Hey all - I've been debating doing this, but I decided I wanted to publicly post the first chapter of the book I'm currently working, "White Lines".  If anyone has any feedback I'm all ears!

Chapter 1 - The Morning After

It was a hot, sunny day in August just a few weeks after my 20th birthday when I woke up strapped to a hospital bed.  I tried to open my eyes but my mascara and liquid eyeliner had caked onto my face and sealed my left eye shut.  I frantically looked around the room with my open eye but the lights were so bright and I immediately felt my hangover kick in, so I couldn’t make out where I was.  Was I that drunk last night?  I attempted to wipe the makeup off my face, but when I tried to lift my arm I was shocked to discover that both of my arms were tied down.  WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!  My eyes opened so fast (both of them this time) that I felt like I was going to pass out from the pain of several eyelashes ripping out.  With no memory of how or why I ended up tied to this bed I attempted to free my arms with as much force as I could muster.  As I thrashed around the strange bed a man I had never seen before ran over to my side.  

“Be careful,” he said, “please try not to move so much, you’ll rip your stitches.”  

“Stitches?” I asked, “Why do I have stitches? Where am I?”  

“You’re in the hospital.  You cut your wrist last night and we’re keeping you here until the crisis team can evaluate you.  My name is Paul, I’m a nurse here.”

Crisis team?  Male nurse?  What was he talking about?  I stopped moving and examined Paul, “Could you please untie me at least?”  

Paul gave me a sideways glance and didn’t move.  I guess Paul and I had some unresolved trust issues.  

“I’m not going to hit you in the face or anything.”  

Paul nodded and untied the straps around my wrist holding me to the hospital bed.  He was husky and dark skinned, but his voice had a soothing tone that made me feel slightly more at ease.  At least as at ease as anyone who wakes up strapped to a hospital bed can feel.  

“Why did you tie me down?”  I asked as he freed my right arm.

“You were very combative when we tried to stitch your wrist.  We were afraid you would injure yourself again.  You’re very lucky your mother found you,” he took a deep breath, “you could have died.”

I felt like someone punched me in the stomach.  Died?  Died from what?  That’s when I noticed the bandage around my left wrist.  I tried to take a peek under the bandage but he grabbed my hand, “Don’t, Sarah.  You had some pretty deep cuts so it’s best to leave them alone as they heal.”  

“How did I cut myself?”  

He looked at me with a puzzled stare, “You...you don’t remember?” he stammered.  

“No.” I said as if he had asked a stupid question.  

“What do you remember, Sarah?”  

I thought for a while but the hangover and confusion was making my mind fuzzy.  I remembered that my boyfriend Sam and I went out last night.  We went to some stupid concert he begged me to go to and we drank way too much.  That I was certain of.  I remembered getting to the show and not being able to stand.  I remembered throwing up on the floor near the bar and Sam being mad as per usual.  We were staying at my parents house so we went home.  There was a fight and then...nothing.  

“I don’t remember anything,” I told Paul.

The crisis team i.e., two social workers, walked into the room with my parents.  I was taken back since my parents are divorced and it’s rare to see them together.  My mother ran to me and kissed my forehead about fifty times while my dad slowly walked over to me and grabbed my hand.  

“It’s going to be ok,” my mom said holding back tears, “you’re going to be ok.”  This had exceeded weird now.  

“What is going on?” I demanded.  

My dad looked at the floor, then looked at me, and then back at floor which usually means he’s going to tell me something bad.  “You had an...accident last night.  These nice ladies are going to talk to you about it now.”  

My mom brushed my hair with her hand the way you pet a dog that’s scared of the vet as the social workers walked closer to me.  “Hello Sarah.  My name is Ruth and this is Mary.  We’re here to talk to you about what happened last night.  Do you remember what you did?”  

I shook my head.  They told me that my mom heard my boyfriend and I screaming at each other, the door slam, and then me screaming.  She couldn’t really make out what I was screaming about but she distinctly heard me say “I can’t do this anymore.” She got up and ran into the kitchen to find me slicing my left wrist repeatedly with a butcher’s knife.  She tackled me to knock the knife out of my hand and wrapped a dish towel around my wrist.  She yelled to my step-father to call 911 and an ambulance came to scoop me up and deliver me to the hospital where I would be placed on suicide watch and evaluated.

Mary asked if I remembered what my boyfriend and I were fighting about.  I couldn’t get any words out, I just sat and tried to comprehend what I had just heard.  I didn’t want to believe that I had done this to myself, but it had to be true.  Why would my parents make something like that up?  Plus my left wrist was throbbing with pain so that was a pretty good indicator.  What were we fighting about?  I must have zoned out processing all this because my mom nudged me with her shoulder.  

“I really can’t remember,” I said examining the bandage on my wrist.  

Mary nodded and told me they were going to ask me a few questions.  “Now is a good time to tell the truth,” Ruth said sternly.  

They asked me about my alcohol use, my number of sexual partners, the drugs I take, all really uncomfortable things to talk about with your parents staring at you.  I tried to hold back tears as I attempted to answer their questions and explain that I had not tried to kill myself and I was in no way, shape, or form suicidal.  Apparently I did not convince them.  Mary and Ruth took my parents out of the room and after about ten minutes or so they came back in to tell me that, “it would be in the best interest of you and your family for you to be treated at an inpatient mental health facility.”  

The words went through me look a sub-zero breeze or a shot of jagermeister.  A mental hospital?  I have to go to a looney bin???  

“Is that really necessary?” I asked looking directly at my parents.  

They both nodded and my dad said, “We think this was your subconscious acting out and that you need professional help.  We have agreed to bring you to Safe Haven for a 90-day stay.  This will be good for you, sweetie.  You have issues that we don’t think you’re dealing with in a healthy way.  We don’t want to send you back to school after an incident like this.  Please understand that this is what’s best for you.”  

What...the...FUCK?!  My dad is not a ‘feeling guys’, who told him to say that?  

“I’m not going back to school?!” I bellowed.  “This is bullshit!  I’m not some depressed crazy person.  You can’t send me to a looney bin!”  

“Enough, Sarah,” my mom said sternly, “we are your parents and we are worried about you.  You will be placed on medical leave from college for the semester.  If things get better you can go back in the spring.”  

I was furious.  I felt completely out of control of my own life.  How is this even legal?  I’m over 18!  I’m an ADULT! Apparently when you ‘allegedly try to kill yourself’, you are not an adult.

“Mom this is ridiculous!  Can’t I just go see a therapist again?  I’ll take meds or whatever, just please don’t make me do-”

“YOU TRIED TO KILL YOURSELF!” my mother screamed with tears streaming down her face.  I had never seen my mom cry before.  I looked at my dad and he also had tears in his eyes.  The look of fear and sadness on their faces cut through me.

I took a deep breath and said, “Ok.  I’ll go.”

My mom left to go get some of my clothes so we could go straight to Safe Haven.  They were clearly not fucking around.  When my mom came back we signed a bunch of papers and walked out to the car.  The three of us got in my dad’s car and drove for what seemed like an eternity.  I closed my eyes and the previous night started to come back to me in pieces.

We went to a concert.  Sam had gotten tickets to the Rolling Rocks in the city.  I remember tequila shots.  Lots and lots of tequila shots.  Bad music.  Vomit.  More bad music.  Then we were in a cab.  We were staying at my parents house that night.  We took a cab and then...then what?  We got to the house, I laid in my bed, and then….ah yes.  Then he shook me awake.  

“Sarah, wake up.”  I opened one eye and then the other.  He shook me again until I sat up and asked what was wrong.  

“What’s wrong???” his voice was stern, like an angry father, “what’s wrong is that you’ve been cheating on me. You fucking slut.” He had my diary open on his lap.  Fuuuuuccckkkkk.

“What are you talking abo-?”  

He cut me off before I could say finish my sentence, “Don’t even try to lie to me Sarah.  I’m not proud of this, but I read it in your diary.” That was obvious since it was in his goddamn lap but I played dumb.

“You read my diary?  Why would you do that?” I thought I could get him to calm down but he wasn’t listening to me.  

“I can’t believe you.  Now I have to be worried about my health since you fucked half the guys in Bushwick.”  

Well that was uncalled for.  He stormed out of my bedroom and made his way toward the front door of my parents house.  I followed after him pleading not to go but there was no stopping him.  He looked at me one last time, shook his head, and slammed the door behind him.  Then I lost it.  Something in me snapped and I couldn’t take the thought of being alive anymore.  Another failed relationship.  Another disappointment.  Another person hurt by my selfishness.  I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the knife…

Oh my god.  Did I really try to kill myself?  Because of him???  No that can’t be right.  I didn’t even really love him.  Damnit why was I so drunk?  I wish I could remember what I was thinking.  I just remember a feeling; it felt like a black hole in my chest that would swallow me unless I did something.  Die or disappear I guess.  Maybe my failed relationship was the last failure I could tolerate.  Maybe I’m not doing as well as I thought I was...maybe I do need to be in a mental hospital.  

As I came to this realization we approached the entrance to Safe Haven.  We drove down the dirt road where I expected to see gates and fences with barbed wire, but was pleasantly surprised to see trees and grass.  I had almost forgotten what nature looked like after living in the city for so many years.  It looked calm and peaceful, two things I had not felt ever since I moved to the cement prison that is the ‘Big City’.  It felt like hours since we passed the sign for Safe Haven but eventually the dirt road came to an end in front of a small house-like building.  I had expected a big concrete structure with barred windows and armed guards, not Little House on the Prairie.  In front of the doors stood two people; a doctor-looking older man and a young woman wearing scrubs with a sweater draped over her shoulders.  Yup...still a hospital.  The doctor smiled at me as my parents and I climbed out of the car.

“Hello Sarah, welcome to Safe Haven.”  I tried to force a smile but my face probably looked more like I had bad gas.  “We’re going to take good care of you here, Sarah.  Please come with me and we’ll get you all set up.”  We walked into the building and I was taken back by how a place that looked so homey could feel so uncomfortable.  

“The other patients are at dinner, but they should be back shortly,” the nurse assured me.  Super.  I have trouble talking to sane strangers let alone crazy ones who I have to live amongst.  

As the doctor talked to my parents I noticed a board on one of the walls.  The board was divided into two sections, each made up of a list of names.  “What are the names for?” I asked, interrupting the doctor mid-sentence, something about phone policies.  

“Those are the names of all the patients currently staying at Safe Haven,” he answered without seeming bothered.  

“Why are they in two groups?”  The doctor walked over to the board and pointed to the left column.

“We split patients up into groups for group therapy.  All other activities you will do together.  Group A is patients who have dual diagnosis, in other words they have both mental and alcohol or drug issues.  Group B is patients who have mental issues but no drug or alcohol issues.  You will be in Group A.”  

“Group A?  Why would I be in Group A?  I’m not an alcoholic and I don’t do drugs.”  Lies. The doctor lifted a file (evidently mine) from the desk he was standing next to.

“Well Sarah, your BAC was 0.24 when you were brought to the hospital last night.  Your former therapist and psychiatrist also mentioned that you rely on alcohol to get through your problems and you exhibit an unhealthy relationship with alcohol.”  They called those people?!  I hadn’t been to my therapist or psychiatrist since I started college.  I looked at my parents but my father looked away like he couldn’t hear the doctor while my mother looked at me with that ‘concerned mother’ look moms are so good at giving.  I didn’t even know what to say.  My instinct was to deny those accusations and state, for the record, that while I did drink often I was in college and it was totally normal for people my age to have high BACs on Saturday nights.  But I didn’t.  I didn’t say anything of the sort.

“So does that mean the people I’ll be in therapy with have done real drugs?  Like heroin and shit?”  I asked, afraid of the answer.  The doctor sighed.  

“Yes Sarah, many of the patients are drug addicts who have experimented with or are dependent on drugs such as heroin.”  Damn.  I’ve never met a heroin addict before.  All of the sudden I felt my heart start to race.  Uh oh.  Everytime my heart starts to race the thoughts start to pour in, which is exactly what they did.  You’re in the same place as heroin addicts, you must really be screwed up.  You’re never going to get out of here once they figure out how crazy you really are.  My breathing started to get erratic and sweat was starting to form on my forehead.  I tried to breathe and calm myself down but there was no use.  This was all too much.  Oh no...panic attack.  

“I don’t want to be here!”  I yelled as I made a run for the door.  I pushed the door handle and to my shock and horror it didn’t open.  Instead, a blaring siren howled as several nurses came out of different rooms looking for which door had triggered the alarm.  I turned around to find five nurses, the doctor, and my parents staring at me.  

“The doors are locked,” the doctor shouted over the noise, “trying to open them will trigger the alarm.”  I sank to the floor, pulled my knees up to my chest, buried my face into my knees and covered my ears.  I don’t do well with loud, unexpected noises.  Go figure that I live in a city.  

“Make it stop!” I screamed, tears now flowing down my face.  The doctor ran into one of the rooms and the noise stopped just as he reappeared.  He bent down beside me.

“The doors are locked, Sarah.  If you need to go outside you can ask one of the nurses to take you.  If you try to open a door, any door that leads outside, the alarm will sound.”  My mom seemed concerned about the fact that I had no escape from the building.  

“What if there is an emergency?” she inquired, “what if she needs to get outside if there’s a fire or something?”  The doctor stood up and walked over to my parents.

“The doors will open if the handle is held down for ten seconds.”  I made a mental note of this - hold down ten seconds for freedom.  “However,” he said turning to me, “if there is no emergency and you are somehow able to get out of the building, it won’t be our faculty that will chase after you.  The state police patrol the roads around the premises and have been instructed to arrest you on site were you to escape.  I would not recommend trying your luck.”

After what seemed like hours of the doctor telling my parents about the program (I guess he was telling me too but I wasn’t listening), it was time for them to violate me i.e., do a full body scan and go through my bag.  A nurse who looked about my age led me over to one of the nurse’s stations.  I bet she has her shit together.  She had long, shiny blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail that swished back and forth as we walked towards what would be another opportunity for me to feel uncomfortable and humiliated.  It looked like the room doctors give people bad news in; there were no pictures on the wall and it smelled like hand sanitizer and sadness.  

“Ok Sarah,” she said like she had already done this sort of thing ten times today, “I’m going to do a full body scan on you so I need you to take of your shirt and pants.  You can keep your bra and underwear on if that makes you feel more comfortable.”  I stared at her for a few seconds before letting out a deep sigh and muttering “fine” before undressing.  As I started to take my pants off I couldn’t help but feel violated.  I knew this nurse was not doing this for her own sick perversion and was probably just as unhappy to be doing this as I was, but I couldn’t help but feel objectified.  I pulled my pants down to my knees and felt wetness on my skin; tears were now flowing uncontrollably from my eyes.  The nurse jumped up and put her hand on my shoulder, “Sarah, what’s wrong? Are you ok?”  I felt scared and angry and couldn’t hold it in.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!”  My outburst caught both of us off guard.  “I’m sorry,” I said looking at the floor as I pulled up my pants, “I just...I just feel really uncomfortable and I don’t really know why.”  I looked at the nurse and she smiled.

“It’s ok Sarah.  I can’t imagine how hard this whole thing is for you and I’m sure stripping in front of a stranger certainly doesn’t help.  The reason we do this is to note any marks you have on your body so we can make sure you’re not harming yourself while you’re here.  I already know about your wrist, but I need to know if there are any other cuts, bruises, or burns.”  

“Burns?”  

“Some people burn themselves instead of cutting to get the same release.  We had a patient who put cigarettes out on his knuckles when he got upset.”  Jesus Christ.  

“Can I just show you mine instead?  I promise not to hide anything.”  The nurse nodded.  I pulled down my pants, this time without losing my shit, and pointed to a long white scar on my thigh and several smaller scars on the inside of my thighs.  “Do I have to tell you why I did these?”  

“You don’t have to tell me, but you can talk about it in your therapy sessions if you’d like.  Many of our patients have used self-harm as a way to cope with their situations.”  Their ‘situations’?  That seemed insensitive.  Being stuck on line at Starbucks the first day of fall is a situation.  This is a nightmare.  I pulled my pants back on and pointed to a scar on my forearm.

“That’s the last one.”  

“Thank you, Sarah,” the nurse said with a smile, “I’m going to take you back to your parents now and we’ll go through your bag.”  

“For what?”  

“We just need to make sure everything you brought is safe.”

We walked back to the area with the two boards where my parents were still talking with the doctor.  The nurse from earlier brought me back to her station where she had my bag open on her desk.  “I’m just going to take out each item you have and give back anything you can’t have here to your parents, ok?”  

“Ok.”  

As she pulled out each piece of clothing it seemed like my mom had purposefully pulled out every piece of clothing I don't’ wear.  I didn’t even realize I still had my ombre flared jeans.  The nurse took out my old cheerleading hoodie and pulled out the drawstring.

“You can’t have anything with drawstrings here.  And no belts.”  Just as I was about to ask why it occurred to me that it would be a stupid question to ask why you can’t have a belt in a mental hospital.  

“Guess that means no razor blades either!”  She either didn’t hear me or didn’t find my comment amusing because she continued digging through my bag.  Everything I had was deemed ‘appropriate’, minus the strappy tank top my mom packed.  Really mom...why would I need that here?  I shoved my stuff back in my bag and walked over to the doctor and my parents.  

“Ok Sarah,” the doctor said matter of factly, “It’s time for your parents to go home.  I’m sure you’re very tired so just this once we’ll let you eat your dinner in the lounge.  I’ll have one of the nurses bring you a sandwich.  We’ll show you to your room later.  Say goodbye to your parents.”  He stepped back to give us some privacy and my parents simultaneously wrapped themselves around me.  What an awkward moment to bring us together for our first group hug in 15 years.  My dad kissed my forehead and wiped a tear away from his eye.  

“Dad, please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.  This building is dusty.  Damn pollen trees everywhere,” he said looking at his shoes.  My mom gave me a big hug and looked me straight in the eye.

“You are so brave.  You’re going to be ok here.  It’s only 90 days and we get to come visit you in a few weeks.  Try to make the most of your time here.”  I held back my comments that this was a waste of time and gave her another hug.

“I love you guys.”  My mom blew me a kiss and she and my dad were let out of the building by a nurse. I walked into the lounge and sat on one of the couches with my legs pulled up to my chest.  I looked around the room at the seventies furniture, old books, and stacks of board games. I took a deep breath and let out a long sigh.  Now what?