All I can hear is a quiet cycle of short squeaks as I’m rolling through the hospital. It’s about 3AM and I’m hyper-aware of my BMI while watching 3 adults wheel me out the back door to the ambulance. I’ve been waiting in the observation area of the ER since 6PM the day before, and I didn’t get sleep.

I feel like I’m finally getting the depressing parade I deserve, while also feeling a strong desire to laugh and say, “you know, I’m probably not THAT bad.” I swing back and forth between these ideas while my hands rest on the buckles keeping me swaddled and unmoved.

The EMS workers lift me up into the ambulance and I resist the urge to raise my fists in the air as though I’ve won a sporting event. I fail at this inappropriate behavior due to being so exhausted. I’m on my way to The Pavilion in Williamsburg (raises fists triumphantly in my head) to finally get some medical assistance for my mood disorder. I somehow get less sleep during the bumpy 45-minute ride.

The first day was fantastic. After my welcome meeting with a nurse which finished around 5AM, my vitals were monitored multiple times from my bed for any symptoms of withdrawal (drugs or alcohol if you mention them as a contributing issue). A nurse happily (and forcefully) woke me at 8AM for breakfast and group. The nurse tech for the group session (we called them techs) watched me zombie walk into the activity room and immediately asked me what my goal was for the day in front of the other patients. I was confused because I already reached my goal of walking down the hallway without falling asleep.

“I don’t really know what’s going on or how this works”

“I’ll just mark you as having no goal for today”

I could tell she was disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm for being placed in a mental facility.

After a nap that caused my head to slump back and forth, I got my turn at meeting with the social worker. He was hipster and nice; a younger man who knew the interview tactic of leaving empty spaces between phrases in hopes that you would elaborate more.

“So what brought you here?”

“Well…I really love other people, but I definitely don’t like myself. I probably come 56th on my list of ‘people to give a shit about’ so I figured I should probably address that finally with medical professionals”

He talked to me more about my background, something I’ve done a number of times with different psychotherapists throughout the years. At this point I was pretty matter-of-fact about my history and feelings. He diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder, with a “high functioning” flare that made me seem normal to everyone else (yikes).

“You need to accept that you have MDD and that you will have to learn to manage it for the rest of your life.”

I wondered how many more nuggets of fun information I would hear that I already knew deep down. And I also recognized how young he was, helping someone like me. He was married, quickly likable. I then wondered whether I would ever uncover likable characteristics about myself for once.

Only about 4 friends knew of this luxury stay at the Pavilion. Now you all do. I’m sharing because I’m not ashamed and neither should anyone else. Getting help is hard, and walking around in scrubs and allowing yourself to feel as crazy as you think the nurses do is harder. Opening up to the idiotic and childish workshops was the hardest. I was in the Pavilion from June 4 to June 7, 2019. When my best friend (sister) came to pick me up, I didn’t have the ability to cry with relief. Instead she cried for me and I carried the heaviness of that in my chest without the comforting appearance of joining her.