Sick Enough - My first day in a psychiatric hospital for anorexia
The foul smell of disinfectant smothers my nose, and I worry I may pass out. How can anyone voluntarily live in a place like this? The iodine odor, the cold to your bones temperature, the all grey interior decorations, it all makes me feel sick. If I were thinking clearly, I would laugh at the ironic joke; admitting myself to a psychiatric hospital for anorexia is making me feel sick. If I had the strength, I would get up and run right out those automatic doors. But as terrible as it feels to admit, I don’t have the strength. I surrender myself to the wheelchair that the admitting nurse provides me. “I’m Suzie,” she says. Her ebony hair falls messily from a high bun. Her deep brown skin is striking against her light blue scrubs. “Are you ready?” she asks as she grabs the handles of the wheelchair. I don’t respond, but the wheels start turning anyway. We pass through two high-security doors, only opened by the badge on her waist, and we arrive at my ...
