I awoke to what seemed like another frigid morning. Through my window, I observed steam rising from the manholes, reminiscent of teapots releasing steam.

Yet, I had no way of gauging just how chilly it truly was, as I found myself confined in a psychiatric ward once again.

“Welcome to the winter of my dissatisfaction,” I mused. However, winter had already come and gone; it was mid-April, and technically spring should have arrived.

Yet, overnight, a light layer of heavy, wet snow had blanketed the grass by the time I woke.

I donned a sweatshirt, slipped into my fuzzy moccasins, and made my way to the cafeteria for breakfast. I settled at one of the first tables, across from a blonde woman I had never seen before.

“Hi,” I greeted her.

She returned my greeting with a warm smile. “Hi! I was just admitted overnight. I’m Brandy.”

Brandy, who was a few years my senior, looked exhausted yet surprisingly upbeat considering the tumultuous night she had just experienced in the ER and the admission process.

As we ate, I discovered that Brandy was a mother of three children, aged around 10 to 12, and was divorced from their father.

After finishing a banana and a tiny cup of strawberry yogurt, I excused myself and opted for a few laps in the hallway for some exercise.

After about ten laps, I encountered Brandy, who had been observing me from the dayroom doorway.

“Can I join you?” she asked as I turned at the end of the hall. “I could use some exercise.”

Honestly, I wasn’t eager to have company; I preferred to walk in solitude. Yet, I didn’t want to seem unfriendly.

“Sure! I’d love the company,” I replied, stretching the truth.

Brandy matched my steady pace, which was brisk but far from speedy.

After briefly discussing the snow, Brandy suddenly declared, “I’m really depressed,” her tone tinged with regret.

I figured we had moved beyond small talk.

Her admission didn’t shock or disturb me; many individuals in the psych ward were grappling with severe depressive episodes. Typically, the ER wouldn’t admit someone unless they posed a danger to themselves or others.

Depression is often the root of suicidal thoughts.

Still, there’s no adequate response to such a confession. What was I supposed to say? Empty phrases like, “Everything will be okay, you’re in the right place?”

How could I know if she'd be fine? I was not a therapist, nor did I have medical training. I was barely managing my own struggles.

The best I could offer was a clichéd, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Fortunately, she let that statement linger, and we resumed our earlier conversation about where we lived and our children. I kept my hometown vague; it wasn't like she knew my last name or could track me down, but I valued my privacy. I didn’t want anyone from the psych ward showing up at my door.

Haven’t you heard? They’re the ones with issues. Not me, of course; just everyone else.

In many respects, the area where I lived epitomized extreme affluence. High-powered executives, doctors, lawyers, and even professional athletes resided here. The community boasted some of the best public schools, luxurious homes, and that all-too-familiar attitude of “we’re better than everyone else” that often accompanies wealth.

Despite having lived here my entire life, albeit as a middle-class underachiever, I understood the hidden struggles behind their polished exteriors.

These affluent individuals face just as many problems, if not more, but they possess the resources to conceal their issues better than most. It can be shocking for outsiders to realize that those with wealth grapple with real-life challenges, including mental health issues.

I noticed a black orthopedic boot on Brandy’s left leg, typically worn during recovery from a lower leg injury. She seemed accustomed to it and walked at a normal pace.

Still, I felt compelled to inquire.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what happened to your leg? That boot looks uncomfortable, but you seem to manage just fine.”

She welcomed my curiosity, her cheeks reddening slightly.

“Well, it’s a bit of a funny story,” Brandy began. “There was a wasp nest on my house, and one night, I decided to take it down.”

I was relieved she had the sense to wait until night to tackle the wasp nest, eagerly anticipating the unfolding antics. Brandy did not disappoint.

“So, I climbed onto my car with a bucket of water to catch the nest when it fell.”

Um, seriously?

“After I knocked it down, a swarm of angry wasps returned and began attacking me,” she explained, gesturing animatedly. “It was terrible! They were stinging me everywhere.”

While I felt sympathy, I couldn’t understand why she was surprised by the outcome, yet I kept my thoughts to myself. The experience must have been challenging enough without my judgment.

“I was swatting at the wasps; they kept coming, and I was getting stung all over. That’s when I fell off the car.”

She vividly illustrated what not to do when faced with a wasp nest.

Better to call an exterminator next time.

And then the conclusion, “When I fell, I landed awkwardly on my left leg. I broke it in a couple of places.” Ouch. That sounded excruciating.

Brandy continued with a cheerful tone, “It hurt a lot, but I felt more ashamed than anything. Seriously, what was I thinking?”

Despite her embarrassment, she managed to laugh at her misfortune. “I guess it was all pretty funny, wasn’t it?”

I chuckled lightly, not wanting to mock someone else's misfortune, but the story felt straight out of a comedic sketch. The conversation remained lighthearted until she shifted from laughter to genuine tears.

“I really hate being here,” Brandy confessed.

Out of nowhere, she revealed, “I haven’t seen my kids in a year,” her eyes shimmering with tears.

I realized how wrong it was to judge someone without understanding their journey. Brandy appeared to be an average, fit stay-at-home mom clad in expensive leggings and a cashmere hoodie.

She looked like someone who drove a luxurious SUV, stopping for lattes on her way to a tennis lesson.

In other words, she didn’t fit the stereotype of someone regular folks would feel sympathy for.

It was no surprise that this seemingly perfect woman hid profound sadness behind her eyes.

In a feeble attempt to show understanding, I murmured a response that hovered between pity and empathy. As a mother myself, I could not fathom the pain she must have felt. Honestly, I had to fight back my own tears. Almost.

Those mood stabilizers I was on had to be good for something.

At a loss for words, I simply said, “I’m sorry.” By this point, our pace had slowed significantly.

“Thanks,” she replied, her expression despondent. “I really appreciate that,” as if I had performed a heroic act.

“My ex-husband doesn’t believe in mental illness. He has a prestigious job and is well-respected. During our divorce, it was easy for him to persuade the judge that my illness made me an unfit parent.”

That’s when her tears flowed freely. It pained me to witness someone cry, especially someone I barely knew who felt comfortable sharing their life stories after just a short encounter.

There seems to be something about my demeanor that makes strangers feel they can and should divulge their most intimate troubles.

In truth, I could barely manage my own life. I was hardly qualified to serve as an armchair therapist for someone whose struggles extended far beyond my understanding. Brandy’s children had been taken from her by her ex-husband, and that was beyond my capacity to help.

“He uses my depression to keep the kids from me,” she sobbed, wiping her tears with her cashmere sleeves.

Perhaps Brandy just needed to express the weight of her truth to find relief. Regardless, I felt ill-equipped to assist her.

Except for one thing: I could listen. I excel at listening.

We fell silent for a moment while Brandy’s words lingered in the air. Then, she abruptly changed the subject.

“It’s hard being alone,” she said softly, sniffling to keep her tears at bay. While her tears had dried, her swollen red eyes revealed a woman in distress.

I couldn’t fully relate to Brandy’s feelings of loneliness. I had been alone before, having been a divorced single mom at one point.

Now, however, I was married. I recognized how fortunate I was, but I understood that many who suffer from mental illness aren’t as lucky. Not that everyone needs to be married, but having a close support system makes a significant difference.

Being alone only exacerbates an already difficult situation. Brandy acknowledged the importance of companionship.

“I’ve been trying to meet someone new, but it’s so tough at my age.” I estimated she was in her early fifties, so I believed she was right. I was about to suggest a dating app when she made her unexpected request.

“Do you know anyone you could set me up with?” she asked, her expression earnest and somewhat innocent.

In an instant, a myriad of thoughts raced through my mind. The first and foremost was how to escape this conversation.

Brandy was somewhat of a train wreck. She was a lovely woman, genuinely kind, and caught in a challenging situation, but even if I could think of someone suitable, I couldn’t, in good conscience, recommend her as a good match.

Of course, I didn’t voice any of these thoughts to her. I chose the path of least resistance instead.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I replied. “Honestly, I don’t know many single men these days.” That was truthful.

What I wanted to express to Brandy was that she needed to sort out her own life before considering bringing someone else into it. She required serious therapy and a competent lawyer to help her regain access to her children.

Only then would it make sense for her to seek a partner.

By now, we had walked more than half a mile in the hallway, me in my moccasin slippers and Brandy in her orthopedic boot. It felt as though we were the only two people in the unit; everyone else had faded into the background.

We might as well have been on a secluded trail in a serene forest. It was just the two of us, and Brandy was sharing her innermost secrets with me, a complete stranger in a locked psychiatric ward.

The ER doctors hadn’t admitted me to the unit to offer therapy to the other patients.

Yet, that day, I did what I could because that’s what we, as human beings, do for one another when someone is in pain.

During the rest of my hospital stay, I encountered Brandy occasionally, but I tried to maintain my distance without being impolite. I felt I had done all I could for her, and frankly, she had caused me a level of emotional strain that I was not equipped to handle at that time.

Just because someone unloads their burdens onto you doesn’t mean you have to carry them.

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This article was published on June 17th, 2024 in Deep. Sweet. Valuable. publication.