The therapists spoke to my parents while I sat in the waiting area. Intake. Tugging at my new “count while you pee” bracelet, I felt anguished. The entire place seemed sterile, save for some funky colored chairs. The place kept its security on the low, you know, to make it less prison-like. A milieu therapist approached me.

“Let’s make your meal plan for tomorrow!” She said, cheerily.

“Yeah… okay… sure.”

Honestly? I could’ve given her more enthusiasm. I mean, she seemed nice, but there’s something decidedly… soul crushing about being checked into a mental hospital at four A.M. I was not thriving and she knew that.

The food choices were good. The food itself? Not so good. I still maxed out the amount of food I could get, though. I mean, a man’s gotta eat. After saying bye to my parents, she sent me to sleep in my equally sterile room (which also had a funky chair).

“But, what if I need to pee?” I said pointing to the locked bathroom

“You can go now, just count out loud while you are in the restroom”

“Why should I count?”

“Because of your bracelet. That bracelet on your wrist means you’re still on suicide precaut-“

“Shh. You don’t need to be so loud about it. Not everyone needs to know about that. Good thing I don’t need to pee, though.”

I laid in the (disagreeably dank) bed. The room was really cold. There was a camera in the north-east corner of the room. The paper sheets were as close as I could get to comfort. As I turned to my side, I covered my face with the sheets to get some warmth. At least sleep was a ubiquitously good experience.

…

“(Over intercom) PLEASE MOVE YOUR SHEETS! WE NEED TO SEE YOUR FACE AT ALL TIMES.”

"Okay," I muttered. I turned over again and laid on my back. How did I get here?

I mean my mental health was never a priority, we knew that. However, I had no idea when I had become so… weak? Suddenly, my mental health had become the only thing that mattered as the dead week of my junior year almost became my DEAD week.

I skimmed through my life during the past few months. My social life was less than ideal. My eating was more than ideal. My grades? Well, you have my transcript.

Through all of this, I felt… numb? No, I knew how I was feeling. I felt the warning signs.

I thought that being stoic was a testament to my strength. Boy, had I been wrong. My strength had actually lied in my ability to ask for help when needed. Hiding my feelings landed me in a deep depression and asking for help would have avoided it.

I turned over to my side, this time being careful to not cover my face. I felt a breakthrough. In that moment of late night (early morning) introspection, despite everything, I knew I'd be alright.