Part 2: The Ambulance Ride
T/W: Mentions of self-harm, suicidal ideation/attempt.
So there I was, on cloud nine, adrenaline blasting through my veins—armed with the knowledge that I loved myself enough to keep my body alive for another day. It truly is a sensational feeling. It’s a feeling of warmth and peace that gives you the tingles all over your skin as if you’ve been kissed by the sun or glanced at by your first love.
That feeling lasted about five minutes.
Once I stepped outside of my house and was greeted by police, the pride that swelled within me for saving myself was gone. Instead, shame from the realization that I saved me from myself and what I had done to get here swiftly took its place.
I felt—to put it plainly—stupid.
I looked down at my blood stained nightgown and the rag that was unceremoniously draped on the fresh scars. Every inch of me was once again unfamiliar—the red covering the white of my skin and making me brand new.
I was asked questions, rather delicately, and surprisingly not judgmental considering my sarcastic put-downs to myself about the incident. Also surprising because the people who responded first were cops (I mean no offense, but generally they are not equipped to deal with mental health issues—specifically if the person suffering happens to be a person of color. I know that me being white put me at an advantage for better treatment and that is not lost on me).
Anyway, you can guess that it was here when I was first asked, “what happened?” and “what do you think led you to do this?”
At that moment, their guess would’ve been as good as mine and so I stated a little shaken and annoyed (at myself), “I don’t really know.”
They didn’t really press the issue and decided to rather focus on my wounds—most of which were “superficial”, however I was asked repeatedly if I thought I had a puncture. Again, their guess was as good as mine. I hadn’t even glanced at the arm in question and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t focus enough to really see the damage.
I didn’t want to die anymore at that point, but I certainly wouldn’t have minded becoming invisible…
Just as soon as my comfort had reached its limit, the EMTs arrived and, unlike the police, both were women and I felt my body relax considerably. Not that I should have to explain myself, but I feel the need to note that I’m not hating on men or police. That being said, my experience with both are enough to make me weary, and if someone reading this can’t understand that then, well, I don’t really care.
Anyway, I walked with the EMTs and cops to the ambulance and got on the stretcher to start my journey to what I was sure would be my holding place at a hospital while waiting for a bed in a mental facility.
On the way, I quickly informed my best friend and roommate where I was because he was trying to call me incessantly. We had fought that day and I thought that he either wanted to talk because of that or I thought maybe his stepmom (who lives next door and was home) had informed him of the commotion.
I found out shortly that neither of those were the case. Actually, he had been home in his room and when he heard our dog barking uncontrollably and the speaker in my room blasting on repeat, he went in my room. It was already after I had left and he had no idea what happened and found the scene (sorry buhdee, I love you).
I also, in a state of giddiness, probably caused by adrenaline and some blood loss, sent a message to a man that I had been talking to who wanted to mess around when he comes home in June…(Hey, sorry!)—I want to mention I am not proud of that but I really was not in the right state of mind, and this is all about me sharing my experiences with you all so I’m telling my whole truth—I had messaged him earlier to see if he was working because I was feeling very alone and he had replied just then that he was. I know that I didn’t have to especially because I’m still unsure if he would’ve even cared if I didn’t reply for over a week (Between work and other things…he has his hands full, the Casanova. Haha) I still filled him in to let him know that I wouldn’t be able to talk for a bit and told him a somewhat censored version as to why.
Again, I know this might have been a weird choice. That being said, with this man, and anybody I date or talk to really, I am super open about my mental illnesses and issues I have and he was too, so I felt that it was ok to tell him this. Regardless, he responded and it was nice and seemed genuine enough. Who knows where we’ll actually stand when I’m free (I’m writing this in the facility 4/10/2021–update: I am revising this today 4/30/2021 and we do not talk as much, but still do occasionally. It was never serious anyway, and it was kind of just a mutual drift on both our ends so it’s all good.)
That truly doesn’t matter though, because this isn’t about him, it’s about me. So moving forward, I arrived at the hospital where I waited for two whole days before a bed was free at the mental facility that I am currently (when I was writing this) in. Let me tell you, those two days were filled with DRAMA!
In the interest of time, the next part—Part 3: The ER—will be continued next week May 7th, 2021.