Good Girl Chronicles: #WomenWhoSlayWednesday: When A Good Girl Gives Up: Part 3 'The Psych Ward'

#WomenWhoSlayWednesday: When A Good

Girl Gives Up Part 2

This is a continuation of the #WomenWhoSlayWednesday entry, “When A Good Girl Gives Up” WARNING: This is my story of my first suicide attempt.

What follows is the tale of my voluntary commitment to Virginia Beach Psychiatric Center

I remember being taken to Virginia Beach Psychiatric Center in the back of an ambulance called Eagle Transport with two white emergency medical techinicans. I wasn't put on a stretcher or strapped in like I once feared. Instead, I hoisted myself into the ambulance and buckled up.

It was a bumpy ride down Interstate 64. I remember looking out the window and seeing dusk turn to dawn. In the back of the ambulance one of the male emergency medical technicians took my information: name, address, insurance. It was all very informal. When we reached Virginia Beach Psych, I wobbled out of the transport ambulance and vomited in the bushes.

"It just started doing that," the transporter guy said pointing to me hurling clear liquid. That statement was humiliating, and degrading. I wasn't even a person anymore I was an "it".

The Eagle Tranport guys escorted me to the intake office (where you are processed for treatment) and left. Even though I voluntarily checked myself in, I was scared. I worried people would recognize me as Lauren Compton, the chick from the news. I was scared the numbness I felt would never get better. I wanted to run right out of that place and disappear. But, I couldn't.

My last headshot as a television reporter

The intake officer took my jewelry, cellphone, shoe strings, and iPod. I couldn't have anything sharp or electronic. I understood why I couldn't have my shoe strings. I could use them to strangle myself. I didn't understand why I couldn't have my iPod, a little device that was a coping mechanism for me when I felt anxious or sad.

Me, my last year reporting in Hampton Roads, Va

As the intake officer put my information in his computer, I quickly sent an email to my station Assistant News Director. It stated I was in the hospital and didn't know when I'd be released. Then, the

intake officer, a white man with a shaggy beard and dark circles under his eyes, lead me to what I now know is the Emotional Recovery Unit. It was around 5:00 a.m. When the sleep deprived intake guy opened the door to the unit, I was struck by a smell. It was a mixture of old moth balls and cleaning solution. I looked down the long hall, and I saw women pacing.

The unit consisted of a long hallway with a nursing station at the center, rooms, and offices. I also noticed a lobby, game room, and

medication counter. Images of the movie 'Girl Interrupted' filled my head. If you haven't seen it here is a brief synopsis. Winona Ryder and Angelina Jolie star in this very real tale of two women institutionalized in a mental hospital for troubled women during the 1960's. (Angelina won an Oscar and Golden Globe for her provocative role in the movie.) The movie is based on the real life story of Susanna Kaysen and her 18 months stay in a mental hospital. It came out in 1999. I remember watching it and feeling so connected to Winona's depiction of Susanna. Susanna had tried to overdose on pill and throughout the movie is in a struggle to find herself. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety at 16, and often felt lost myself in an ocean of sadness. I hid my mental illness for years even into my television career. In the future, I'll tell you more about how this movie imitates my life.

As I stood in the hallway, I felt like I was outside of my body looking at a broken form of myself. I wanted to escape again, but some part of me believed that Virginia Beach psych was the way out of my darkness.

A white woman with blonde hair approached me and the intake officer disappeared.

"I'll be taking your vital signs. Do you mind rolling up your shelves?" she asked. I obliged.

She told me her name was Sara just like my little sister, and I felt some comfort in that. Sara quickly gave me the rundown of the Emotional Recovery Unit. Breakfast at 8:00 a.m., lunch at noon, dinner at 5:00 p.m. Lights out by 11:00 p.m. I'd have the chance to meet with a social worker, psychiatrist, and plenty of opportunities to share in group therapy.

None of what she said really mattered to me at the moment. I wanted so desperately to run to my assigned room, cry, and sleep.

The first day at the psych ward was a blur. I had to give blood, meet with doctors, and attend group therapy. I do remember this though. I decided not to have my family come in for counseling. ( A decision in hindsight I'm glad I made) Being admitted to Virginia Beach Psychiatric Center is not a vacation. It is therapy. It is work. It is intense. It is hard. Somewhere in my heart I knew neither my father or mother would understand the pain that lead me to my suicide attempt. As a kid, they always told me to suck it, don't cry, hide your depression. So even when I had the chance to bring them with the appointed social worker in the psych center or the klink as I like to call I refused.

"Trust me they won't get it," I said to the black social worker. I am only noting her race because I feel it's relevant. The church, church people, and the black community taught me at a young age that mental illness was not something we just didn't talked about, let alone accept. It's with this history I refused to have my parents involved in my treatment.

Me, a year before my first suicide attempt
I remember feeling really happy that day

Two years later and I realize I was so right about that moment. My parents would never understand, or even try. But, that's OK. This is my life, my mental illness, and I will overcome....