Near the second half of my month-long stay in the Eating Disorder unit (shared by other psychiatric patients) at ________ Hospital, there was a boy that had been admitted for what I believe to be issues with depression. He was about my age, give or take a year. He had been to other hospitals, other centers, and his personal account of a psychiatric wilderness program he had been a part of made me shiver.

It was nice to have someone else my age there because, before he had arrived, I had been the youngest out of the 20+ patients on the floor at 15 years old. Since this boy hadn’t been part of the Eating Disorder unit I didn’t see him very often or talk to him that much, but there’s another reason to that as well.

His depressive behaviors were heart-breaking to me. He would spend days in his room, not even coming out to eat. He had no motivation to do so. It got to the point where staff would weigh him every few days - though they stupidly let him keep his heavy sneakers on while they did so. As far as I know, he didn’t have an eating disorder. Perhaps it could have been diagnosed that way, but I didn’t know what to think of it at the time. I had just thought it so sad.

He was very kind, and when I did talk to him, we had relatively solemn conversations. Some of these occurred when I had rebelled against my treatment program by refusing to eat. During these times, I was isolated to a desk in the long hallway that snaked around the psychiatric ward. He and others would stop or sit close by to make a little small talk with me (technically not allowed while on isolation) as I would usually be isolated like this for hours on end.

He would compliment me, wondering out loud why I would want to starve or kill myself. He had attempted suicide before, too. But he either didn’t tell me much about his past or I’ve just forgotten most of what he said over the years, but either way, I feel ashamed of not being more attentive in that respect.

The day I left the hospital with my dad, I had taken the time to say goodbye to a lot of people on the floor - no matter if they were from my unit or not. And this boy was one of them. As usual, he was in his room, and since I was about to leave, I determined that to be a good enough excuse to ask to enter - even though his parents were visiting. I had told him I would.

Upon opening the door, I saw he was sitting at a desk, and there were *Ensure bottles scattered across the room and one on his desk. His parents were sitting on his bed with a bag from Burger King or McDonalds. Whenever they came to visit (most during the last week of my stay than when he had first arrived), they brought food with them for the boy, and he would eat it. He didn’t have to go outside his room that way and scavenge for whatever food was left in the dining area after every other patient had gotten theirs.

I might have even cried right then and there at the sight, but I didn’t stay long. I hugged him, said my goodbyes (with a polite nod to his parents as well), and left.

I don’t call him by his name in this account because I honestly can’t remember it. Maybe I wrote it down somewhere in one of my journals, but I stopped journaling for a lot of that hospital stay. I hate myself for not remembering his name. I don't even know if I would even be able to recognize him now if I saw a picture. I just hope he’s okay, that he’s lived to 2013, and that he’s still trying to keep himself alive. Whether that’s with a push from his parents or some motivation inside himself.
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Author’s note: After writing this, I was so distraught over not knowing the boy’s first name that I scanned pages and pages of a computer file I had used as a journal at the time. At the very end of the journal, I found a note that revealed his name. I am very grateful for this small relief.

* Ensure is a nutritional supplemental drink, and in my own personal experience, they were used when I wouldn’t eat anything else, or for weight gain.