A Battle Within

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Warning: This essay contains depressive and suicidal thoughts and descriptions of self-harm. Reader discretion is advised.

The gray walls of the tiny restroom were like a prison, mirroring how trapped I felt in my own mind with no clear way out. The emergency psych attendants asked me to change into a pair of gray scrubs and matching grip socks. I don't remember which top I had on that day, but I know I wore jeans because I paired them with everything. As I peeled my clothing off, I looked in the mirror and pondered how my grandmother would feel about me in that moment. Would she be proud of me for taking the step to get help, or ashamed that I allowed my emotions to bring me to this place? Tears threatened to fall, but I fought them back. I couldn't cry there. It would have to wait till I was alone.

I gave the bag carrying my clothes to the attendant along with my shoes. They put it in a locker with my phone, wallet, and my backpack. The backpack was for me to carry my items on the two buses I needed to take home from my PCP appointment that day. The plan changed when I decided to go to the hospital.

After the attendant secured my items, they let me use the landline to call my mother and let her know where I was. We had been texting since she dropped me off at the clinic that morning to see my primary care physician, keeping her posted on the day's events. Once the call ended, the attendant led me into a lounge room where the TV aired a Maury Show episode while the other patients chattered away. They gave me a tray of chicken Alfredo with broccoli. The meal was cold, flavorless, and difficult to eat with only a spoon. I didn't complain because I needed to eat even though I wasn't in the mood to. Plus, I assumed they withheld forks or sporks from patients because they feared patients would use them for violence (I understand the temptation). Years later, I would make a joke about only using spoons in the psych ward, but someone took offense, so I never made it again.

What led to that fateful day was the breakdown I had two days prior. I was in three text threads between a friend, a mutual guy friend she used to date, and his wife. I never liked his wife because she was always mean to me for no reason, and I'm sure she's the one who started this mess. At some point, my friend threatened suicide, and after three failed attempts at checking in on her, I ran to my mother in panic and broke down in tears because I didn't know what to do. She lived in a different state, so I had no way of knowing if she was okay. My mother couldn't do anything for her, so she calmed me down and told me to rest.

After I climbed back in bed, I texted my guy friend, 'She's probably dead. I hope you're happy.' He and his wife were both furious at me for sending that message, so they blocked me before I had a chance to defend myself. It didn't matter because I only cared about my friend being alive. I tried calling her one more time with no answer, but I was relieved when she sent me a message a couple of minutes later, telling me she was fine. My friend and I spent the rest of the night texting and comforting each other about the night's events.

Although things were fine with my friend, my mother was concerned about my well-being. The fight had added to a host of other stressors I was dealing with. My grandmother, who was my best friend and confidant, passed away a few months prior—five days after her own mother—and I wasn't processing my emotions well. The unresolved grief caused me to pick fights with my mother. One escalated with me kicking her in the shins before packing my bags and leaving with no direction and $50 to my name. After I regained my senses and returned home, I lost a well-paying job I liked. Also, I was in a mentally strange place with my abuser, where I wanted to maintain an open communication with him despite how he would treat me. On top of all of that, I quit writing, the thing I lived and breathed, so I could focus on getting a practical career that would lead to a good-paying job. Even if it meant bagging groceries for the next fifty years—a job and lifestyle I wouldn't enjoy—I was willing to accept it. However, that turned out to be one of the worst decisions I ever made.

Two days after my friend threatened suicide, I had an appointment with my Primary Care Physician to get test results and discuss treatment plans. On the way to the clinic, my mother suggested I tell my doctor about my mental and emotional state. I tried waving it off because I didn't see the point. Since my friend was still alive, I was sure I was fine. Yet I still felt low, with no explanation for it.

I've grown accustomed to feeling low ever since my only best friend at the time got into a romantic relationship. I understood and respected that romantic relationships took priority over friendships, but I still found myself missing my friend and wanting to monopolize her time. When she would be with him, I felt sad and lonely, unsure of what to do with myself. She got into this relationship after I lost a job I semi-liked, so I was also dealing with the stress of job hunting while trying to understand why I was lonely without her. That was the first time I questioned the possibility of having depression, but I just figured I missed spending time with her.

The other reservation I had about telling my doctor was that she was a regular MD. What could she do to help me with my mental and emotional state?

She—a dark-skinned black woman who I guessed was in her thirties—peered over her glasses while giving me my results and medication she would like me to try. Then, she looked at me with a warm smile and asked, "Are there any questions?"

I was going to say no, leave her office, get the medicines from the pharmacy, take the two buses home, and climb into bed without saying a word. Instead, I looked into her eyes while fighting back tears, and muttered the words, "I think I'm depressed."

Her reaction threw me for a loop as she seemed elated to hear those words. I remember her body language as bubbly, bouncy, and full of excitement. I watched her with furrowed brows as she scrambled to figure out how to help me, not understanding how she could be so happy about this while I'm sitting in her office, trying and failing to fight back tears. She expressed that she was just happy that I, a young black woman, was open and honest about my mental health. Remembering her reaction makes me giggle now because I understand. Mental Health isn't always taken seriously in the black community. Black Millennials and Gen Zers have been peeling back layers as to why therapy and other mental health treatments are important, but we still have a long way to go.

Once her initial reaction was out of the way, she gave me the option to schedule an appointment with the in-clinic therapist or go to the hospital. My problem felt urgent, so I chose the hospital even though the option sounded scary. The media portrays mental health hospitals as scary places with patients screaming all the time, lights that barely work, and staff members looking to harm patients. I can’t vouch for the accuracy of this portrayal, but I was afraid that's what I was getting into. Still, it sounded better than the despair of constantly wishing I was dead and how my friends and family were better off without me. I was willing to take the chance.

When my doctor left the room to make the call, a security guard walked in. I forgot why she was there, but it was nice to have the company. I don't remember her name, but I remember how safe I felt in her presence. She was an older black woman, and I naturally feel more at ease around black women. What I do remember was that she had light-brown skin and platinum blonde braids or faux locs (I'm not sure which) with one side shaved in a nice fade. We discussed things I can't recall in detail, but I could sense from her words that she was proud of me for asking for and accepting help. At some point, she broke down in tears, and if I remember correctly, it had to do with her son, nephew, or someone she knew who committed suicide because they didn't get help. Seeing the guard cry broke me, and I lost the grip I had on the tears I was fighting. I gave her a sympathetic apology because I blamed myself for her breakdown. She wouldn't be crying if I hadn't spoken up about my issues.

It wasn't long before a police officer picked me up to take me to the county hospital. It felt weird to sit in the back of a squad car as someone who was always afraid of going to jail and did whatever I could to avoid going there. During the ride to the hospital, I couldn't help but notice that the backseat didn't have a handle. The lack of handles made me realize that if I wanted to, I couldn't open the door, tuck and roll out of the car, and run away to start a new life under an assumed name. That was a good thing.

I've been to the county hospital enough times to know that the wait would be hours. When I wasn't repeating the phrase, "I'm here because I'm feeling depressed and have suicidal thoughts," I read stories on Wattpad, since I didn't feel like doom-scrolling through social media like I usually would to pass the time. I didn't have physical pain or illness, so I had to contend with not being a priority. Eventually, a nurse called me over to take me to the emergency psych ward, since the mental health ward was full, where I changed out of my clothes into the gray scrubs and matching grip socks.

While I ate the cold Chicken Alfredo and ignored The Maury Show episode on TV, I noticed a table of three other women. A brown-skinned black woman pregnant with her third child—information I learned while unintentionally eavesdropping on their conversation—and two other non-black women. I didn't introduce myself to them because I'm naturally shy (despite how outspoken I am on social media). I did have a brief interaction with them when one of them wanted some pudding or gelatin—whatever was on my plate that day. They didn't ask me right out for it, but I wasn't interested in eating it, so there was no sense in wasting it. When I walked over to give it to one of them, the black woman gave me a polite smile and said hi. I said it in return before I went back to the chair I had grown comfortable in.

I noticed that one of the non-black women had multiple cut scars on her arm. It reminded me of the time I cut off a minuscule piece of skin when I scraped a cheap shaving razor against my arm. I wasn't trying to kill myself then. I wanted to harm my mother because of a fight we got into earlier over mopping the kitchen floor. I didn't want to stop what I was doing to complete a five-minute task, so I started a screaming match that ended with my mom locking away my electronic devices for a month. I didn't have the boldness to go through with harming her, so I settled for the shaving razor. That way, I committed an act of violence and wouldn't have to go to jail for it.

Back in Emergency Psych, I spent the next couple of hours watching the CW channel and occasionally stepping into a room to have private conversations with people who had questions for me. I didn't know these people or their occupations, but I had to be honest with them if I wanted to get the help I needed.

"I think I'm depressed."

"My grandmother died five days after her mother, and I don't know how to cope with it."

"I have suicidal thoughts, but they're more passive than active. Instead of thinking I should kill myself, it's more like I should get in the tub and lie under the water for a few hours."

"Sometimes I feel like running away with no car, barely any money, or a plan for where I'm going or what I will do when I get there."

"I'm self-aware of my moods enough to know to take a shower instead of a bath and not to leave the house, or I won't come back."

"I needed to escape my life, and I was going to get out either by leaving or dying, whichever came first."

I repeated these phrases over and over again until someone listened, understood, and figured out what would help me feel better.

When I wasn't answering questions, I wished to isolate under a blanket in a bed, but I didn't want to bother the attendants for a blanket and a bed. Plus, being called into the private room was so frequent that I wouldn't have time to enjoy the peace of lying still on a bed. During an episode of The Steve Wilkos Show that I wasn't interested in watching because it wasn't about rape or murder allegations, a young light-skinned black girl with messy curls came into the lounge in a gown and a blanket wrapped around her. There was an exchange between her and the other ladies, but I don't remember what was said because I longed to feel as comfortable as she looked.

Not too long after the girl went back to her bed, a woman of Asian descent called me into the private room for one last time. I don't remember her name or occupation, but she said one thing I will never forget. She asked me about my hobbies since they're usually helpful for individuals battling depression, so I told her I used to write, but I quit to focus on a practical career path and a means of income. "You need to pick that back up," she said as if my life depended on it—to an extent, it did.

That interaction still chokes me up. It felt nice to hear someone value writing after years of being told that writing was just a hobby that would get me nowhere, wasn't a practical means of income, and that I needed to get a job that would provide benefits and a 401 (k). Those sounded good, but I didn't think they would ever make me happy.

The attendants discharged me thirty minutes later with a depression diagnosis. They prescribed me medication, scheduled an appointment with the therapist at my regular clinic, and told me I was free to go. A moment that should've been happy felt dreadful. I wanted to stay, at least for the night. I wanted time to adjust to the medication and my diagnosis before facing the real world and all its problems. Perhaps I didn't meet the standard that would require me to stay longer. Was it because I didn’t have cut scars along my arms like the other patients? At the moment, I wish I had the bravery it took to self-harm more. Maybe then I would've been granted an overnight stay.

I called my mom to let her know I was leaving, then I went back into the bathroom to change back into the clothes I had worn when I arrived. I kept the socks, though. Unlike the first time, when I was wiping tears and questioning how my grandmother would feel, I got dressed as if my limbs were moving on autopilot while feeling numb with disappointment. After retrieving my bag and other belongings, I went to the discharge station to collect what I needed and wait for my ex-stepdad to pick me up. He and I always had a rocky relationship, so I didn't understand why my mother asked him, of all people, to pick me up. I would've preferred taking the bus back home. However, I had to give him props for caring. We didn't say much outside of pleasantries and him asking if I wanted something to eat. I respectfully declined because I wasn't hungry and put my headphones on to blast Evanescence during the ride home. Only Amy Lee's soothing voice and Wattpad stories could alleviate the dread that lingered inside me.

The first thing that happened when I went home was my mother asking how I was feeling. I told her I was fine because I didn't know how to say I wished I had stayed at the hospital. After we exchanged pleasant words, she let me go to my room, where I isolated for the rest of the night.

I don't know if I told anyone where I had been that day. Since I had fallen out with two of my best friends, I didn't have anyone to talk to, and I hadn't met my other two besties until later. I spent the night reading Wattpad stories, listening to Evanescence, or sleeping, if not all three.

Receiving the depression diagnosis was only the beginning. The part no one talks about is how soon everything feels. As an attempt to maintain normalcy, I signed up for three back-to-back shifts through a temp agency I worked for. I was doing this while trying to adjust to depression medication, which made me too tired to take the three buses to the location in the morning. I needed the money, so I pushed through for the first two days. By the third day, I couldn't do it. Couldn't get out of bed and didn't want to, so I didn't. I wasn't usually a no-call-no-show employee, but that day I took a risk and stayed in bed to sleep. I needed the world to pause for a second while I tried to figure out my new reality. Fortunately, the agency just gave me a warning and required me to complete a PowerPoint training on the importance of attending shifts, along with a test to assess my understanding of the material.

During this period of adjustment, I found myself becoming obsessed with the song "Never Too Late" by Three Days Grace. The song made me feel like someone was trying to tell me to find the will to live, and they were going to help me keep it. I also found comfort in reading fanfiction from the Black Panther movie.

Holding onto the words of the Asian woman, I decided that I needed to focus on a writing project to get me through this healing process. I've had several ideas, but no direction on how to execute them. I just knew that I wanted a story about a black girl that explores the themes of grief, support, and personal growth.

I was still in contact with my emotional abuser, whom I resented because of a fight that had happened the previous year. Still, role-playing with him online was a good distraction from the depression. I don't know if I told him that I went to emergency psych or about the depression diagnosis, and at this point, I don't care if he knew or not. We were role-playing a relationship between T'Challa from Black Panther (a character I almost hated because of him) and Rose, a palace housekeeper, two childhood best friends who grew to realize their feelings for each other. Because of his job and weed addiction, he wasn't always available to be a distraction.

I realized one day that I didn't need him to write the story. He didn't own T'Challa, and I could do whatever I wanted with Rose because she was my original creation. I was inspired to write The Rose of Wakanda, a title my bestie came up with because I suck at creating titles. The story is told from the point of view of Rose's diary—inspired by The Princess Diaries series—as she navigates her depression diagnosis. At the same time, T'Challa does whatever he can to help her, sometimes overzealously.

Writing this story helped me get through this process. Rose was a vehicle for me to express what I was going through, like navigating the new world of depression while trying and failing to maintain normalcy. The need to be taken care of while knowing that it's no one's job to take care of you. T'Challa represented that unwavering support system I craved.

The day I went to Emergency Psych was almost ten years ago, yet I still remember it and everything that led up to that moment. I still remember the tiny bathroom I cried in, the grip socks, the cold chicken Alfredo, the ladies who I hope are in a better place, and the words of the Asian woman, whose name I never learned. That one day changed my entire life.

Living with depression isn't always easy, but it's something I've learned to work with as long as I stay aware of my moods and take my medication. There are external factors I can't control, like racism, misogyny, misogynoir, fatphobia, and capitalism, but I'm learning how not to let those things get me down. Writing and other hobbies keep me joyful and allow me to cope with these things.

The only thing I still question is whether my grandmother would be proud of me. I want to think that she would.