Reader Report – I didn’t know who’d check on me. I knew who wouldn’t.
They called it “voluntary admission.”
But nothing about it felt like choice.
Not when I had to
hand over my shoelaces,
my phone,
my last thread of self-trust…
And her.
She’s a mutt.
No pedigree. No papers.
Just years of knowing when I was about to fall apart
and curling up tighter around me when I did.
They said no animals allowed.
Policy.
I asked if someone could check on her.
No one answered.
I left her leash looped around a bike rack.
Left my heart there, too.
She looked at me like I was coming back in five minutes.
I came back two days later.
By then, she’d been taken in by a stranger.
Or a shelter.
Or maybe no one.
No one could tell me.
I came in to get stable.
I left with a discharge summary
and a hole where trust used to be.
It wasn’t the meds that hurt.
Or the group therapy.
It was the sound of that leash dropping
and no one hearing it hit the ground.
I didn’t know who’d check on me.
I knew who wouldn’t.
