Trigger warning: this piece discusses themes of suicide and suicidal ideation.
The strange thing about falling apart is how together you can look. Sometimes, it doesn't even have a look at all.
I was sixteen years old and scared when I was admitted to the psych ward for the first time. I don't remember too much about this time of my life because of how much energy I put into keeping myself alive. I woke up, put on a smile, and went to work. On the outside, I was the responsible one — a safe ‘adult’ working in a school environment. On the inside, I could physically feel my soul shattering.
I can't even remember where I was supposed to be on this day. Yet, whatever my responsibility was, it was way too much for me to handle. I was sitting alone in a room. scrolling through my phone, and it was like everything I was going through hit me at once. It was so hard that I couldn’t even cry. I slipped my phone into my pocket, stood up and walked about ten metres to an office where one of my colleagues – let’s call her Jess – was typing on her computer. The door was ajar, so I gently opened it to make my presence known:
“Hello, you alright?” Jess asked.
“Can I talk to you, please?”
“Yes, just let me finish this email real quick.”
A few seconds of silence and typing later, she looked up at me with those big brown eyes:
“Right… what's up?”
“Can you take me to the hospital, please.”
No question mark, I meant it as a statement, not a question. Take me.
Jess knew my history. She knew about the bad days. She didn’t hesitate — just asked, gently, “Why?” I told her the truth.
“I don’t want someone to come to school tomorrow and find out something's happened to me.”
Saying it out loud made it feel real. Factual. I remember her asking if I felt ‘that bad.’ I nodded, and she took me downstairs to the school nurse, who called mental health services. There was a long wait, they said.
Of course there was.
We only went about five minutes without the phone ringing when Jess decided that was enough.
“Let's go.” She was taking me herself.
Jess grabbed her stuff, and we walked to her car. She started driving, and I started crying, looking out the window to try to hide it. Not that there was any point, surely she could've heard my heart as it cracked and the pieces fell in parallel to my tears. She held my hand the entire drive, only letting go at roundabouts. Even in the middle of my life collapsing, I noticed that.
At the crisis centre, Jess walked up to the receptionist and told them about my state and that she had called ahead. We were told it would still be an hour before they could see me. Jess decided we were going to find a cafe to wait – a change of scenery could be good. We drove for about five minutes and parked outside a cafe. We walked inside, tears still rolling down my face, and she asked me what I wanted to eat. I didn't care. I left it up to her to decide and found a seat outside. I cried the entire time with my head resting on the table, under the weight of my own sorrow. People stared, but I couldn't care less. My pain was so big that embarrassment didn’t stand a chance against it.
Jess tried to talk to me. I answered briefly, but I couldn't say much through my tears. Her phone rang, the mental health team were trying to get as much risk information about me as possible to prepare. They tried to speak to me directly. I vividly remember holding my phone up to my ear and trying to speak, but I physically couldn't, so they spoke to Jess. She asked me the questions, I whispered answers back, and she passed them on. It felt like I wasn’t even present in my own life — just watching it be reported.
Eventually, the service rang Jess back to say they were ready to see me. As we walked back to the car, my legs gave out. I fell to my knees on the pavement, sobbing. I lay there in the middle of it all – the sky, ground, the ache. Held up only by Jess’s hands, who was so desperate to fix me. Like I was a glass shattered on the sidewalk, and she didn't know how to put me together, but couldn’t bear to leave me there — the shell of a human I felt I was.
It was as though she was begging me to spare my own life, to spare her a lifetime of grief.
Back at the crisis centre, we were put in a room. I stayed in Jess’s arms the whole time, crying on her lap. She rubbed my back, kissed my forehead, and held me like I was something worth protecting.
Social workers, psychologists, and a doctor came in and out, questioning me; I barely answered. It wasn’t anything I was unfamiliar with — risk assessments. Safety planning. Until:
“There’s an inpatient bed available. We think you should go.”
I signed some forms. It felt like signing my life away — but not in a death way, in a survival way. And in that moment, living was much scarier than anything else.
I was escorted from the crisis centre into the back seat of a white electric car with two social workers sitting in the front seat. We drove for about 45 minutes in near silence except for the radio. The car stopped at the hospital, I got out, and the social workers led me around to the back of a building and waited for someone on the other side to let us in. I handed over most of the things in my pockets before a nurse led me to my room.
Plain walls, a single bed, a mattress, a locker – and a life to fight for. Everything was sloped, edges curved, corners softened, windows that didn’t open – leaving me to watch everything I was missing out on. My bedroom door had a window so staff could make sure I was safe at all times.
I sat on the edge of my bed for hours, just thinking. Thinking about anything and everything, all at once. Especially that little version of me sitting at the dinner table just trying to finish her plate. I wanted to tell her how valid her emotions are. Whether you're confused at the dinner table, in an office, or on the edge of a hospital bed, help is the strongest thing you can ask for. Ten seconds of courage, real or pretend, is all you need.
A nurse knocked on my door at some point and told me dinner had arrived, but I didn’t feel like eating. I went to bed with an empty stomach and woke up the next morning with what felt like an empty soul. But I was alive. I’m still learning, still healing – but I’m here, and that matters.
Figuring out a starting point when opening up can be the hardest but most crucial part of your healing journey. It's the courage to say, ‘I don’t want to do this alone anymore.’
It’s the moment you stop trying to be Batman.
Finding someone you trust can be difficult. Sometimes it’s as straightforward as a parent or relative, and sometimes it’s someone you least expect. But it can be anyone you’re comfortable with and someone who you know will get you the help you need.
Reach out, speak up! Again and again, until someone hears you. Sometimes all you need to say is, ‘Hey, I’m feeling under the weather… Do you have five minutes to chat?’ Or send a quick text message: ‘Hey, are you free to grab a coffee sometime and catch up?’
If that’s too hard, just start with four words: I need help now.
For me, asking that one line: “Take me to the hospital,” was me telling death — for the first time in a long time — it had to wait.
-Summer R
Voices of Hope wants you to know that you do not have to do this alone. Click here to 'find help' - it's not weak to speak!