Status: Work in progress
Institutionalized
Chapter One
Chapter One
My story begins in the intensive care unit of Saint Andrew’s Hospital. I woke up from a dreamless sleep to find myself lying in a hospital bed with an IV drip attached to my left arm. My brother was sitting in the chair across from my bed, asleep and still in his baseball uniform.
It wasn’t until I saw my parents that I understood how serious my situation actually was. My mother was next to my brother, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. She was wringing her hands and when she looked at me, it was with a mixture of shock, disappointment, and heartbreak. My father was talking to the doctor. He didn’t wear his sadness as explicitly as my mother did, but it was obvious that he was just as upset as she was. He was ashen and pale; and when he spoke, it was in monotone, like he was trying to hold in emotions he couldn’t understand and didn’t want. For some reason, when I looked at him all I could see was a scared teenager.
Seeing my family like this was painful, far worse than my suicide attempt. I couldn’t think. I almost couldn’t breathe. I lay there, feeling like a zombie for what seemed like hours, until the doctor that was trying to talk to my dad glanced over and noticed that I was awake.
“Looks like she’s waking up,” he said with a strained smile. My mother immediately lifted her head to look at me and my father turned around with shock in his eyes.
“Lilly! You’re alive!” Mom jumped up and scampered over to my bed. “Oh, thank God, you’re alright…Michael, she’s alright!” She tried to hug me, but she didn’t want to disturb my IV tube, so she took another route—guilt trip.
“What on earth were you thinking?” she demanded. “I almost fainted when I found you. Your father and I were so sure you were dead. What would we have told your brother if you had died? Do you realize—"
“All right, Mrs. Finnegan, that will do,” the doctor interrupted. He pulled a chair up next to my bed and sat down. “Hello, Lilly. My name is Dr. Lowenstein. How are you feeling today?”
When you think about it, that’s probably the worst question you can ask somebody who just survived a suicide attempt and is just facing the consequences of their actions. I mean, what kind of response are you expecting? “I’m peachy, thanks for asking”? I didn’t feel like saying too much to him, so I replied with a simple “fine”.
“Are you in any pain?” he pressed.
“Um…” I shifted around a little and noticed, for the first time, the bandages that covered both of my arms. “My arms hurt. And I’m a little woozy still.”
He nodded curtly. “That’s to be expected. You cut yourself up pretty badly. Combined with the painkillers, it’s a miracle you’re still alive. But judging by the sheer amount of cuts and how deep some of them were, you’ll probably have quite a bit of scarring.” He took a deep breath and then spoke again. “So, Lilly, what drove you to attempt suicide?” He looked directly at me when he asked. I could almost feel his eyes drilling holes into my own. I picked at the edge of my arm bandage and tried to avoid his gaze.
“Depression,” I mumbled.
“And how long has your depression lasted?”
What’s with all these fucking questions? I pondered. I didn’t say that to him, obviously. If I had, something tells me I would have had to take even longer in my recovery process. “About a year.”
He nodded again. “Was there anything that triggered your depression?”
That was tricky. Truth is, there were triggers. The two biggest ones were standing in the room, on the verge of mental breakdowns because of me. I couldn’t say that yes, my parents’ disintegrated marriage was driving me off the deep end; because that would make them feel awful. How did I respond? I tipped my head down, stared at my hands, and shrugged. I didn’t even open my mouth to say ‘I don’t know’ because I didn’t trust myself to not blurt out the truth.
When I dared to glance up, the doctor’s brow was furrowed and he was staring hard at me. Eventually, he turned his stare toward my parents.
“Well, it’s quite obvious to me that Lilly’s depression is severe. Did either of you know about her depression?”
My father slowly shook his head. He still hadn’t spoken a word since I had woken up.
“No. We never noticed,” Mom responded. “She never showed any signs. I always thought she was perfectly normal.”
The doctor’s brow furrowed even more. “I see,” he muttered. “When she’s all healed up from this, I’m prescribing some mental help for her.”
I lifted my head up when he mentioned ‘mental help’. “Do you mean a shrink?” I asked.
He chuckled a little. “Well, that’s only a part of it. I’m going to send you on sort of a trip.” He handed my mom a brochure that read ‘Shady Acres Mental Hospital’.
“It’s a hospital that caters specifically to teens and young adults. The patients leave the facility as high-functioning members of society, even if they aren’t completely cured of their disease,” he explained.
Mom quickly scanned the pamphlet and her face started to shine. “Michael—Michael, look at the prices! We can afford this—and look at the success rate, 96% are out in society and ranked as high-functioning! 54% were cured!” Dad glanced at the brochure and nodded in agreement, though he didn’t get as excited as Mom did.
I blinked and my jaw dropped open. “You’re sending me to a nut house?” I shrieked. “Oh no. No way. You can’t be serious. I am not going to go to a nut house.”
Mom shot me a death stare for two seconds and then faded into a softer look. She heaved a big sigh and then launched into an explanation.
“Lilly,” she began, “if your father and I had known how serious your depression was, we would have sent you there ourselves. Now, look at the pamphlet—see how much success they have with their patients? Wouldn’t you like to get better?”
“Yeah, I want to get better, but I don’t want to go to a nut house. Can’t I just get some therapy or something?”
“You’ll get therapy. This place offers individual and group therapy, as well as alternate forms of treatment; they have licensed psychiatrists who can prescribe medication…Lilly, I know you don’t want to, but please give it a chance. I…” She paused and touched Dad’s hand. “Your father and I want you to get better.”
I couldn’t say no to that. I couldn’t say anything to that. When Mom made decisions for more than one person, there was no use in arguing with her. It was far easier to just let her have her way.
I heaved a sigh and admitted defeat. “Fine, I’ll go.”
Mom smiled approvingly. Dad twitched the corners of his mouth upward, which I guess was his attempt at smiling. The doctor clapped his hands together and told my parents that he’d register me for the program right away. And amid all of their reactions, all I could do was lay back, fall asleep, and hope that it was all a lucid dream.
My story begins in the intensive care unit of Saint Andrew’s Hospital. I woke up from a dreamless sleep to find myself lying in a hospital bed with an IV drip attached to my left arm. My brother was sitting in the chair across from my bed, asleep and still in his baseball uniform.
It wasn’t until I saw my parents that I understood how serious my situation actually was. My mother was next to my brother, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. She was wringing her hands and when she looked at me, it was with a mixture of shock, disappointment, and heartbreak. My father was talking to the doctor. He didn’t wear his sadness as explicitly as my mother did, but it was obvious that he was just as upset as she was. He was ashen and pale; and when he spoke, it was in monotone, like he was trying to hold in emotions he couldn’t understand and didn’t want. For some reason, when I looked at him all I could see was a scared teenager.
Seeing my family like this was painful, far worse than my suicide attempt. I couldn’t think. I almost couldn’t breathe. I lay there, feeling like a zombie for what seemed like hours, until the doctor that was trying to talk to my dad glanced over and noticed that I was awake.
“Looks like she’s waking up,” he said with a strained smile. My mother immediately lifted her head to look at me and my father turned around with shock in his eyes.
“Lilly! You’re alive!” Mom jumped up and scampered over to my bed. “Oh, thank God, you’re alright…Michael, she’s alright!” She tried to hug me, but she didn’t want to disturb my IV tube, so she took another route—guilt trip.
“What on earth were you thinking?” she demanded. “I almost fainted when I found you. Your father and I were so sure you were dead. What would we have told your brother if you had died? Do you realize—"
“All right, Mrs. Finnegan, that will do,” the doctor interrupted. He pulled a chair up next to my bed and sat down. “Hello, Lilly. My name is Dr. Lowenstein. How are you feeling today?”
When you think about it, that’s probably the worst question you can ask somebody who just survived a suicide attempt and is just facing the consequences of their actions. I mean, what kind of response are you expecting? “I’m peachy, thanks for asking”? I didn’t feel like saying too much to him, so I replied with a simple “fine”.
“Are you in any pain?” he pressed.
“Um…” I shifted around a little and noticed, for the first time, the bandages that covered both of my arms. “My arms hurt. And I’m a little woozy still.”
He nodded curtly. “That’s to be expected. You cut yourself up pretty badly. Combined with the painkillers, it’s a miracle you’re still alive. But judging by the sheer amount of cuts and how deep some of them were, you’ll probably have quite a bit of scarring.” He took a deep breath and then spoke again. “So, Lilly, what drove you to attempt suicide?” He looked directly at me when he asked. I could almost feel his eyes drilling holes into my own. I picked at the edge of my arm bandage and tried to avoid his gaze.
“Depression,” I mumbled.
“And how long has your depression lasted?”
What’s with all these fucking questions? I pondered. I didn’t say that to him, obviously. If I had, something tells me I would have had to take even longer in my recovery process. “About a year.”
He nodded again. “Was there anything that triggered your depression?”
That was tricky. Truth is, there were triggers. The two biggest ones were standing in the room, on the verge of mental breakdowns because of me. I couldn’t say that yes, my parents’ disintegrated marriage was driving me off the deep end; because that would make them feel awful. How did I respond? I tipped my head down, stared at my hands, and shrugged. I didn’t even open my mouth to say ‘I don’t know’ because I didn’t trust myself to not blurt out the truth.
When I dared to glance up, the doctor’s brow was furrowed and he was staring hard at me. Eventually, he turned his stare toward my parents.
“Well, it’s quite obvious to me that Lilly’s depression is severe. Did either of you know about her depression?”
My father slowly shook his head. He still hadn’t spoken a word since I had woken up.
“No. We never noticed,” Mom responded. “She never showed any signs. I always thought she was perfectly normal.”
The doctor’s brow furrowed even more. “I see,” he muttered. “When she’s all healed up from this, I’m prescribing some mental help for her.”
I lifted my head up when he mentioned ‘mental help’. “Do you mean a shrink?” I asked.
He chuckled a little. “Well, that’s only a part of it. I’m going to send you on sort of a trip.” He handed my mom a brochure that read ‘Shady Acres Mental Hospital’.
“It’s a hospital that caters specifically to teens and young adults. The patients leave the facility as high-functioning members of society, even if they aren’t completely cured of their disease,” he explained.
Mom quickly scanned the pamphlet and her face started to shine. “Michael—Michael, look at the prices! We can afford this—and look at the success rate, 96% are out in society and ranked as high-functioning! 54% were cured!” Dad glanced at the brochure and nodded in agreement, though he didn’t get as excited as Mom did.
I blinked and my jaw dropped open. “You’re sending me to a nut house?” I shrieked. “Oh no. No way. You can’t be serious. I am not going to go to a nut house.”
Mom shot me a death stare for two seconds and then faded into a softer look. She heaved a big sigh and then launched into an explanation.
“Lilly,” she began, “if your father and I had known how serious your depression was, we would have sent you there ourselves. Now, look at the pamphlet—see how much success they have with their patients? Wouldn’t you like to get better?”
“Yeah, I want to get better, but I don’t want to go to a nut house. Can’t I just get some therapy or something?”
“You’ll get therapy. This place offers individual and group therapy, as well as alternate forms of treatment; they have licensed psychiatrists who can prescribe medication…Lilly, I know you don’t want to, but please give it a chance. I…” She paused and touched Dad’s hand. “Your father and I want you to get better.”
I couldn’t say no to that. I couldn’t say anything to that. When Mom made decisions for more than one person, there was no use in arguing with her. It was far easier to just let her have her way.
I heaved a sigh and admitted defeat. “Fine, I’ll go.”
Mom smiled approvingly. Dad twitched the corners of his mouth upward, which I guess was his attempt at smiling. The doctor clapped his hands together and told my parents that he’d register me for the program right away. And amid all of their reactions, all I could do was lay back, fall asleep, and hope that it was all a lucid dream.