I woke up, disappointment flooding me after realising I was still here, followed by a small, shaky sigh of relief. I crawled out of bed and debated going into school as normal: a mock drama A-Level looming. But, growing concerned about the impact what I’d taken could have on my system, I got up, found my mum and told her.
My mum, a nurse, barely said anything. Anger, confusion and disappointment flitted across her face before she picked up the car keys and drove me to A&E in silence. After a hushed conversation with a nurse, embarrassment slowly creeping into my cheeks, I was shown to the kids’ ward. At 17, I was legally still a child. My mum and I sat alone on a low, squidgy foam bench in a painted room adorned with flowers and animal pictures. I felt like I’d been put in Teletubby jail. When the nurse came to take my bloods, the needle was tiny, and the plaster left behind bore a teddy bear. I was put on fluids to flush my system, no words exchanged, and sent away.
