My Dance with Suicidal Depression, Part I: The Hospitalization

In the last week and a half, I’ve actually been using the phone part of my smartphone for hours a day. (Unheard of for a Millennial, obviously.)

This is because, on Wednesday of last week, I was deemed actively suicidal by my therapist. And I agreed. It’s official, there are papers.

I’ve been calling as many people as possible, to tell them as intimately as possible, the story of what happened. I’m not sure, as I write this, how much of the story we’ll get through today. But the message is too important to be limited by Verizon’s allocation of anytime minutes. It’s time to start, so buckle in.

The story starts Tuesday evening, last week. I’d been down for a long time. I spent the day mostly in bed with increasingly intrusive thoughts of self-harm that ranged from the darkly comic (I wish there was an atomic bomb nearby that I could just throw myself on top of before it went off) to the horribly real (I sure do have a lot of pills, what would happen if I took all of ’em?). My parents tried to help. We entered a too-familiar back-and-forth:

“What do you want?”
“I want to be dead for a while.”
“What can we do? Want to go for a ride?”
“I want to be dead.” (Not how quickly the “for a while” gets dropped.)
“Want to go to the bookstore?”

At this point I had gone from listless and distant to agitated. I was yelling at my mother, who was only trying to help but couldn’t hear what I was saying any more than I could say what — if anything — would help me. If you’re wondering, it’s not much more fun to say “I want to be dead” than it is to hear it. It hurts everyone involved. I was in the place of utter frustration that Allie Brosh captured so perfectly:

From “Depression Part Two” by Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half. Go read it. Go read it now.


This wasn’t the first I’d felt this way. But it was always easy to tell that what I really wanted was an escape — from the waves of crippling anxiety, from the constant leeching of my life-force from depression, and most of all from a life I felt, at that point, had functionally ended. I was already dead, I was just waiting for my body to catch up. I certainly wasn’t Kenrick anymore, and I could hardly remember who he was.

(Hang in there, dear reader, it’s darkest before the dawn, I promise.)


That night, at some indeterminate point, sleep having abandoned me as surely as my self-worth and hope, I found myself in the kitchen in the dark. What hadn’t abandoned me was the pain. A heartbeat that, with each thump, signaled one more moment of pain stretched out across an infinity. I got scared. I got angry. Like a coyote with it’s leg in a trap, I was mad with the pain, ready to lash out at anyone or anything. But I’ve never been one to turn my anger outward, and sometimes coyotes will chew their own leg off to free themselves from the trap.

I don’t really have the dentition for that, so I took a paring knife and made some scratches along the outside and inside of my left arm. (Point of interest: I’m not a habitual cutter. It takes weeks of severe depression and anxiety and a really, really bad day to even give me the impulse, let alone override my impulse control. The first time I cut was in the last three years, and this was time four or five. It’s not something I was giving myself gold stars on the calendar for.)

What made this time different than the others though, was the same as what made those self-destructive thoughts earlier different so scary. There was a new, nasty edge. A not-so-little voice telling me if I’m going to sit here and just etch half-assed cat-scratches into my arm then why don’t you “man-up” and do some real damage.

It scared me, hearing that, feeling it. I didn’t listen, but I knew it was there now.

Let’s take a step back.

I’ve been afraid of suicide since I first got diagnosed with depression, about four years ago now. I know — how could you not? — that not everyone finds their way out the other side. Suicide is not nearly uncommon enough. Robin Williams’s death hit a deep chord in me; I was haunted by the resonance for days.

I was diagnosed while getting my master’s degree at MIT. Severe anxiety with a side of depression. I checked in with a therapist every week, a psychiatrist every few weeks, attacking my condition with medications and meditations on my experience alike. It helped, and I’ve never stopped getting consistent treatment since. So lest anyone think I was afraid to ask for help, or not taking advantage of the resources around me, know I ended up where I was despite almost 4 years of continuous treatment and an open, healthy relationship with my caretakers. Everything you’ve, they knew. (This is not to be read as “don’t bother with treatment” but as “sometimes even good treatment isn’t enough, and a more dramatic intervention is needed.)

So it was that once Wednesday rolled around, and I had a scheduled appointment with my therapist. I went in and unloaded. She said, very gently, that she thought the best next step would be hospitalization. I didn’t argue. If suicide or serious self-harm is a pit, I’d somehow stepped too close to the edge. I wasn’t planning a jump, I wasn’t standing with my toes over the edge … but the wrong breeze or a misplaced step might have been enough.

I no longer felt safe in my own skin.

The edge. And not of glory. (Via epSos .de/Flickr)
The edge. And not of glory. (Via epSos .de/Flickr)


Soon enough, the nice people in the ambulance came, and I didn’t fight. I chatted, even made jokes with them, as I began my first of many narratives about how, yes, I am in legitimate peril. I was a model patient, thanks to my … wait for it … patience. Though that was due as much to emotional shock as anything. I had to prove to what now seems an absurd number of people that, yup, I’m serious. You’d think that a signed piece of paper from a mental health professional would get you the express route into the psych ward, but nope. I told the EMTS, any number of nurses, the psychiatric gate-keeper for the floor I was trying to get admitted to — hell, even a guy from my health care provider had to drive over and sit down with me to put one more stamp of approval on my official “You Are A Danger to Yourself” card. I like to think if I just got one more they’d have given me my next admission free.

I left my therapist’s office sometime around 2:00 p.m., and by the time I was able to see a clock on the behavioral health unit it was well past 8:00 p.m. I immediately felt caged, nervous, alarmed. As soon as those doors closed — and LOCKED — everything became real.

After doing my best impression of a rabbit frozen in front of a fox for a few minutes, a nurse checked on me. Someone explained that everything was done for the day. This was my room number. I could take this to help me sleep. I took it. I laid down. And against all odds I did sleep, at least a little.

The next morning, I woke up. And I mean I woke up. I got up, got out of bed, and took some timid steps into the cafeteria for breakfast. I ate. I had some water. It was all very … normal, if a bit reminiscent of grade school with the abundance of juice cups and graham crackers. And those eggs. You know the eggs. They don’t exist anywhere except schools, hospitals, and maybe chef’s nightmares. I digress.

The thing is, I wasn’t in the trap anymore. I wasn’t in immediate pain. I didn’t — couldn’t — realize this right away. My coyote brain was still stumbling around and marveling at the fact that its leg worked, not quite able to conceive of a world that wasn’t comprised entirely agony and strife. Yet the fact remains: my world had changed dramatically.

As I continue to write posts on this topic, you’ll begin to understand, as I have, just how significant — if scary — the dramatic change of hospitalization can be for someone who has become a prisoner in their own mind.


P.S. As I said with my last post, please share this around as best you can. I’m not writing these just to process my own feelings, or to try to make friends and family cry. (Though I do get a kickback from Kleenex for every box you use.)

I’m writing this because I intend to succeed. And I want my struggles to be as visible as my eventual successes. Perhaps I can make other people feel a little safer, a little more willing to seek help. Perhaps I can make my own dent in the stigma surrounding mental illness.

The best way to head off the shadows of guilt and shame is to drown them in the light of honesty.

Coming at you with 13,650,000 lumens,
– Kenrick


13 thoughts on “My Dance with Suicidal Depression, Part I: The Hospitalization

  1. Funny you mentioned grade school. As I was scrolling through my news feed this morning on Facebook, I saw one of our mutual friends comment on your post that linked to this blog and remembered the name from grade school. I remember sitting next to you in music class and I remember how funny you were. We didn’t talk much but I always thought of you as really friendly.

    I’m glad you are seeking help and I wish nothing but great things for you, Kenrick. You deserve life. You deserve happiness. I’m looking forward to reading about your progress.

    1. Thank you, Darby. It’s an honor to be remembered for humor and kindness long before those things solidified into important parts of my self-perception.

  2. Read and shared, my friend. Really looking forward to reading the rest of your posts on this.

    Also, is the nasty little voice in your head telling you to “man up” partly a cause for your strong reaction to that phrase and what it stands in front of?

    1. Thank you.

      And definitely. I think it’s especially toxic for people who experience anxiety and depression and who don’t fit the mandate of “manhood”; I’ve even caught myself thinking I should try drinking because that’s the manly (and/or young) way to cope with all stress. Thankfully the latter never caught on. I’m still a single-cocktail, the fancier-the-better guy.

  3. Wow. Powerful stuff, Kenrick. Thinking of you as you journey to healing. Many people reading this will realize they are not alone.

    All the best,
    Katy (Lee) Barry, your old Latin class buddy 🙂

    1. Thank you, Katy. Every time this reaches someone unexpected, and moves them enough to make them reach out to me and give me a vote of confidence, it’s … well, the writer doesn’t have words.

      All I ask is that you share it as far and as wide as you can — for me, for others like me, and for (no point in hiding it) helping this new blog get off the ground and helping me get my writing career out of the ditch it’s been stuck in for the last few years as I’ve struggled under the invisible back-riding gorilla of mental illness.

      (Though it’s not that invisible — you should see me have a panic attack.)

      At any rate, thanks again. Sincerely.
      – K

  4. Dear Kenrick, I happened across this by accident, and am glad I did. It is not easy to have shared what you have. And I feel I came upon this thru a more spiritual way (Memere). I have been having a very hard time dealing with a lot of things in the past few years myself ( seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist) Difficulty dealing with my illness, my separation/ divorce, the loss of Holly, and the hardest of all the loss of Memere. I say bravo to you for writing this blog. I wish I would have known and maybe been able to help in some way. I love you and wish you all the best in your journey. It is not an easy journey. But sounds like you see some light at the end of that tunnel. May you find peace with your self, growth , healing , and happiness at the end of your journey. I am here if you ever need someone else to talk to. I wish you all the best. Take one day at a time , that is all we can do. Take care. Would love to read more of your blog if you don’t mind. I hope it gets shared among others,. Because of your writings it can help/change another persons thoughts and health, to not feel like their all alone.

    1. Tante Angle,

      I’m very glad you found this blog. I encourage you to read everything here. It won’t always be intensely personal material like I’ve been working with lately, but I want those things shared far and wide. I’m writing them to be visible, as myself, in all my quirks and imperfections and struggles. I think I said as much in the post, so I won’t harp on it, but please share with whomever you’d like. It’s not a mistake that this is published publicly and openly.

      Thank you for your kind words. Know that you’ve always been good to me, and you shouldn’t feel remotely responsible for any of this. I understand the sentiment, but the last thing I want is anyone kicking themselves because they didn’t do more for me. Our family, both sides, isn’t exactly the most knowledgeable or forthcoming on topics like gender, mental illness, and disability. No-one in the family outside of my parents really knew, and part of me was hoping that this post would find its way into the hands of my family members; perhaps help them know me a bit better rather than waiting for the inevitable, inane chatter about whether I’m working or settling down yet or what have you.

      With love,
      – Kenrick

    1. Thanks so much, Mr. Arwe. I’ve been on a bit of hiatus, as you may have noticed, but I’m getting back in the world. Keep an eye out for new posts. Drop me a line at — we should get back in touch.

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