Dazed and Confused

The end of my junior year of high school was a wild ride. I discovered The Fiero had been sleeping with someone I thought was a close friend. Olivia, The Friend, had introduced me to The Fiero. The Friend was dating The Fiero’s best friend. It was all so messy. Although I don’t remember much, I am certain my reaction was very dramatic. Several days were spent crying in my room. It seemed as though the world was coming to end.

Of course, finding out your boyfriend is cheating on you is awful, but the betrayal of a friend is definitely worse. When I was a teenager, I thought when you fell in love with someone that was it. I was convinced The Fiero and I would get married, have kids, do all the things. He had given me a promise ring. My life was basically planned out. I was in no way prepared for that certainty to be shattered by a friend.

Olivia and I had known each other since elementary school. We lived on the same street, we walked to and from school together countless times, she is in all of the pictures from years of birthday parties. We skipped school together to hang out at the mall and in ninth grade we shared our first cigarette. We took Driver’s Ed together. Her handwriting fills pages of my yearbooks. We had history and I trusted her.

Today, I do not have any idea where The Fiero ended up and it does not matter. I am completely indifferent. Do I hope he’s happy and living his best life? Sure…I guess. No more or less than I hope that for any other human. Olivia though, well we are “friends” on Facebook…whatever the fuck that means. Do I hope she’s happy? I hope she’s living the life she deserves. What that looks like isn’t up to me but I do know that 36 years later I would still not trust her. The Friend and The Fiero were not the last friend and boyfriend to mess around behind my back but Olivia was the first. And you never forget your first.

By Thursday, the emotional cloud had lifted. My focus shifted to the upcoming weekend. My best friend, who never slept with any of my boyfriends, was graduating and I was looking forward to celebrating. Back then nothing could quite cure a broken heart like a red Solo cup and a keg of cheap beer. Also, I had really been enjoying my favorite class. Sixth period. The last class of the day. It was one of those bullshit classes you took just to boost your GPA. The kind you could sleep through and still pull out a solid B.

Instead of traditional rows of desks, we were assigned tables. When Tony Gideon was assigned to sit at my table I thought, “Well this is a fucking nightmare.” Tony was a senior. He was sexy, popular, had a full-grown-ass man mustache, and was a musician…because of course he was. Tony was also trouble. So, so much trouble. Sitting next to him for the rest of the school year was going to be horrible but not because his reputation preceded him, which it did, but because I was terribly shy. My shyness was often mistaken for being standoffish but in reality I was just an insecure introvert who never knew what to say. True to form, I didn’t say a word to Tony that first day. I don’t think I even lifted my eyes from my notebook.

The next day, Tony slipped me a note. Umm…what? No fucking way! I must have looked super confused because under his breath he said, “read it.” Oh…so it was for me. I hadn’t been sure. The note read, “Why do you hate me?” I laughed, then Tony laughed, and then we got in trouble for laughing. And that was the start of a very weird friendship. That fucker was charming. Over the next several months, Tony and I grew really close. By the time the school year was coming to an end, we were hanging out on a pretty regular basis.

The weekend I found out about The Fiero and The Friend had been rough. On Monday I emotionally vomited all over Tony. He wasn’t exactly my trusted advisor, but I could always count on him for a solid, “Fuck that guy.” He gave me a ride home after school. And that was the day I first made out with Tony Gideon. As I said, Tony was trouble.

Tony drove me home Tuesday and Wednesday as well, so yea…by Thursday I was feeling pretty good.

Feeling good until I received a message that I needed to go to the guidance counselor’s office. Because I was a TA for the counselors it didn’t seem like a big deal but when I walked into Mr. Goller’s office I found Susan waiting to talk to me. I had never met Susan and I didn’t know what she wanted but I did know nothing good was going to come out of her visit and I became immediately defensive.

Seventeen-year-old me played that whole scene wrong.

Susan was some sort of social worker, crisis counselor, general pain in the ass sent to talk to me. Who sent her? My mother…because of course she did. It turned out my mother was concerned I was going to hurt myself because I was so emotional regarding The Fiero and The Friend. So, she called a crisis help line, and convinced Susan to come to my school.

As an adult, I get it. My mom was scared and took action. But Jesus-fucking-Christ Jean settle down! A teenage girl crying over a boy for a few days probably does not warrant such drastic measures. Add this situation to the list of reasons why I don’t express my emotions and have spent years in therapy trying to learn how to be vulnerable or to unlearn how easy it is to up protective walls. All that aside, my mom is a rock. I put her through the ringer more than once and she has never wavered in her ability to have my back…even when I doubted her.

Susan wanted to talk to me about The Fiero, The Friend, and the possibility of me trying to kill myself. Yea…I wasn’t going to tell her damn thing. Susan, The Fiero, and The Friend could all fuck right off. Susan asked if I had a suicide plan. I laughed…because I was a 17-year-old asshole. Susan didn’t think it was funny. Susan asked about access to weapons and drugs. My eye-rolling was obnoxious and my contempt palpable. I told her my only plans included making out with Tony Gideon on my Strawberry Shortcake comforter after school and I’d really like to go back to class so I could make sure that happened.

Susan must have been convinced I wasn’t a danger to myself and agreed to let me go back to class. But first she wanted to me sign an agreement that I would not hurt myself in the next 72 hours.

And here is where things went terribly wrong.

A pledge to not kill myself? What in the actual fuck? Did Susan really believe if I intended to kill myself her ridiculous piece of paper was going to stop me? What was she going to do…take me to court?

I proceeded to tell Susan exactly what I thought of her stupid little contract, and I refused to sign on principle alone.

There is nothing dumber than a person with a not quite fully developed frontal lobe standing on principle.

Susan told me if I refused to sign then I needed to go with her to be evaluated by a psychiatrist. I made a comment about getting in a van with strangers and dug my grave just a little bit deeper. Finally, Susan laid it out, either I get in her car or she will have me escorted out by the police. God bless Mr. Goller and Mr. O’Neill because at this point, they stepped in and told Susan that under no circumstances would the police be escorting me anywhere. They strongly advised I go with Susan. So, I did. Straight to Puget Sound Hospital for a mental health evaluation.  

Spoiler alert…I didn’t pass.

When we got to the hospital, Susan put me in a shitty little conference room where we had to wait for my parents and Dr. Mike, the psychiatrist. After everyone arrived, Dr. Mike asked me what was going on, what type of problems had I been experiencing. My response, “My problem is my mother is a fucking bitch who likes to jump to conclusions instead of having a God damn conversation.” My dad looked at my mom and asked, “What in the hell is going on?” Keep in mind, my parents were divorced by this time and I wasn’t one to share to the goings on of my love life with my dad so he was pretty much in the dark. I told my dad about The Fiero and The Friend. My mom told my dad I had been inconsolable for days and she was worried I was going to commit suicide. Susan told my dad I had been hostile and refused to sign a pledge to not kill myself. My dad responded first with, “Jesus Christ, Jean” followed by, “A pledge? What good does that do?” Me, “Exactly!” Dr. Mike explained most people try to keep their promises, even promises not to self-harm. The 72 hours provided an opportunity to come down from a heightened emotional state and seek help, if needed. Instead of keeping my mouth shut, I argued that if I wanted to kill myself I wouldn’t be hindered by a unenforceable contract. Not what Dr. Mike wanted to hear.

For the next hour, Susan sat smugly in the corner, my mom cried, my dad tried to negotiate with the psychiatrist, and I was unapologetically hostile towards my mother. Finally, Dr. Mike had a decision. He was not convinced I wasn’t a danger to myself or others. Wait! What? This was the evaluation? Shit. Fucking Susan.

Dr. Mike explained I would be admitted to the 5^th floor psych ward at Puget Sound Hospital for a mandatory 72 hour hold and was now officially a ward of the State. What the fuck is with these people and their 72 hours? As if that wasn’t bad enough, a psychiatrist had to be on duty during those 72 hours, but the hospital wasn’t staffed with a doctor on the weekends. My mandatory 72 hours just became five days. Five. Fucking. Days. And there wasn’t a damn thing my parents could do about it.

I spent the final days of my junior year of high school in a psych ward.