The ER nurse was kind, but it quickly became clear I had lost my freedom. My clothes were taken away, and I was issued an ill-fitting hospital gown, which slowed my every move. My valuables were put in a large envelope and sealed. I signed that the contents were mine. A security guard was then posted outside my room to ensure I remained safe and didn’t get away. The first guard they posted was older, and I joked to myself that I could have probably outrun him even though I was hobbled by the hospital gown. But when his shift was over, he was replaced by a decidedly more athletic guard. An Adonis. I was trapped.
The worst part of the ER was the wait. By triage standards, mental health is a low priority. I didn’t realize it at the time, but crises are often delayed outside in the waiting room. The Form 1 from my family doctor was actually a fast pass to get through the first triage nurse. It got me a tiny room and an egg salad sandwich. I later learned in group therapy that if you just show up on your own and express how you feel unsafe, they can often be dismissive and condescending. I have also heard gender makes a difference. The fact that more women attempt suicide and more men complete suicide leads to biased assessments. One therapy group recommended that while we were thinking clearly, we should write a letter to the ER triage nurse explaining how you got to a point where you needed medical attention. You were supposed to present it on your arrival. Some people thought it was a helpful exercise. I didn’t.
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