THE FIRST TIME I GOT THE DIAGNOSIS by Elizabeth Hipwell

Standing on the platform, waiting for a train, I stand contemplating the edge. Holding onto a pillar with all my might, white knuckling it until the train pulls up. My heart is racing as I step on and slip my hand into a strap. At the counseling center I meet with a psychiatrist for the first time. My diagnosis is major depression. My prescription is for Lexapro, Trazodone, and Lorazepam. In the two weeks that follow my depression get worse, my anxiety is off the charts, and all I think about is dying; I decide it would be safer to only take buses. My roommate/ex-lover who thinks all I have to do is change my mind and then all will be cured, calls 911 one night. I had drunk a bottle of wine and then slit my wrist. She tells me to go downstairs and wait for the ambulance and cops, as I stand there holding a rag to my wrist. A short time later I am sitting in the ambulance, and a policeman comes in. He says, “Why would you do this. Your room mate says that you just got your MFA two months ago. What have you got to be upset about? I’m stunned. I am caught between crying and shame. At the hospital I am put in an ER room specifically designed for psyche patients; the bare minimum. Blank walls and no equipment. Just a thin sheet for cover in a freezing room in August. One of the many people who come into the room says, “We have to hold you here until we can find you a bed.” Four hours later I am on another ambulance en route to the state hospital for the uninsured and poor. I am there all day in a holding hour wearing paper pants and top and flip flops; sans any undergarments. The only time I leave is when I am doing intake with psychologists, social workers and psychiatrists. “Have you ever committed a crime?” “I don’t know. Am I going to be charged for trying to kill myself?” “Do you hear voices?” “No.” “Do you want to hurt yourself or others?” “Just myself; I am only a danger to myself.” “Car, apple, pen. Remember these words and I will ask you to repeat them back to me in five minutes.” ‘Car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen…’ I repeat to myself as a sort of mantra. I’m so scared of getting it wrong. “Who’s the President of the United States?” ‘…apple, pen.’ “George Bush.” “Including him, who are the last five presidents going from present to past?” ‘Car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen…’ “George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George Bush Senior, Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter.” “Count backwards in increments of 3 from 100.” ‘…pen, car, apple…’ “100, 97, 94, 91,” ‘…apple, pen, car, apple,’ “88, 85, 82, 70, 76, 73, 70, 67…” Good. Okay. Now, what are those three words? ‘Car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen…’ “Uh, car, apple, pen?” “Yes.” And on it goes. The social worker listens as I tell her about my manipulative, verbally abusive, drug dealing, and ex-lover/roommate. Said person shows up with a friend. One, I feel highly anxious cuz I know she is going to be judgmental and cruel. Two, I am feeling intense shame and embarrassment because she brought someone with her. “Everyone is gonna know!’ We all sit in a dingy visiting area furnished way back in the 70’s. My kind roomie says, “Elizabeth, stop crying. You have nuthin to cry about. You are just trying to manipulate me.” I roll my eyes. ‘Look who’s talking,” I think. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me." You weren’t really trying to kill yourself. If you had really meant it you would have been successful.” “You cannot come back to the apartment. I am putting all your belongings into storage. You should be thanking me for my generosity. I am going out of my way here. The next time you see me I will be accepting my Academy Award or Tony.” My eyes roll again. “Stop rolling your eyes at me!” They leave soon after. That’s the last time I saw her; one of many friends I lost after I was diagnosed.