“I am wearing the wrong clothes for this,” I thought as I walked through the large gray metal door. As the door closed behind me I realized for the first time in years that I was totally exposed. My outsides matched my insides and there were people here to see it. There was no hiding this. I looked like I belonged here. I was starting to feel like I belonged here as well. When I came in four days ago I was completely exposed, but this was different. I was aware of how this felt today.
I was aware of the seven sets of eyes looking at me as I walked in the room. They were all sitting around a long table. A seat at the head of the table had been left open for me to take. I was aware of the fact all seven of them had showered and taken time to get ready this morning. Each of them was dressed professionally and looked confident. They had their armor and I had none. I looked the part I was to play this morning. Wearing dirty jeans and an old sweatshirt, I was not allowed shoe laces, so I was forced to wear bright red socks with the traction grips on the bottom. They were too big on me and the grip part had made its way around to the top of my foot. I had showered, but the all-purpose body wash/ shampoo left a film all over my hair and body. A blow dryer was out of the question to use on this floor of the hospital, so my hair had dried during the night while I slept. It looked like a piece of modern art this morning, with no two strands of hair laying in the same direction. My eyes were bloodshot and burned from sleeping too long in my contacts and from all the crying that comes from being in a place like this. The circles under my eyes from months of not sleeping were in full view. No make-up to hide them today. Yes, my outsides matched my insides, just as they had when I was admitted.
The night I arrived was a blur of sights, sounds and questions. Oh so many questions. Questions I did not have any intention of answering, not honestly anyway. “What drugs have you taken tonight, Michelle? Were you trying to hurt yourself, Michelle? Do you often think of hurting yourself? Michelle we need you to drink this charcoal. Can you do that for us, Michelle? Michelle, your heart rate and blood pressure are dangerously high. We need to use an EKG and monitor you. Michelle we are worried you may have a heart attack or stroke. Do you understand what I am saying to you? Michelle how long have you been bleeding from your nose? Do you feel any pain in your chest or left arm? Michelle, I need you to stay with me. Michelle, can you stay with me please? Keep your eyes open. Talk to me, Michelle. Michelle, is there anyone we should call for you? Michelle, you should not be alone.” The voices were stern and kind at the same time. No one seemed angry with me. No one seemed disappointed. No one seemed to judge. Maybe that was why I told the truth and answered their questions honestly. Maybe I was just too tired to lie.
“Lots of cocaine and Ambian…. I don’t care if I die…. My chest hurts….There is no one to call.” I had no idea at the time, but they were actually listening to what I said. Not only that, but they were writing it all down and putting it all in a file. They named that file “Michelle Poole.” I saw that file sitting on the table in front of me now.
As I sat down at the table I knew I was done for. There was no reason to be dishonest. There is no way to unring a bell. My secret was out. Whether I liked it or not, I could not hide it any longer. I was in trouble. Not trouble in the sense that there would be consequences for my little trip to the hospital. Being a master manipulator I had smoothed everything over with my boss and family. A few quick little lies and they were all comfortable with my new accommodations. They all would wonder what really happened and watch me a little closer for a while, but there was no real damage done. No, I was in trouble in the biggest sense of the word. I was drowning. I was lost and none of my tricks for redemption were working any longer. I was in danger of losing myself, my mind and my life. These seven people all knew it. They had read that file with all my secrets written out in black and white. These seven people wanted to know what I planned to do about it before they would let me leave this place.
Again the thought went through my mind. “I am wearing the wrong clothes for this.” I knew I looked every bit as lost and scared as I felt. The next thoughts came through even louder. “They are never going to let you leave! This is where you belong! This is where crazy people should be! I AM CRAZY!”
The air in the room seemed stagnant and hung heavy all around me. The wind outside was doing its best to break through the windows that lined the room’s longest wall and occasionally we could hear a large “woosh” sound from the air whipping itself against the building. The sounds of the traffic from five floors below gave me comfort. So did the thought that if I looked out those windows, my little apartment was only three blocks away. I was still in the real world. I had not gone into the abyss in my mind just yet. I was still alive.
I don’t remember who spoke first or what was said exactly. The words “drug treatment facility”, “depression” and “suicidal ideations” were used several times. I nodded along numbly as questions were asked of me. There was no fight to put up. People who are normal don’t go to places like this. They don’t have conversations like this with people they don’t know. And these weren’t just any people, they were mental health professionals. Mental health professionals who worked in a locked down psych ward right in the middle of downtown Atlanta. They knew all the tricks and there was no point in lying.
The plan was to let me go home on this cold February morning and the next morning I would check myself into treatment. I just had to make it through the night without getting high and without hurting myself. There was no way to transfer me directly from where I was at to where I was going. So it was “on me” to get myself there. As I sat in the chair at the head of the table I shifted uncomfortably back and forth. My right leg was bouncing up and down at a record speed and the movement of it had started to make a soft repeating sound. The last time I had been left alone three large bags of cocaine, a fifth of vodka and eight Ambian seemed like a good idea.
It was at that point I realized exactly what was being asked of me and how desperate and deficient the mental health system really was. How much of a danger to myself I had actually become. My leg hit warp speed. Again I thought “I’m wearing the wrong clothes for this.” In my clothes I could lie and hide who and what I was with ease. In these clothes, looking this way, being in this place, the lie was harder to tell. I wasn’t sure I would be convincing. I needed to get out of here. I needed to be somewhere else. I needed to shower and feel normal again. I just needed to get to the treatment facility they told me about. The one with the walking path and gym, the one where I could smoke and have my own clothes, clean clothes and shoe laces. “It seems like heaven” I thought to myself. Yes, I had to get out of here. I must get out of here. I knew what I needed to say. My leg stopped instantly, I took a deep breath and I answered with all the confidence I could muster. “Yes, I will be just fine.” There was a long pause and the seven sets of eyes watched me closely. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my file was closed and I was told to get my things together. I would be leaving today.
“I guess I was wrong” I thought as I stood to walk toward the gray door again. “I can get away with a lie in these clothes after all.”
