An ambulance delivered me to the emergency room, and after a nasty episode with activated charcoal and a tearful huddle with my Mom, I was sent to the psychiactric floor at the Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster BC. It was 1986. The memories I have are murky, and some have disappeared altogether. I lied my way through just one visit with a psychiatrist. He asked about drugs, alcohol, and sex, and I just kept saying no, no, no. I don’t know if he met with my parents, or what he may have said to them. I was told to have a shower, and a nurse stayed in the room with me. I visited the smoking room (if you can imagine such a thing), and sat thigh to thigh on plastic chairs with mostly older, hospital-gowned men and women in various states of discombobulation. At one time I could remember what they spoke about: their stories, advice, and outbursts. Now, I just have an impression that I was scared, and that I wanted to go home. I’d like to think a young woman might have a different experience now: an opportunity to build rappport with mental health support, family involvement, aftercare, but I had none of that. What I did have was shame, deep self-hatred, and the sense that I was a failure. They sent me home after a few days, and my family and I never spoke about my suicide attempt again. I have little understanding of how I muddled through the next few years, except that I chose to return to school – college – and in the process, found a sense of belonging.