March 22, 2016 - Not an option

March 22, 2016

10 PM

Surrey Memorial Hospital

Emergency Room

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services

It is surreal here. Four security guards and two nurses just went through a door, into a room at the same time. It's an unassuming door, other than its size, at first glance. A sign on the door labels the room Anteroom 6-7. A closer look at the door reveals how unique it truly is. It's solid steel, with no door handle. It's long, thin window with mirrored safety glass shows just how "not normal" this normal door is. It is a prison door, not the ones you see in old movies but, instead, is the ones they use in supermax prisons, in solitary confinement. I have watched many documentaries about modern prisons and know there are only two reasons to have a door like that; to protect the person inside, from others or themselves, or to protect others from the person inside. I'm thinking it's a combination of both in this case.

I have just seen the psychiatrist on call and it did not go well. We talked about how low I have been feeling and how I ended up in this place. We also talked about where I would end up and the options are limited. I could wait for a room upstairs, which may take days or weeks. I could go to a place called CRESST for about two weeks, to give me a chance to sort some things out and start the journey of recovery a second time. He wanted me there but the spot that was open has already been filled.

There are two other options, be released into the general public once again, with no action being taken to ensure my safety. Although I am behind a large, locked door, it seems I am here on a voluntary basis and if I decide I want to leave, all I must do is fill out a couple forms and go. This thought disturbs me greatly. Being able to walk out the door any time I choose and facing things on my own is not something I would have chosen but it is infinitely better than my final option.

While waiting for a room upstairs, I would likely be transferred to Langley Memorial Hospital, the hospital closest to my home. While there, there would be a chance that I would fall under the care of Dr. Kogan, my former psychiatrist. This possibility terrified me, far more than I thought possible. Just the mention of it triggered an all-out panic attack, the likes of which I have not felt in many years. I'd had smaller, milder attacks but this was unexplainable to those that have never felt one personally. The closest I can get is to ask you to think of a scene from a horror movie, where a diminutive female is trapped in a corner by an overwhelming figure standing over her. Begging for her life, she loses all control, no longer to stop from shaking, from raising her voice, from being who she was moments before.

That was me, reduced to the eight year old boy who sat on the floor of the Museum of Anthropology, quivering and so afraid he couldn't explain what was wrong, not understanding what was happening to him.

"I can't go there. I can't do that. Do you see what you've done to me?"

"No, you did this to yourself," replied the psychiatrist.

I can't go to Langley. Ending up on the street is a better option than that but if I go out of here without a place to go, without having gotten some help, I will die; Either by my own hand or by simply not caring anymore. I have to get into CRESST because I simply don't see myself surviving without it.