[N.B. This is not fiction. This was Tuesday 7/7/2009.] The doctor in student health services asked, "why are you here?"
"For the last two weeks, I've been having difficulty sleeping. I don't get more than 5 hours of sleep on any given night, and I can only get to sleep after drinking."
"How much do you drink each night?"
"Typically about 3 shots worth. Vodka most of the time. Sometimes wine. Whatever I have."
She goes through a litany of questions to ascertain the severity of and reasons for my recent bout of insomnia. At last she asks, "have you had thoughts of suicide?"
"I'd be lying if I said no."
"Do you have any plans?"
"Not fully defined. Sometimes I think about throwing myself off the cliffs over Black's Beach. I bought some sleeping pills so I've been thinking I could mix those with the liquor. I've also become curious about cutting... not as a way to kill myself, but as a general thing. And sometimes I fantasize about shooting myself. Gun to the side of my head."
"Do you have a gun?"
"No. So it's still kind of abstract. But I'm depressed, and the lack of sleep is taking its toll. When I've been unhappy in the past I've always thought that I could get through it. But now for the first time, I'm not sure sure. I'm scared that I'm spiralling downward."
"I see. Let me consult with my colleagues." I met with various doctors and psychologists. Eventually I was sent to the emergency room at Thornton Hospital. They wanted to have someone pick me up and drive me there. I said I knew where it was, I could walk, and I promised not to hurt myself on the way over. Besides, my mother is flying in that night, and I had promised her I'd keep myself safe. I made my way to Thornton. I told the woman at the registration desk what the psychologist had told me to say: "I've been referred here for a psychiatric evaluation for safety." She told me to sit down and fill out the green form so I did. While I did that, a man yells at her because his wife "is very sick. She needs to see a doctor." The woman probably hears that all day and told him that she can't magically free up beds. Eventually the woman calls me in to register. The man is still complaining. He pokes his hand in the door. "Do you have a pan or something? My wife is vomiting." A few moments later: "I need to see a doctor. She's vomiting blood." The lady at the counter sighs and remarks to me that she sees a dozen similar cancer cases a day. Suddenly another man burst in with his hand heavily bandaged and some blood seeping through. "My finger has been severed." The woman said she would speak with him as soon as possible. I offer to let him register before me. "Thank you." I knew that his finger was more important than a depressed twentyeight year-old. I sat there for a few more minutes wanting to cry. There was too much pain in that room. Finally I was able to register and the nurses whisked me to the isolation of my own room in the ER. They told me I had to strip down and put everything in a bag; they were afraid I might have something on me that could be lethal. I received a nice hospital gown to cover my nakedness. They also said I couldn't use the adjacent bathroom—again, a fear of danger. Instead I would have to call for a nurse to lead me to an appropriate location. That was ok; I didn't end up having to go despite the six hours I waited. During those six hours, the nurses brought me some apple juice and at one point I got graham crackers. I didn't really have an appetite for anything more substantial; that's one of the symptoms of depression. Several times nurses came in to monitor my vitals: blood pressure, pulse, temperature. And repeatedly I was told that the psychiatrist would be arriving any minute now. Four hours in, the on-call physician explained to me that the original psychiatrist had been detained by another patient and that a second was being sent. So I waited. At one point, I glanced through an issue of Newsweek, but most of the time I just sat and thought. Sometimes about cliffs. Two hours later, the psychiatrist arrived. I told her what I had told all the other individuals I had spoken with that day. I told her I was worried about myself. At night, it was the worst. I was surviving at the moment, but I didn't know how long I could hold out, what with the poor sleeping and all. She asked me a lot of questions, agreed with everyone else that I needed help, but at last was convinced that I wasn't going to try anything before my mother arrived. So I got my clothes back and left the ER with a subscription for Ativan to help me sleep. And then I went home and waited for my mother to arrive. And now I am on Prozac. Or at least the generic equivalent. | 
