“Kyle, it’s time to get up, I need to take your vitals,” were not the first words I was used to hearing on Christmas morning. As for the woman talking to me it wasn’t my mother, it was my nurse. I spent Christmas morning in 2016 inside of a psych ward at an abysmal Glenn Oaks hospital following a suicide attempt. That morning I ate my cold eggs and watched Fast and the Furious with no friends, no family, and no allies. Holding back tears in baggy grey sweatpants and charcoal black rubber flip flops provided by the hospital. They took my shoes when I was admitted because, Drawstrings and shoelaces weren’t allowed in the unit so nobody hung themselves.
They provided all of the patients with
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