Reading "The Quiet Room"

I first read this book when I was perhaps 12 or 13, before I identified with the content so intimately. Now, seven years later, her words of the quiet room bring about my own recollections of being thrown in seclusion. Strapped to a board with my body bound in a thick vinyl pad. I recall being brought into the room, hearing the countdown from three before the team unfastened the velcro that held me and bolted from the room.

I remember my hair, wild from struggle, being plastered to my face with sweat. Caught in my mouth, my eyes, tickling the inside of my ear. Tied to the bed in five points my only hopes of relief were to drag my face across the bedsheets, with luck I could clear my tear soaked face. And in the following days, bruises on my wrists and ankles, constant reminders that control was no longer mine for the taking. 

I can still feel the slight pressure of the cold handcuffs on the gurney. The harsh tug of the Welbutrin as I stared through the ambulance window.

I remember it all. The searches, restraints, incarcerations, and in these seven years I’ve learned that you can never promise you won’t return to that dark landscape, but you can promise to come back, and I will never make depression my home.

The Bridge.

       Years ago I met a girl of about 14. I can't recall her name, but I can remember her story. Well, the short and sweet, the bit you would swap with the other teenagers on the unit. She rolled into the community room a couple weeks into my stay. Her extra wide wheelchair knocked each chair lining the dining table, filling the air with that special screech generally reserved for school lunch rooms at dismissal. All heads turned to scan the new addition and the cardinal question, "What'd you do to get here?" was narrowed down quite definitely by the casts covering her legs, one blue, the other purple, and the brace covering her, breast to hip. Taking the rest of her in I made note of her hijab, the multitude of pillows supporting her various injuries, and the smile spread across her brown lips, accompanied by the brightest eyes I'd seen on any patient over the age of twelve. She reminded me of a girl I'd known as a child,  and I loved her instantly.

       Emotions run high in institutions such as these, and boundaries held firmly in place on the outs simply melt away after your first 72-hour. Among fellow kinsman of mental illness, bonds are formed. Bonds that last only days but somehow run deeper than friendships you've had for years. Several months prior to her admission, in the midst of yet another fight with her mother, she ran from the family's parked car. Feeling the chill that often surrounds instances of suicidal action, her mother and sister ran after her. Coming upon a bridge, they saw her standing on the ledge. The girl cast one pained look back and stepped off. 

       She spoke of the incident almost gleefully, and I gathered it had been not only an act of desperation, but also an act of defiance. In a family and culture that shamed her so deeply for her illness, and tried so fervently to hide it, she'd given the greatest ultimatum: To grieve the death of the daughter they had, or to grieve the loss of the daughter they'd wished for.

       It was not her first stay, nor was it mine, and soon enough we endured groups side-by-side. I borrowed her books, knit her a straight blue doll with button eyes, and ran full speed down the halls, pushing her chair in front of me. I was so glad to hear the squeals of a kid far too unfamiliar with happiness, such a stark contrast it was to the tortured screams of psychotic adults and the frightened wails of children. In a place like that... You take care of your own.