Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Emergency Room
Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 2007
“Wait here,” the Er Nurse said as the door clicked shut behind her.
I fidgeted on the exam table. The paper crinkled under me, occasionally breaking the silence. I did not want to be here. I just needed to convince Mitch he was wrong: a seemingly impossible task since he was the authority on every subject in our house. Politics, religion, finances, and worldviews laid at his feet to slice and dice as he saw fit. I knew when I told the doctors everything I was going through, they would agree I was just stressed. I was positive I’d walk free. I had the gift of persuasion and used it frequently. I could twist problems until they became allies. Whether returning things I had clearly used without a receipt or getting out of a speeding ticket, I knew I could bend people to my will.
Except my husband.
Mitch sat in a plastic chair with his back straight, his emotions tucked deep inside. For him, there was a proper way to behave at all times, even when trying to commit his wife to the psychiatric hospital against her will. Mitch, a master of the art of projection, displayed a constant image of control and confidence. My blood boiled when I looked at him. How dare he corner me.
“Let me write up notes about you and show them to a doctor! Then you’d be sitting where I am right now,” I whispered. “I called Allyson and Mike. They said I could have you admitted to the hospital against your will, and they’re both attorneys. So, maybe you’re crazy!”
“Okay.” My words bounced off him, but I continued to sharpen them. I had tried to cut into him and reveal his core throughout our entire marriage. We struggled with intimacy from the beginning, and his stone-wall emotions left me craving more.
A different nurse knocked on the door before popping her head in. She stared at me. “Wow! You’re stunning.”
Since I was a child, my sleek blue-black hair, green eyes, and sharp features often made people take second glances. Plus, I had a knack for putting together an outfit. Give me forty dollars at T.J. Maxx and I can look ready to attend the Oscars.
I waited for her next question.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Utah, but you want to know my nationality. German,” I said. “Shocking, I know.”
“I would have guessed Persian.”
I forced a smile. “Maybe an affair somewhere in my heritage.” I was mismatched. My pretty exterior did not match my internal turmoil. It disturbed even me at times, how I could look so put together, when internally I was falling apart.
The nurse turned to Mitch. “You can come, they’re ready to see her.”
I let out a slow, deep breath before I followed the nurse out. Mitch followed. Nothing could ruffle his feathers, whereas I wasn’t capable of a poker face, no matter how hard I tried. My family said I’m unable to hold my emotions back, which would soon be my downfall. She continued to lead us through hallways until we entered a room where a COPE (Community Outreach for Psychiatric Emergencies) evaluator was waiting.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Warner,” she said, ready to shake Mitch’s hand. Perfect, a woman. I put on my best smile, ready to shake her hand next. She would understand my situation. “Mrs. Wasden, I’m here to evaluate you.“Then what brings you to the emergency room?”
“Just stress.” I ticked off each event on my fingers as I recounted them aloud. “I’ve moved, been living in a house while it’s being renovated, recently lost a hundred pounds, and I’m homeschooling my three children.”
“Wow, that is a lot.”
I straightened up, feeling more confident. I knew she would understand.
“Have you ever thought about taking your own life?” she asked.
Living made death look desirable. It was a solemn song everyone knew but few sang, not out loud anyway. I chose to answer honestly—it was about time someone did.
I raised an eyebrow. “Who hasn’t?”
“How often?” Her tone, similar to a flight attendant taking a drink order, signaled this was routine for her.
“I don’t know—just as much as a normal person does.”
“Can you give me an estimate?”
“Seriously? I have no idea. Probably as often as you.” For a woman used to openly talking about suicide, she sure asked a lot of rhetorical questions.
“Is it daily, weekly?”
“Daily.”
“In what ways have you thought about suicide?” She wrote down everything. Uneasy, I knew I needed to get through these questions in order to go home to my kids. “Jumping off a building, swerving my car into oncoming traffic, taking pills, drowning myself, stabbing myself and bleeding to death and,” my favorite, “standing in front of a semi-truck and having it run me over.” I paused. “But no guns. That’s where I draw the line.”
“Have you ever attempted suicide?” she asked.
I shook my head no.
“And why haven’t you tried any of those things?”
“I don’t think I could face God if I did.” Having been raised in the LDS faith since childhood, I was taught and obeyed my religious checklist of reading your scriptures, saying your prayers, going to church, and following the commandments like it was a prescription for peace. While this prescription may work for many, it left me confused when that promised peace never came for me.
“Do you want to die?” Her question caught me off guard. I thought about suicide all the time. The answer should’ve been obvious. It wasn’t. I didn’t want to be alive, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be dead either. I just wanted out of the pain. I held her gaze as her question echoed in my mind. Do I want to die?
“Yes.”
She and Mitch glanced at each other. She looked back at me. I couldn’t get a read on her. Was she on my side? Mitch had heard me talk about suicide so often I knew this was nothing new to him.
Dr. Warner stood up.
“Can I go home now?” I asked.
“I’ll be back.”
She never came back. Mitch and I waited for We waited for ten, eternal minutes. We didn’t talk. In the silence I grew more anxious. The only sound in the room was the soft hum from the air conditioner. The tension in our marriage had been rising for some time and Mitch forcing me to the ER wasn’t helping. The door opened and a short man with two security guards entered the room. I immediately stood.
“Mrs. Wasden, I’m a crisis worker and we are admitting you to the psychiatric hospital,” he stated. I looked at him and then at the two guards. I wanted to run, but my feet felt glued to the floor.
The room spun. Surely, this was a nightmare and at any moment I would find myself safe in bed at home. I wanted to scream, but all I could get out was a raspy, “I refuse to go.”
“You’re under the care of a physician, and she’s made this decision for you.” The short man said.
I needed protection. I turned and grabbed Mitch’s arm. “Let’s go home,” I demanded.
He said nothing.
“Mitch, take me home,” I pleaded.
He raised his eyebrows at me empathetically but remained silent.
“Mrs. Wasden, we’re going to help you get well.” The crisis worker stepped toward me.
“But I’m not sick! I’m stressed! Why won’t anyone believe me?” I stepped away from him. My heart pounded and I was sweating. Hysteria gripped me.
“There is a van outside waiting for you.”
The two security guards watched. I bet they’re waiting for me to give them a reason to be here.
I faced the crisis worker. “You can’t force me. I won’t go!”
“We have a physician evaluation certificate with your name on it, Mrs. Sonja Wasden. So, yes, we can force you. And we will if necessary.” He held open the door and waited for me to walk out. There was nowhere to run.
“You’re making a big mistake. I’m not sick!”
“Mrs. Wasden, you’re actually very sick,” he responded. “Let’s go.”
“I am not crazy!” I screamed. I hated his use of “very sick.” I knew what he really meant.
He stood in front of me, arms folded. “No one’s saying you’re crazy, Mrs. Wasden.”
“Yet you’re forcing me into the psych ward.” I reached out and grabbed Mitch’s arm again and shook him. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Doing anything? “Help me!” I yelled.
He wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “You can do this. Things will be better, I promise. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll get to come home to the kids and me.”
I closed my eyes not wanting to leave his embrace. I leaned closer, wanting to disappear into him. When I opened my eyes, the hospital floor was still beneath me.
“Please don’t make me do this. I can get better without going to the psych ward, I promise. I’ll do yoga and deep breathing. Please!” I shamelessly begged.
He stepped back and lifted my chin with his thumb, but I kept my eyes down. “Look at me, Sonja.”
I looked up and saw exhaustion hanging heavy in his eyes. Mitch looked too weathered and beaten down to help me anymore. Had I been so consumed by my pain that I hadn’t noticed him silently suffering beside me? Or had Mitch’s “I’m fine” facade fooled me into believing he was? I craved to know his deeper feelings, to understand his hurt, but doubted he’d ever share. At that moment I realized this hospital visit was Mitch running out of ways to make things better.
“Please go. This could save us,” he said.
Tears fell from my cheeks as I stared into his unflinching gaze.
I took Mitch in one last time—his fair skin, blond hair, lean figure—before turning around. I straightened my cream silk blouse, twisted my diamond bracelets into place, and held my head high. In my black designer skirt and suede heels, I walked that long hallway like a runway, a security guard escorting me on either side. I would not be dragged out; I would not go kicking and screaming. If I had to leave, I’d make it look like my choice.
Nurses and patients hovered around the scene pretending not to stare. I kept strutting that runway and stepped into the back of the van, looking straight through the iron bars separating me from the two men up front. Those bars made me feel like a criminal, convicted of something I didn’t do.
How did I get here?
