The month I was in a mental institution [part 1 of 3]

File this one under; “posts I don’t want to write”

Also note: **Trigger warning… but I don’t want this to stop you from reading, I want you to see whats being triggered and call a professional or a friend and feel the feelings and work through them.

Note Part Deux: this post is 1 in a series of 3

In 2013, I made a pact with myself to “talk about the things I don’t want to talk about”

Somehow this one kept getting pushed in the back, mostly because there wasn’t quite an “ending” or resolution of sorts.

With May being Mental Health Awareness Month, and the year anniversary of meeting my daughter after 18 years on May 12th, this the perfect place to begin…

First, I must start with how I even found myself PREGNANT at 15 years old and placing my only child for adoption. 

The year I turned 13 was rough. 

  • I started my period (exacerbating issues of HATING being a girl)
  • I found out that my dad wasn’t “my real dad” (saving this for another email)
  • A family member who had molested me 4 years prior, moved into our home (reason #1 why I hated being a girl)

This was the year I had my first massive bout with depression

When I found out about my dad, I went into a spiral of tears and rage and questioning all the things I knew to be true.

I barely left my bed for 4 days. 

Later that year when said family-member moved in, I felt fear, rage, and more hopelessness… which, again, manifested in me not leaving my room for days. 

This was the year I started my bulimia, cutting, taking pills, and finding ways to avoid feelings by any means of self abuse. 

Fast forward two years:

I told my parents about the sexual abuse and they did nothing initially (more hopelessness) 

In order to keep from any continued encounters, I would stay at school late to avoid being in the house with him, cry, and feel more and more alone, as the effects of depression became more severe. 

By the time I was 15, he left, but my bulimia now had a firm grip on me, my days were constantly filled with thoughts of how to end my life and I was taking 10-14 advil a day to manage my gymnastics practice because I had an overuse injury, but my friends at the gym were the only thing that really kept me going.

Ironically, it was with my friends in gymnastics, where I got drunk and had sex for the first time. 

At this point, I felt worthless as a human.

I felt that my body was the only thing going for me as a girl, and that wasn’t even going for me, I didn’t have big boobs, long legs or anything “desirable” that a man would want and my body-dysmorphia was so bad I thought that I may as well be dead, because I literally was no good for anything.

I found myself in my dads closet holding his gun to my head and fantasizing about loading it and pulling the trigger.

I hadn’t yet learned to load it but I knew it wouldn’t be hard. 

I told my boyfriend about this plan and he made me ask for help.

I told my mom, “I need you to take me to The Shadows*” (the mental/behavioral health inpatient center)

She demanded to know why… 

I couldn’t even tell her or verbalize what I was feeling. 

I just continued to beg her to take me immediately or something bad was going to happen…

She screamed, “No! you’re not crazy and I will not take you there!”

I knew that she was embarrassed of me wanting to go, but I finally hollered, cried, and acted just a fool enough that she drove me there. 

I think she expected that they would send us home, because she was quite surprised to find out that they wanted to admit me immediately to stay. 

I was placed on suicide watch and wasn’t allowed to do anything without supervision for the first 72 hours.

On the third day, I was called into the psychiatrists office, he sat me down, and stated,

“Your pregnancy test came back positive”

“Well I’m just going to have an abortion”

“Are you going to tell your parents?”

“No. But can I call my boyfriend?”

That was about the extent of our conversation.

In Nevada, no parental consent was needed to get an abortion and I had made a plan with one of the other “in-mates” (LOL) that he would lend me the money and take me to get it done as soon as I was released. My boyfriend was on board with the plan. 

My thought was, “Well I’m going to commit suicide anyway, what is the big deal?”

My next thought was, “there is NO way in hell I’m going to get fat and have this baby, my eating disorder will get 1000% times worse”

I did end of telling my parents, or rather, mom guessed. (women’s intuition)

They were NOT happy, nor were they at all supportive of an abortion, in fact, just saying it broke my fathers heart. 

When I “got out” I had an appointment scheduled for the “procedure” on Wednesday.

But on Tuesday, I had an appointment with my parents with the doctors of a long-term, inpatient, eating disorder clinic. 

This is where I met Sarah*

My parents went in one room with doctors and I went in another room with Sarah. 

She told me how she had been raped and then started to starve herself. 

She spent years struggling with anorexia and it had taken a toll on her body. 

She was married now and had two children but mentioned that she could no longer have babies because of what she did to herself.

I blurted out, “I WANT YOU TO HAVE MY BABY!”

(wait.. WHAT?!! who the FUCK just said that?? where did that come from??)

She replied, “What?”

“Yes, I want you to have my baby. I am pregnant. Maybe you can adopt my baby?”

Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “are you serious?” 

It happened so quickly… the voice… not mine… it came though me…

This wasn’t the plan…


I felt, yes, she is the one. 

I felt that she needed to have my child.

“how am I going to go through this pregnancy and “get fat”?”

So many questions… but mostly… 

WHY did I say that? and mean it? 

Where did it come from?

I didn’t tell my parents what I said, but I told my boyfriend and he was supportive of the idea. 

I told him we needed to sneak and find out how to make this happen, but we had a new plan…

With this plan, I later realized I also made a really tough decision:

I was no longer ALLOWED to kill myself. 



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