Aspyn is Starting Over

𝙾𝚗𝚎

While most of my classmates are probably splashing in the ocean waves, snapping sun-drenched selfies, and hopping from one summer bash to the next, my summer "vacation" has been dramatically less glamorous. Instead of salty sea air and beach sand, I've been getting acquainted with the sterile scent of hospital disinfectant and the not-so-cozy confines of room 302 in the psych ward.

My summer took a detour right at the start, landing me here after a suicide attempt. The initial days were the toughest—stuck in the main hospital to mend my wounds and flooded with fluids to keep dehydration at bay. Calling it the worst time of my life would be an understatement.

Waking up for the first time in that hospital bed was like being electrocuted. Panic set in fast, and I started thrashing around. I had no clue where I was or how I got there—I just knew I needed to get out. I tried to yank out the tubes, tried to bolt up, but I couldn't. I was strapped down, limbs restrained, feeling like a star in some sci-fi movie about to be experimented on.

Just then, a couple of orderlies rushed over with the kind of urgency you'd expect in a hospital drama. "Miss Robinson, I need you to calm down," one of them said in a voice so calm it almost seemed out of place. "Just breathe, Aspyn."

I tried to see who was talking, but all I got was a face full of bright hospital lights blinding me.

"Aspyn, relax, please, and then we can talk."

I kept struggling, letting out a scream that I'm pretty sure could have shattered those bright lights, but then something changed. A soothing wave washed over me, the edges of my vision started to blur, and before I could even muster a word, I was swallowed by darkness.

***

For two days, I was out cold, sedated until I could wake up without freaking out. When I finally did, it was an endless loop of the same old questions. But eventually, the doctors decided I wasn't a threat—to them or myself—and granted me my own room in the psych ward.

Honestly, I was hoping to be dead by this point. The doctors and nurses constantly reminded me how lucky I was that my mother found me in time and was able to get me to the hospital before I bled out. Our definitions of luck are clearly very different.

Surprisingly, the hospital stay hasn't been the worst thing in the world. As far as hospitals go, this one is a lot better than most. The bed's kind of comfy, the room's bigger than mine at home, and the food? Shockingly good. Plus, there's cable TV—a luxury I don't get at home.

The staff here is pretty cool, too. No judgy looks or hushed whispers. And then there's Dr. Preston, aka Dr. Dreamboat, the kind of guy who looks like he stepped off a movie poster. Medium brown hair, a forever-five-o'clock shadow, and these deep brown eyes that could probably hypnotize you if you stared too long. He is literally the epitome of a modern-day Adonis.

A light knock snaps me out of my daydream. "Aspyn, are you awake?"

Speak of the devil—it's Dr. Dreamboat, peeking in with that killer smile. "Good, good. I have some great news for you!"

"What's the scoop?" I tease, hoping maybe I'd get upgraded to a room with a view. "V.I.P. room finally ready for me?"

He chuckles, walking in with Cindy, my favorite nurse. "Even better. You're getting discharged!"

My heart sinks. "Oh..." I mutter, turning to stare out at the hospital's flower garden. Being here felt like a break from reality, in a weird way.

Dr. Preston's enthusiasm dips but quickly recovers. "This is good news, Aspyn! It's only been six weeks—some folks stay much longer."

He walks to the other side of my bed and sits down in the only chair in the room, right beside the window. "Now, Cindy is here to give you your meds and put ointment on your wrists," he states as I feel Cindy gently take my left hand in hers. "And we can start on your paperwork."

Cindy has been my savior during my time in this place. Along with being mega-mellow, she has also been super understanding and patient with me. She specifically chose to work in the psych ward due to her past struggles with mental illness, which landed her in this same ward during her teenage years.

She is a petite woman in her mid-30s with short, curly auburn hair that frames her heart-shaped face. She has bright green eyes and a dimpled smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes when she laughs.

I give Dr. Preston a small nod to show I'm following along. Over the next half hour, he lays out everything—emergency hotlines, care instructions for my scars, and a couple of prescriptions, including some ointment to help the marks fade. It feels like signing up for a subscription service I never wanted.

"We just need to wait for your mom to sign these release papers since you're still under 18," he mentions, checking his watch. "She should be here any minute now. I talked to her this morning."

Oh, joy. Mother of the Year makes her grand entrance soon. Since my incident, it's like we're contestants on a game show called 'Who Can Be More Distant?'

She's been by exactly once a week, dropping off clean clothes and some cash for snacks like I'm a kid at camp—not recovering in a hospital. Each visit is a masterclass in silence and dodged glances.

Right on cue, as if she's got my thoughts on speed dial, she breezes into the room. "Hey, Dr. Preston, sorry I'm running a little late."

"No worries at all! Aspyn and I were just wrapping up here. You're right on time. Have a seat," he says with a grin, motioning to the chair next to my bed.

Mom smiles back at him as she takes the offered seat, the kind of smile that's all charm and no warmth.

"Let me just go over the basics we've discussed," Dr. Preston starts, optimistic as ever. "Her stitches are out, and the wounds are healing well. She'll need to keep the bandages on a bit longer, allow them some air after showers, and keep them clean."

"Doctor," Mom cuts in, her voice as brisk as a winter morning, "I'm sure I don't need to know all this as long as Aspyn does. I'd really like to get going if that's okay."

A moment of stunned silence from Dr. Preston. It's clear he's just caught a glimpse of the ice queen persona I've been dealing with forever. "Uh, yes, Mrs. Robinson. Of course," he stammers a bit. "I just thought you'd like to be informed."

"Nope," she says flatly, flipping through the papers he handed her as if checking off a grocery list. "This isn't my job; it's hers."

Dr. Preston's face says it all, but he recovers quickly. "Alright then. I just need you to sign here, and Aspyn can go home."

"Thank goodness," Mom sighs, scribbling her name with the urgency of someone late for a movie.

Dr. Preston gives me a look that's part sympathy, part encouragement. "Aspyn, why don't you start packing up your things while I finish here with your mother?"