Just My Luck

Worst. Summer. Ever.

Content Warning: Suicidal Ideation. Eating Disorder. Emotional Abuse.

The mental hospital. The psych ward.

My summer began with a trip out of state, and continued with a grippy sock vacation.

Though I didn't feel like I needed or deserved to be in there, I lied just enough to earn a room for a week. Mom sobbed in the lobby, grieving for her poor daughter. She seemed more upset than I was. It wasn't her life that ended that day.

Before leaving, Mom ripped the necklace from my neck and fought me for the polaroid. She insisted that I wouldn't be allowed to take it in with me. Thankfully, the security guard stepped in and informed her that I could take it. Victory.

The nurses stripped me down and searched me, documenting any and all scars or bruises. I had none. Then they left a male nurse in charge of sorting through my suitcase, which was full of swimsuits and dirty underwear from my trip.

My stay was less than pleasant. The hospital was kept entirely too cold (60°) for the clothes that I had packed, and my parents took their sweet time (days) to bring me suitable pants. Another girl snuck into my room to give me a small pair of leggings she had.

We were forced to wake up at six for our first group therapy session, and forced to bed at about ten. The bathrooms had no doors, so naturally my digestive tract ceased function to avoid embarrassment. I didn't really eat though. During my stay, I was too depressed and shocked to think about feeding myself.

My polaroid stayed in my pocket no matter what, and laid beside me on my pillow at night. They provided journals for us to draw and write our feelings, which I used to write letters to Spencer. Being able to keep him up to date on what I was going through felt most important. Every detail was important to me and I felt would be important to him as well.

The nurses remarked that I wouldn't stay long, maybe a few days, because I seemed to be doing fine. Aside from the one family therapy session that involved every single adult scolding me, including the group therapist, and telling me I was a disobedient child, I was fine.

My dad picked me up nine days later because Mom was on vacation.

When he brought me home, I wanted some alone time. Some space. The whole world felt different and new and strange, like I'd been snatched from my dimension and dumped in someone else's.

I was also hoping I could run to my friend's and deliver my notebook before my dad caught me.

So I ran out of the house, with my dad shouting behind me and threatening to call the police on me. I only made it one street over before I collapsed between some houses and bawled my eyes out. Only when the world stopped spinning around me did I get up and keep walking away.

By some God given miracle, I approached a boy with dark hair sitting on the street corner. Any other day, I would've kept walking. I hated strangers. Though, through blurry eyes, he felt familiar. But there was no way it could be Spencer, as he didn't live in the same neighborhood as me and Bryce was out of state.

Somehow, it actually was Spencer.

He leapt from the concrete and crushed me in his arms. I cried harder, and louder, repeating his name like a prayer. I had to be dreaming. He began to cry as well.

When we calmed down, we sat on the sidewalk and caught up. It had only been a week since we lost contact, but it felt like a lifetime. He saw the hospital bracelet still on my wrist, and ripped it off in anger. How they treated me was unjust. Seeing the bracelet made me remember the backpack on my back, and what was inside.