God’s Time >>> My Time
“Do you believe in Heaven?” I cried to the paramedic as he strapped me into whatever the seat is called in the back of an ambulance, the one on wheels and with multiple seatbelts.
“Me? Yeah, I do.”
“THEN WHY THE HELL DO YOU STAY HERE?”
“Why do I stay here? It’s not my time. It’s God’s time.”
Fuck that, I thought. Fuck that.
I cried in between the sobs that were shaking my body, “Do you believe people who kill themselves go to Heaven?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he responded flatly.
I covered my face with my hands and began crying more violently, if that was possible.
“You’re mad at me! I violated your boundaries and you’re mad at me!”
“I’m not mad.”
He stood up and walked towards the front of the ambulance. I unbuckled one of my seatbelts, wondering what the purpose of them was if I could so easily unbuckle them. And I wondered if I could jump out of the door in front of me? Was it unlocked? It’s not worth the risk of it being locked, I decided. If it’s locked, and they see you trying to jump out, you’ll be committed.
The radio beeped. “Patient presents with a history of bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder. Patient presents with multiple past suicide attempts.”
The radio beeped again.
A different radio beeped. “She definitely overdosed. She says that she did not, but-”
“SHE OVERDOSED?!” I cried with my face in my hands.
“What was that?” The paramedic asked.
“Did the radio say-” I was out of breath, on the verge of hyperventilation. I took a shallow breath. “She overdosed?! That makes me so sad! That’s so sad!”
“I turned it off. Unfortunately there are a lot of overdoses in the city. We’ve already had one tonight.”
“What?! What?! I wish you hadn’t told me that,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “I really really wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“They are okay.”
“Were they trying to kill themselves?” I asked, head back in hands, an endless waterfall pouring from my eyes.
“No, they’re just addicted to heroin.”
“THAT IS STILL SAD!” I said adamantly.
Shortly thereafter we pulled up to the hospital.
“Okay, but can I please walk in?”
“Ma’am, we have to wheel you in. It’s a policy.”
“Okay.” I was still crying, and I couldn’t imagine a world where I would ever be able, where I would ever be strong enough, to stop.
About twelve hours later, I am here, I am safe, I have stopped crying, and, surprise surprise, I am writing this from a Starbucks.
I am going to clock in soon and have a coworker make me a venti med ball. Med balls just hit differently after spending the night at the psych hospital– trust me on that one.
~~~
“Hello, 911, what is your address?”
I blubbered my address incoherently into the phone.
“I’m sorry, I’m going to need you to repeat yourself.”
I took a shaky breath and told the woman my address, this time in a manner that allowed her to make it out.
She repeated it back to me to confirm.
“ACTUALLY I DO NOT KNOW IF THAT IS MY ADDRESS OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME HOW DO I NOT KNOW MY OWN ADDRESS–”
“Ma’am, it’s okay. I forget my phone number, my birthday, my lunchbox–”
I looked up “Home” on Google Maps and told her the correct address. I had actually gotten the numbers wrong.
“Okay, and what is your emergency?”
“I am feeling suicidal.”
I talked to the woman, and she let me know that police and paramedics were on their way to my apartment.
“Can you tell me– Why are you feeling this way?”
“Because I am TOO MUCH for everyone and NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE ME and EVERYONE CUTS ME OUT OF THEIR LIFE and I am horrible and all the things and it JUST HURTS. I got an upsetting message and I WANT JESUS TO HOLD ME RIGHT NOW!”
A pause. “Lauren, are you there? The paramedics are on their way.”
“OKAY BUT PLEASE STAY ON THE PHONE WITH ME CAN YOU PLEASE DO THAT IS THAT POSSIBLE CAN THAT PLEASE BE POSSIBLE–”
“Yes, ma’am, I will.”
And so in between sobs, I told the woman what brought me to rock bottom, I told her about memoirs and historical fiction and what I like to read and write. She told me that she likes to read, too.
She saved my life. I am very confident that if I hadn’t stayed on the phone with her, I would have taken a gulp of water and all my hydroxyzine, which is most definitely a lethal dose. I don’t think that woman will ever know how much she helped me. But I appreciate her, more than I could tell her in that moment. In that moment, all I could muster was a thank you.
~~~
“Okay but my platonic coffee date bought my coffee and I cannot bring myself to throw it away. It’s in my refrigerator. It’s been five days. It’s going to, like, grow something.”
“You need to throw it away.”
“It will make me sad. It’s like that time in second grade when my dad gave me a stick of gum and I chewed it until it lost all its flavor and started gagging.”
“Can you throw it away for me now?” My therapist repeated through the Zoom call.
“No.” I said.
She sighed, and we began to talk about something else, I don’t remember, maybe the fact I spent the night in the hospital. I think that’s it.
~~~
The admitting doctor looked at me, tired eyes and shaggy black hair.
“I do not consent to being admitted. I had a moment. We all have moments. We all slip up.”
“I really think a couple of days here could benefit you,” he repeated for what felt like the millionth time.
“I don’t want to stay.”
“Lauren, you have a history, and that’s okay, it’s okay. But you’ve presented to the hospital with deep cuts on your arms, you have a history of suicide attempts, you have bipolar and borderline. Tonight you got a message from someone that said they didn’t want to be your friend anymore and you had all your pills laid out and you were about to kill yourself. That makes me feel scared; I’m scared,” he said plainly.
“You said you’re scared?” I asked in a calm tone.
“Yeah, I mean, you-”
“YOU’RE SCARED?! YOU’RE SCARED?! HOW THE HELL DO YOU THINK IT MAKES ME FEEL?!”
“Okay, then. We’ll admit you, you can spend some time on the unit, learn how to use your skills in the most efficient, most effective way-”
“I do not consent to being admitted.”
He looked back at me.
I looked back at him.
And we sat there, looking at each other, in silence, until I felt uncomfortable.
“Did you ask me a question? Because you’re sitting there looking at me and I’m sitting here looking at you and it is late and I am confused.”
“Why won’t you come into the hospital?”
“It will make everything worse. You just asked me what my triggers were, and one was my parents. Well, guess what? They will be enraged with me if I come into the hospital. My mother will say I need to move back home, my father will say I need to do a residential program.”
“It doesn’t change my answer or what I’m saying.”
“I’m SORRY!” I cried.
“I’m not mad. I’m not even disappointed. I just want to help you realize that this would be good for you.”
“I’ve been doing so good!”
“Do you think that if you come into the hospital you have not been doing so good?”
I ignored his question. “I have not been to the hospital since January!”
“So? I’ve admitted people who haven’t been to the hospital since ten years ago.”
We sat in silence. I looked at him, he looked at me. I looked away.
“What do you think about what I just said?”
“I think that you are older and smarter and wiser than I am, but I also think you are not in my head or in my shoes-”
“And I’m not saying I am. I think that you are doing phenomenal job, too. You have your safety plan, it sounds like you use it. There are people that come in here again and again, they lose their safety plan, they come back without it, they don’t try to follow it.
When I was in school, I asked to have the directions repeated so many times. But who gives a shit?” He said the last part with a lowered voice, and I could tell that he was playing all of his cards to try to get me to come into the hospital. I wish he would just hold on to them — it made me feel bad that he was investing so much time and energy into a lost cause. “You ask for the directions to be repeated, and you do the assignment, and you get it right. You get it right because you asked for help.”
We sat there, I sat there, and we looked at each other.
“Why are you looking at me?” I asked. “You’re just sitting there looking at me.”
“Do you need my permission to talk?”
“YES! Yes, because I don’t want to violate your boundaries and I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
He sighed. I sighed.
“You can talk now, if you want,” He said.
“I do not consent to being hospitalized, and nothing you say will change my mind.”
“Okay,” he said, standing and opening the door.
“I’m sorry.” I repeated resignedly, a tsunami of guilt crashing over my soul.
“I’m not mad.” He said calmly, and he closed the door.
~~~
~~~
I got discharged this morning, because I have a safety plan and what I really needed was to stay the night in a safe place. I got that, and the next morning, this is a God thing, I had already had a therapy session scheduled. So I went.
I’m at work, because I am a badass like that. My eyes are actually swollen shut from crying and I pity the poor soul who asks me why. Come at me, bro.
I am going to have a coworker make me a venti med ball. They say not to call it that but I just spent the night at Vandy Psych I am going to call it whatever the HELL I WANT. And I’m going to journal and drink my venti med ball and I am going to carry around the rock they gave me at PHP that says “You are inherently worthy of love.” And I am going to work my shift and I am going to be okay.
What I hope to say is this: if Lauren McNeese can make it through Hell, you can make it through Hell, too.
Jesus will hold you, one day. But it’s not our time– it’s God’s time.
