Three weeks ago I voluntarily entered a rehabilitaion center for depression. It wasn’t my first time to see the hospital, three months ago I had entered for the same thing, but due to fresh instability that trip was less than enjoyable. I was resistant to any help and sad, a bad combination. At 2 a.m, with my parents supportively trailing behind, we entered the ER. The sign that read “emergency” iridescently shone in red, and welcomed us through the sliding glass door to the front desk. Upon completion of some brief paperwork, I scowered the lobby for any open seats.
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