By Jenna Kahn
The nurse woke me at four-thirty in the morning to take my blood. Someone else had taken it less than six hours before, in the emergency room, but pointing that out seemed disrespectful because he was a nurse with years of schooling behind him, and I was just another suicidal senior in high school. After he left with five vials of my blood, and I was sufficiently drowsy, I rested fitfully until it was time for the morning devotional at six.
Wrapped in a beltless robe and wearing slip-resistant socks, I trudged to the room at the end of the hall to meet with the chaplain. As a former Mormon and current agnostic, I was skeptical of this process. But I was at a Catholic hospital, and I was hoping that attending every meeting and group therapy session would score me brownie points with the attending psychiatrist, and I would be able to go home sooner.[…]