Memory is a funny thing. I recently decided to delve into my old Livejournal just for kicks and was surprised to find the post from the day I was taken to the hospital to be admitted to the psych ward.
A few days after the incident I decided to take to my online platform of the time to recount the events. I wrote about the annoyance of parents and the awesomeness that is Taco Bell. Yes, I touched on the Doctor's response to the words "fuck you" carved into my upper arm, and the crazy man that was roaming the halls hollering about how "ain't no white man popo gon' keep me down" - but I left out quite possibly the most definitive moment of my life.
You see, the event started because I had a history of self mutilation - I am reminded of this every day when I look at my forearm. On this particular day I was feeling especially downtrodden and when confronted by my mother I informed her that she didn't know how it felt to not want to exist anymore. NOTE this was not a suicide threat, just a notation that if I didn't exist lots of things would be easier - because hi, hello, I wouldn't deal with anything if I wasn't around. However, this lead to a panic from my mother and me threatening my dad, thus my mother calling the suicide prevention line. At this point I was given the option of cooperating and going willingly to the hospital, or I could continue to hide under my bed and have the cops drag me out.
I wasn't lying about carving "fuck you" into my upper arm. The doctors response to that was something along the lines of "...nice." all slathered in condescending sarcasm. Nor was I lying about the man roaming the halls screaming about the "popo" keeping him down. Even the part about grabbing some delicious Taco Bell was the truth, and maybe that night is the reason I'm not utterly repulsed by the thought of the sub-par restaurant. Honesty was not a trait I lacked in that particular post.
However, the reason I say memories are funny is because I also flippantly mention the conversation my dad and I had just before we left the hospital and headed to Taco Bell. The Doctor and my father walked back into the room after having a discussion and the Doctor informed me that they have no room for me, but I can go to the ward up in St. Cloud if I think that's necessary. The alternative was if my dad thought I was going to be okay, I can go home right that very moment.
When I think back on the moment that my dad paused to look at me and then turned to the Doctor and said "yeah, I think she's going to be alright," I cannot even begin to explain the weight that moment had on my life. Here I was, a girl struggling to get her head above water, and my father spoke on behalf of my family and spoke to me in that small phrase that they had faith that I would turn out alright.
Did I still have my fair share of struggles with self mutilation after that? Absolutely. I was an adolescent girl with raging hormones that was moving across the country. But what fifteen year old Bekah didn't realize was the conversation she glossed over in her writing would play in her mind ten years later whenever the waves began to rise.
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