“No!” I spat, anger thick in my chest.
“You slit your wrists yesterday, Trecee.”
I went quiet, swallowing tears and shame. “You need to know…you aren’t alone. I can get you?—”
“I don’t need help. Don’t judge me like I’m crazy.”
“I understand your frustration. I know you’re going through a lot.”
“You don’t know shit,” I hissed.
“Ever thought about harming yourself before?”
I slammed my head back against the thin pillow, tears streaming. My emotions were normal—I was pissed at him for acting like this was normal for me.
“Did you have a plan last night?”
“Get me the fuck out of here,” I grimaced.
“I need you to answer, Trecee.”
“No! I just wanted to sleep. I wasn’t trying to—” My voice broke. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I’ve never thought about it. I’m going through a lot right now?—”
“You aren’t alone. That’s understandable.”
“Get me the fuck out of here!” I screamed. Dr. Rogers remained calm.
“Ever been diagnosed with depression? Anxiety? Any mental health conditions?”
“No!”
“Ever seen a therapist or psychiatrist?”
“No!” I yanked my wrists, pain shooting through me. “You’re not a fucking doctor! You don’t know what I’m going through!”
“That’s why we need to talk about your next steps.”
“What do you mean, next steps?” My heart raced.
He exhaled. “Given the overdose, alcohol, trauma, and lack of support?—”
“He’s here,” I snapped.
“Who?” He glanced at the closed door, then back.
“He has to be here,” I wailed, tears pouring like a faucet. “He wouldn’t leave me…he wouldn’t.”
“Ms. Jones, I think it’s best you be transferred to a behavioral health facility for evaluation and treatment.”
“You think I’m crazy? You think I’m fuckin’ crazy!? You’re trying to take me to a psych ward!”
“Ms. Jones?—”
“Trecee,” I said, agitated.
“Trecee,” he corrected. “We don’t have the proper care here. You suffered a near-death experience. While life may be hard and it was a mistake, this isn’t the end—it’s a starting point. You need help.”
“I’m not in a crisis. It was an accident.”
