Travels to the Psych Ward: A Story of Comfort and Grief

Abstract

When my doctor first said she was sending me to the hospital, I tried to talk her out of it. Running my thumb over and over the spot on my ring finger I’d already worried into a bruise, I told her the timing was all wrong. I said that antidepressants took months to reach their full effect, but the hospital would only keep me in for a week or two. So it would just make things worse. I knew I needed to go on antidepressants, but I couldn’t get rid of the idea that if I did anything good for myself, then I had to punish myself to make up for it, like atonement for my sins. By that point, I was already cutting twice a day for punishment. If I went on antidepressants, I’d have to do even more. I didn’t know how much more I could take.