Escape, Interrupted: Part I
The cuts were starting to get infected. I’d wrapped them in makeshift gauze, but it wouldn’t hold for long. It was too warm for long sleeves, and I was running out of ways to hide.
I sat next to my mom on the couch and realized I hadn’t properly covered up.
She looked at me. Really looked.
“What happened?”
I didn’t answer.
“Alexa, what happened?”
“I fell off my bike.” Blatant lie.
She squinted. “Did you really fall? That doesn’t look like a fall.”
Eventually, I cracked.
“Remember when I was sharpening knives the other day?”
She nodded. Thanked me for telling the truth. Then got up, grabbed the house phone, and walked into the garage. She forgot to close the main door, so I could hear her through the screen, talking to my dad about what to do with me. They always had their private conversations in the garage.
I gave up listening. Went to my room and started blasting Journey’s Greatest Hits.
30 minutes later, she stood in my doorway.
“You need help. You need to go somewhere that can help you. Normally this place is full, but someone just left. There’s a bed open.”
A wave of anxiety hit. “Where am I going?”
She exhaled. “Your dad and I can’t keep you safe. We don’t have the tools.”
I started to panic. “Why are you sending me away?”
She just kept saying it.
You need to get better.
You need to go.
You don’t have a choice.
She handed me a printed list:
What You Can Bring
T-shirts (no slogans)
Pajamas, sweatpants (no drawstrings)
Slip-on shoes
One book
Photos (no glass)
Travel-sized toiletries
Skincare (dispensed by staff)
Medications (dispensed by staff)
What You Cannot Bring
Underwire bras
Makeup
Phones, headphones, laptops
Snacks
Jewelry (unless religious and approved)
Pencils or pens
Nail files, razors, scissors
I argued. I begged.
“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you sending me away?”
Two hours later, we were in the car on the way to Forest View Hospital.
You check in like it’s any other doctor’s appointment.
The intake coordinator led my parents and me to a small back room. She asked me question after question. Then kept going. Variations of the same ones I’d answer over and over to multiple staff members for the next twelve days:
Are you having thoughts of hurting yourself?
Yes.
Have you attempted to hurt yourself?
Yes. Three days ago.
Have you made a plan?
Several.
Do you feel hopeless, angry, or numb?
Every single day.
Do you know why you're here?
Yeah. I want to die.
I was dissociating, but I still couldn’t wait for my parents to leave. I was terrified, ashamed, and it felt like they were abandoning me here. Thanks for the lift.
She took my bag and sorted through it, pulling out anything that wasn’t allowed. Since my cuts were visible, I had to wear long sleeves at all times. That meant wearing the one sweatshirt I brought. Every day.
“Okay,” she said gently. “Ready to head down?”
I nodded, and we started our descent into the labyrinth.
She talked as we walked. Rules. Schedules. Where to sit. When meds were dispensed. I didn’t hear a word. My body was walking, but my brain was scanning; every window, hallway, exit, and corner. Looking back, I think I was trying to memorize the layout. I needed to know how hard it would be to escape.
A staff member buzzed us in. The doors opened. Then sealed behind me with a metallic thud, like a vault locking shut. That sound stayed lodged in my chest for days.
She turned to me. “Inpatient adolescents aren’t allowed past these doors without a staff member.”
Cool. Locked in.
From above, the adolescent wing looked like an L. One side held the boys’ rooms—four rooms, eight beds. Same on the other side for the girls. At the center was everything else: the nurses’ station, group therapy, individual therapy offices, the rec room. All of it lit by the harshest fluorescent lighting I’ve ever seen.
We reached my room. Last door on the right.
She gestured for me to sit on the bed and gave me a kind look. “You’ve got forty-five minutes until dinner. Take some time to unpack and get settled. If you need anything, head to the nurses’ station.”
She turned toward the door just as someone else stepped in.
“Oh—Alexa, this is your roommate. Claire. She’ll help you get oriented.”
“Hi Alexa, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Hey Claire. You too.”
Okay. Great. She looks normal. The irony.
“Do you have any questions?” she asked. “I’ve been here five days, so I’m used to the routine now.”
“Yeah. Is the schedule the same every day?”
“Yes, but different days of the week have their own version. So like, all Sundays are the same. If that makes sense.”
“Got it. How do you sleep in here?”
“Eh. Fine. Not great at first. They do checks a few times a night. But you get used to it.”
A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Claire, you’ve got therapy in Room A.”
She glanced back at me. “We’ll talk more later,” shutting the door behind her.
It was very Girl, Interrupted coded.
The rooms resembled a budget hotel.
Clean. Two twin beds. Two nightstands. Two dressers. Two desks. Two chairs. The furniture looked like a college dorm in desperate need of an update.
The hooks on the wall would fall if anything too heavy was hung. The bathroom mirror was a warped, funhouse-style sheet—not glass. The sink and shower had buttons instead of handles.
No one could break anything.
Nothing you could use to cut yourself.
Nothing you could tie around your neck.
Nothing you could hang from.
I walked to the window and stared out at the grounds, trying to grasp how much my life had changed in three hours.
