The Bloody Doors Off

I don’t know how many times I cried the first night at Toronto East General. At the registration desk, conversations with nurses and doctors, my friend Scott. I had moments of lucidity, but they were brief.

Scott told me about a phrase they used to write on a patient’s chart: CTD. It stands for Circling The Drain. That was me that night. I admitted I had a plan. Pills. (I don’t like blood or pain. Plus I’m vain enough not to put my family through the mess of identification.) I’m so fucking thankful that my initial meltdown happened at my psychiatrist’s office. He asked the most important question: did I think I needed to go to hospital? That made for a much better plan than the alternative. Admit I need help, and ask for it.

I cried more that night. When I was walked to the secure ward and deposited in Bay 32. Hearing the nurse say I was being admitted, but I wouldn’t be going upstairs until sometime the next day, when a bed was ready. After Scott left for the night.

When it really hit me just how real this was, and how far I’d fallen. Without an idea of how to get back up again.