a bunch of words. Finally, they let me off the stretcher and into the adult unit. My nurse and her assistant did a body check on me. Wearing only the thin, flimsy hospital underwear, they saw every inch of my body. Even though I thought I’d be more embarrassed, I really just wanted it to be over.  

After the body check, they led me to my room. I wasn’t prepared for what I found. There’s a guy already in bed, snoring softly. I stood there for a second, not sure what to make of it. Was I in a hospital or a prison? I shut the door behind me, desperate to escape the harsh fluorescent lights in the hall, but the nurse rushes over to open it right back up. 

“Hey, you have to keep this open… it’s for your safety.” 

After that, I don’t remember anything else besides the horrible time I had trying to go to sleep. The pillow’s rock hard, like they filled it with bricks instead of cotton. The blanket is so tight ‘cause it’s sewn down to the mattress. I try to adjust, but it’s useless. The bed is uncomfortable in ways I didn’t know a bed could be. 

How the fuck do they think people are supposed to sleep here? Or get any better? Everything feels like it’s designed to make you feel worse, not better. My stuff, my clothes, my wallet, my phone… all gone. Locked up in ‘contraband.’ I won’t even get my own clothes back until someone decides they’re safe. For my own safety. 

The word bounces in my head, ricocheting off the walls like a bullet hell game. Every time I try to dodge it, it just shows up again: “We do this for your safety.” They said it so much, it stopped meaning anything. After a while, hearing it just pisses me off. In my eyes, “safety” was their excuse for treating us like prisoners.  

Well, at least the food wasn’t like prison food. Then again, it wasn’t much better. On my first day, they handed me whatever they thought I should eat, since the menu I filled out was for tomorrow. Bruh. Scavenging through the drawers for something edible, I found my savior: whole grain Goldfish. After chomping down my Goldfish, they called me into a room with a therapist as well as a bunch of other people.  

I sat down just as the group began. It was so strange. I was used to one-on-one sessions, but group therapy? That was new. My stomach churned. The morning light shined through the tinted windows, scraping my eyes and highlighting my blue-and-white gown. Sweat soaked through, making my thighs awkwardly stick together. When the therapist reached me, I froze. “Uh, I’m John,” I paused, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t really want to talk about myself.” 

I slowly warmed up to Linden Oaks as time went by. One of the big moments came when my clothes finally came back. They had to cut the strings to my sweatpants, but at that point, I didn’t care. I just wanted my own clothes back. I’d been stuck in that gown for so long… it felt like walking around naked. But now, I had my own pants, my own hoodie, my own underwear. I wasn’t a prisoner. I was free. I was myself again, even if I wasn’t sure what that even meant anymore. 

I wasn’t just a patient. I was someone who might still have a shot at being alright. It felt like a long shot, but it was a shot worth taking.