Cindy advised me to unpack my things and stay in my room until they could find a male nurse to perform my strip search. She mentioned that my roommate would be back from the afternoon "fresh-air" break momentarily. I glanced over the opposite side of the room to see a neatly made bed topped by a couple of magazines and a half-read book. Popular Science, National Geographic, and Of Mice and Men were the exact titles, as I recall. From this selection of periodicals and classical literature, I could tell right away that I would get along just fine with my roommate. I thought about Lenny, a character in Of Mice and Men whose only dream was to have a farm with lots of rabbits. So simple a dream, but Lenny held on to his hope for better days, a concept that I constantly struggled with.
Sitting on the end of my bed, looking out the window, the reality of this experience began to settle into my thoughts. I missed my wife terribly, and I would have to wait the long hours of each day before I could see her during the nightly visiting hour. It seemed such a tragedy that in order to be treated for my disorder, I would have to sever all ties of support from my wife, family, and friends. Heart filled with despair and the dreaded anxiety of a waxing depression, I lay down on my bed and began to cry silently. I told myself that this would pass, and soon I would be hypomanic again.
Ah - hypomania was such a sweet release. Everything in the world seemed to be silly and careless. Words would flow from my mouth in alliterative strings of rhyme and jingle, strangers would become friends, jokes would abound, and laughter would come so easily. It was inevitable that I would feel better, but the looming depression that now encumbered my being persisted, and I was never sure how long it would last or when the switch would flip in my mind. Damn biochemical messengers! Damn serotonin, norepinephrine and goddamn dopamine. This sudden anger and irritability at the unseen forces at work in my brain was quickly followed by a sudden rush of suicidal ideology.
Cindy had asked me, not 20 minutes earlier: "Are you suicidal?"
With honesty I replied, "Yes."
"Do you have a plan?"
"No, but I'm open to suggestions." Cindy rolled her eyes and scowled at me with a look that showed no pity.
This sudden desire to take my own life wasn't unfamiliar to me. Just last night I had been determined to put an end to all things, but deep down I knew that if this were something I really wanted, I would have been successful. My attempt had been "a cry for help," and help seemed so far from reach at this moment that I made no effort to grasp it. None of this probably makes sense to you, but I can truthfully say that it made even less sense to me. I had everything that anyone could want, a great job, a wonderful wife, a nice apartment with a pool and hot tub. My thoughts were racing with darkness and I even thought of how I could drown myself in the pool. Here, in Community North Unit 3 I had absolutely no resources to use for my demented purpose. In a psychiatric ward, every precaution is taken to prevent suicide attempts.
I crawled out of bed and went into the bathroom in the hall. I sat on the toilet, elbows on knees and stared blankly at the hospital issue tile floor. I stood up momentarily and examined the coat rack on the back of the door that was placed slightly higher than my head. Grasping the hook, I pulled down and was surprised to discover that the hook was hinged in a way that would prevent anyone from attempting to hang themselves. At this moment the bathroom door swung open abruptly and smacked me square in the melon. Abe stood in the doorway.
