Emergency Room

Fraud.

That’s the only word you can use to describe how you were feeling right now. A fraud.
The only reason you were even here was because Harry was struggling, he accepted defeat in your illness. He had tried so hard to clean up the bloodied mess you had made in the bedroom, but the red liquid had soaked through the sheets and the carpet. “It’s too deep darlin’” he had murmured to your woozy, heavily bleeding body. “We need help” he’d said, although more to himself than you.

You watch on as other patients are being rushed into hospital, the emergency room massively over capacity as the NHS continues to struggle on such a small budget on a daily basis. Some are being wheeled in on trolleys and wheelchairs following their injuries; a father and his son have been involved in a road traffic accident, a young girl has an appendicitis, an elderly man is having a heart attack, an elderly woman has had a nasty fall, a baby has suspected meningitis, a middle-aged man is having a stroke, the list is endless.

And then there’s you, with self inflicted injuries, being pushed back further and further, your waiting time increasing as real life threatening emergencies come charging through those double doors to A&E in London, prioritised over you.

You look down at the blood soaked rag wrapped untidily around your wrists and the gentle squeeze that Harry’s hand gives your own is enough to telepathically tell you that he knows what you’re thinking, and that you shouldn’t be having those thoughts.

“You’ll be seen soon, darlin’” his soft voice whispers as he gives you a supportive smile, kneeling in front of you. “I filled out the assessment paperwork for you. I disclosed self-injury - I didn’t have to but the receptionist assured me that you’ll be treated like everyone else, ok?” he murmurs.

You swallow the lump in your throat, unable to vocalise yourself and quite frankly, you don’t trust your voice not to break right in front of everyone here.

“It’ll be different this time (y/n), I promise. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere” his voice whispers once again, his thumb skimming over your hand.

You want to believe him, you really do. But your previous experiences in hospitals and emergency rooms had never been good nor have they ever resulted in positive outcomes. You were yet to be the patient of a sympathetic and empathetic healthcare professional. You were yet to encounter someone treating you as an actual human being who attends the A&E department with injuries, just like any other patient, and for that professional to be respectful and allow your experience to be that of a dignified one.

Your first hospital experience had been terrifying. It hadn’t been the first time you had harmed your precious body and it certainly wasn’t going to be the last. But at that stage in your mental illness, you had by far, sustained the worst injuries. The wounds were deep, blood never ending.

You didn’t want to die, though. Self-harm and suicide attempts are never to be mistaken. You were hurting yourself in order to live, not to die.

“She’s a self-harmer” the receptionist had told the doctor who was due to examine you.
Your body felt minuscule as you stood ashamed between the two older women.

“Another one?” the doctor asks, flicking through the pages attached to the clipboard in her hands as her eyes noticeably roll to the back of her head. “This way, then” she had spoken firmly.

You were hot on her heels as you followed her into the treatment ward. She gestured towards the bed and as you entered the bay, you had wrapped your fingers around the dark blue curtain, ready to pull it closed around the area for privacy.

“No. Keep it open” the female doctor had spoken sharply. “I can see we’re going to have problems with you” she mutters.

Your eyes instantly dropped to the floor; you felt like a schoolgirl who had been sent to the headmasters office, even though you hadn’t caused any trouble. Your bottom lip trembled and tears pricked at your eyes as the woman in front of you showed absolutely no compassion.

You didn’t want sympathy. You didn’t want people feeling sorry for you. Never. But you did want to be treated like a human being with feelings, like any other patient would deserve to be treated. Yes, you had inflicted this pain and these injuries on yourself, but that didn’t make you any less of a person. You were ill, too.

You had sat on the bed as the doctor instantly pulled on a pair of rubber gloves before reaching for the instruments she needed. She quickly cleaned the wounds and stitched the cuts, almost as if she was desperate to move onto the next patient, someone more worthy of her time, someone more worthy of medical care.

No anaesthetic had been used to numb the area and the stitching was painful. She hadn’t informed you of the procedure that was going to take place and she hadn’t spoken to you throughout your visit. Instead, you sat in silence, your arms outstretched as your wounds were laid bare to other patients. The occasional stares and background whispers were difficult to drown out whilst you sat on the trolley undignified.

“The stitches can be removed by your GP in about ten days” she snapped as she completed the stitching before ushering you out of the bay.

You hurriedly signed the necessary paperwork and handed it back to the woman at the reception desk, not wanting to be in that God forsaken place any longer. The cold air hit you harshly, the bitterness biting away at your cheeks and the tip of your nose. Taking out your phone, your mind registers the time and you sigh heavily, choking on a sob.

You had walked home alone at 3am that night and cried all the way back to your college dorm room.

Harry had informed the reception staff of your previous hospital visits - how anaesthetic hadn’t been used and how you had been judged from the moment you walked through the doors of the A&E department to the moment you left, as well as the general staff attitude. “She’s very nervous, and she’s really scared” he had told them upon arrival, out of your earshot.

He too, was aware of the unacceptable treatment you had received at the hospital a couple of years ago, before you two had even met. It was beyond Harry how anyone could be so heartless, especially when they were in a caring profession. Nobody that saw you that day seemed to understand the psychological effects of self-harm and was clearly incapable of being aware of the unimaginable amount of emotional pain a person must be in to take a blade to their body. These people, professionals, were supposed to help you. They weren’t there to judge you, that’s not in their job description.

Nobody knew about your life, or the struggles you experienced as a student, meeting deadlines and working around them, yet having no money to show for it, therefore having an affect on your social life and having few to no friends to spend time with. You were homesick, lonely, and with working to get money to live and survive, you were failing and repeating assignments and classes.

Everything became too much and self-harm was your coping mechanism, your friend.
“(Y/N Y/LN)?” you hear a voice calmly question your name.

Harry stands up, giving your hand a gentle tug and encouraging you to follow him. You instantly oblige and you both head towards the young female holding a clipboard as she flicks through the assessment information Harry had provided the reception staff with upon arrival.

She gives you both a small smile before guiding you to the treatment room. “Take a seat (y/n)” she offers. “Wherever you’d like, it’s not a problem.”

You had never been given the option before. You were always used to your freedom being stripped away from you upon your visits to the emergency room. There’s a trolley-like bed, a place where you’re used to sitting in the hospitals you’d been treated in prior to this one, and there’s a low stool, where doctors and nurses, from your experience, usually sit, and a chair, pushed into the corner of the bay.

You choose what you’re familiar with, perching yourself onto the trolley. Harry sits himself in the dark blue cushioned chair, his knee bouncing nervously and his fingers fiddling with his rings as he softly chews his bottom lip. The doctor sits herself on the stool in front of you.

“Right (y/n), I’m Doctor. Collins. Now, I hear you’re a little nervous about your visit here with us today but I can assure you that there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, ok? I want to provide a space where you feel safe and comfortable, so before I start treating you, is there anything I can do to help you feel safe?” she asks gently.

You nod and point to the curtain which remains open. You hadn’t dared touch it when you entered the treatment bay. “I-I” you begin stammering, “don’t want people… looking at me” you whisper.

“That’s absolutely fine (y/n), we’ll close it, ok?” she murmurs softly as she stands from her spot and pulls the curtain around the bay, giving you the privacy you deserve. “Anything else I can do for you?” she asks.

You shake your head, the environment already beginning to feel a lot safer than what you’d ever experienced.

“Ok” she smiles without hesitation. “In that case, we can start treating you. First things first, may I see your injuries (y/n)?” she asks gently. You frown in confusion, never having been asked before. Healthcare practitioners in the past had just yanked up the sleeves of your arms, not bothering to maintain your dignity.

You give her a small nod and attempt to unravel the blood soaked rag, fighting against the tight knot Harry had made around your wrists.

“Would you like some help?” Doctor Collins offers her support once more. You instantly accept it. Once the material is removed, there’s no reaction. No shock, no fear, no disappointment or even judgement expressed in her features. Instead, she talks to you calmly, informing you of the procedure about to take place. “Ok, so I’m going to clean the wounds before I do anything else. Then I’m going to give you some anaesthetic to numb the area and then we’ll have some stitches because some of the cuts are a little deep (y/n)” she tells you.

You nod once again in understanding as you watch the medical practitioner opening the packets of antiseptic wipes ready to clean your wounds.

“I’d like you to remember you’re in control of this situation (y/n). If you need me to stop, that’s absolutely fine, and if I ask any questions that make you feel uncomfortable, you don’t have to answer them. But obviously, the more I know about you, the more help I can give you” she smiles softly, both to you and Harry.

You wince visibly at the contact of the antiseptic wipe and the fresh cuts on your arms. Harry grimaces as he watches on, the difficulty of seeing you in so much pain taking it’s toll on him.

“Do you regularly harm yourself (y/n)?” she asks gently as the blood seeps through the wipes.

You give a small nod but you stay silent, ashamed of your habit, addiction, your illness.

“Yeah” Harry’s voice answers for you following a small cough. “Twice, sometimes three times a week” he murmurs as he rubs the back of his neck. “It depends on how she’s feeling, really” he trails off. There were times when you would be happy and could go for a few weeks without hurting yourself, but there were also times when the pressures of life mounted upon you and your only coping mechanism was to find comfort in causing your skin to bleed.

“And what did you use to cut yourself with today (y/n)?” the doctor questions.

Again, you stay silent. Whilst this was a complete parallel experience, being treated with respect and maintaining your dignity, you still weren’t too sure if you could trust your voice not to crack before having a breakdown in the treatment bay. The doctor talks to you, but Harry answers for you, and that’s good enough for you.

“She er- she has blades” Harry murmurs. “I normally find them and take them away, but she always manages to get more - or she finds something else” he mentally scolds himself for not rummaging through your belongings more regularly and removing anything in your possession which could cause you this much harm.

“Is that your go to instrument that you use (y/n)?” You answer this time, giving the doctor a small nod. “Right, I’m going to give you an anaesthetic and then stitch together the wounds” she tells you. The process is quick, before she begins stitching.

The anaesthetic had kicked in quickly and you were almost pain free.

The doctor focuses on the stitches, but occasionally looks towards Harry. “We normally advise those supporting a person who self-harms to avoid taking away any tools that they use. Sometimes it can be more dangerous to take them away” she confirms. Earning a confused frown from Harry, she continues, “(y/n) deems her blades as safe tools and she needs to be in control of the situation. They’re instruments that (y/n) knows won’t perhaps do as much damage as other tools might do. Using unknown tools means that any injurer isn’t sure of how much their body can take and can actually cause more harm. Taking them away can also imply a lack of trust.”

Harry chews his lip softly. “Fuck” he mutters under his breath.

He doesn’t intend for you, or the doctor, to hear, but Doctor Collins is quick to reply. “It’s absolutely fine, Harry. You’re doing your best by helping (y/n) and I can see you love her very much.”

Doctor Collins acknowledges you each time she speaks, you notice, ensuring you’re part of this conversation too, not a subject of it.

“Self-harm is also an act of control, Harry” she gestures towards your boyfriend. “We don’t want to take away any control you have (y/n)” she tells you as she makes eye contact with you, continuing to stitch together some of the deepest cuts etched in your skin. “One of the reasons you harm yourself is to gain that back into your life and I can assure you, we’re not taking that away from you” she reminds you.

Harry rubs the back of his neck again and closes his eyes, almost accepting defeat that your illness is out of his hands. He can’t help you like a professional can.

“Do either of you attend therapy sessions? Sometimes therapists can see you both individually and together so as you can work towards strategies that may reduce self-harming” she tells you both.

“We’ve had a few therapy sessions” he tells her, “but she stopped going. She wasn’t talking and there were times I couldn’t get her through the door” he confirms, running a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose as his memory unfortunately serves him too well. “We’ve written lists together too, things to do instead of self harm” he gives a small smile.
During your time of living with Harry, you had both written lists together, consisting of distractions and other things to do to avoid hurting yourself. The list was exhaustive and included but was not limited to drawing a butterfly on your body, using the calm harm app, watching a movie, listening to music, writing a story or diary entry, going for a run, taking a bubble bath - supervised by Harry so as you couldn’t sneak a razor into the bathroom - baking a cake, snapping elastic bands against your wrist, and rearranging your bedroom.

“He couldn’t help me” your voice suddenly sounds around the treatment bay, taking both Harry and Doctor Collins by surprise. It was the second sentence you had uttered since arriving at the hospital. The doctor frowns, giving your knee a gentle squeeze and encouraging you to continue. “The therapist… he couldn’t help me” you repeat. “Nobody can” you sigh.

“Are you taking any medication for depression (y/n)?” the doctor asks in concern.

You shake your head. “Don’t need meds” you tell her.

“We have them - at home” Harry clarifies for you, “but she doesn’t take them. She doesn’t like relying on tablets to make her happy, thinks they make her weak if she uses them” he bites his lip.

The doctor nods in understanding. “(Y/N), I’m going to prescribe you a course of antidepressants. Now it’s completely up to you whether you take them or not, nobody’s going to force you to do anything you don’t want to, but I highly recommend taking them.
Medication does not make you weak, ok? If you had an infection, you’d be prescribed tablets. This is the same thing, (y/n). You’re not well and you need tablets to help you get better. They’re nothing to be ashamed of.”

The doctor places the equipment away before taking a pen and scribbling on a piece of paper. She signs it before handing it to you. You stand from your spot and murmur a quick thank you and give the doctor a small smile.

“Thank you so much” Harry gratefully breathes.

“It’s no problem, it’s my job” Doctor Collins smiles, shaking Harry’s hand before you both leave the hospital, your hand enveloped in Harry’s as he skims his thumb across your skin.
The night air is cold as it makes contact with your skin, but as soon as Harry opens the door to the passenger side of the Range Rover, you know you’ll soon warm up with the luxury of heated seats. Harry closes the door behind you and heads to the drivers side, bringing himself to a halt. He closes his eyes and rests a hand on the roof of the car, pinching the bridge of his nose, almost psyching himself up to get into the car with you.

After a few moments, he climbs in and you pick at your cuticles as you comprehend how soul destroying this illness is for both you and your boyfriend. You knew this was absolutely killing him, too, and you wanted nothing more than to take his pain away from him.

“Harry?” you question unsurely.

Harry sighs and turns to face you. “I don’t want you thinking this is a setback, (y/n). Relapses happen, yeah? And we’ll try again, from now” he gives you a small supportive smile, and you can do nothing but nod as another lump forms in your throat.

He puts the key into the ignition and starts the engine.

“Let’s get you home” he whispers, resting a gentle hand on your thigh and giving you a reassuring squeeze.

The car journey home was quiet. You were battling your emotions and whilst an open dialogue was needed between the two of you as to why you had harmed yourself tonight, Harry was too concerned about your exhaustion after the long and eventful day. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing and risk another hospital visit.

Instead, you had both entered your shared apartment before Harry spoke again. “Bedtime” he whispers softly. He takes you to the bedroom and helps you undress, cautious of your wounds as he pulls his t-shirt over you.

It smells of him, of his aftershave, and when you nuzzle into bed, you pull it ever so slightly over your face, inhaling his scent. You feel his strong arms around you as he pulls you into him, his body pressed tightly against yours, almost as if you’d break if he lets you go. “I love you” he whispers, pressing kisses into your hair. “I love you so much, always love you baby.”
His words are soothing as you soon succumb to the darkness around you, your tired eyes taking a much needed rest following the day’s events.

You awake to an empty bed, the sheet beside you cold indicating the space hadn’t been occupied for quite some time. You roll over and groan, squinting your eyes as the brightness of your phone reads the time. You had been asleep for no longer than three hours, and it was early hours in the morning, so early that the birds hadn’t even started singing.

You drag your tired feet downstairs and towards the kitchen, where the ceiling spotlights are on but dimmed. If it were any darker, you would have missed Harry’s large frame at the table. His body shakes softly and you know he’s crying, and you know this is killing him. You creep further into the kitchen, your boyfriend sat on the tall stool at the island in the middle of the room.

“Harry?” you whisper softly.

His loud sniffle is enough to break your heart as he so desperately tries to stop himself from crying. You press a gentle hand to his back, feeling him shudder beneath your touch. You can see him bring the back of his hand to his face, quickly wiping away the tears as you perch yourself on the stool next to him.

“Harry?” you try again.

“Hey darlin’” he begins. “I thought you were asleep.” He runs a hand over his face before turning towards you with his red and puffy eyes, averting to your bandaged wrists and it seems almost impossible that only a few hours ago you were both waiting in the hospital to be attended to.

“Couldn’t sleep” you whisper. “I’m sorry, Harry” you murmur suddenly. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He gives you a small smile but another sniffle is enough to tell you that he’s still unhappy. “You haven’t made me cry, princess.”

You give him a sad and sympathetic look. “I have - I’ve disappointed you and for that, I’m sorry.”

Harry’s mouth is agape. “No, no no no, never angel, you never ever disappoint me. Never think otherwise sweetheart” he tells you, reaching for your hand and cradling it in his. “Never” he whispers as he raises one of your arms and presses a kiss to your wrist.

“Then why are you crying?” you ask, your innocence at the forefront.

Harry softly sighs, his hold on your arm gentle. “I’m not sad because of you” he assures you. “I’m sad that you’re poorly, sweetheart. I’m sad that you’re unwell and there’s nothing I can do to make you better. I thought I could help you, but I can’t (y/n). I’m the one who’s disappointed you. I’ve let you down, darlin’, and I am so, so sorry for that” he whispers.

You frown. “You have nothing to be sorry for, H. You’ve been amazing. From the day you found out about my self-harming, you have stuck by me through it all. You’ve been there when things have been great and you’ve been there when things have been at their hardest. You’ve seen my worst emotional breakdowns, and you’ve never once judged me for them. Nobody else in this world has sat up with me at three in the morning or one in the afternoon, holding me and telling me everything’s going to be ok. Anyone else would have run a mile, Harry, but you” you smile, “you have always been there and I can’t thank you enough for that.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else, angel” he tells you, skimming his thumb across your hand. “Always goin’ t’ be by yeh side, not goin’ anywhere” he adds.

You smile and give him a small nod, before pulling your hand away from him and twiddling your thumbs together. “I know you are and this is why I’m about to say what I’m going to - Harry, I-I” you take a deep breath before staring again. “I don’t want this anymore” you tell him softly.

Harry frowns in confusion. “What d’yeh mean petal?” he asks.

“This” you gesture to your freshly bandaged arms and the scars on your thighs exposed by your pyjama shorts. “I don’t want any of this anymore. I don’t want to be like this, I want to get better. I was researching hospitals - and I found one. It’s a psychiatric hospital in North London… and I want you to take me there…”

Silence engulfs the room before Harry breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Is that ok?” you question worriedly, unable to gauge his reaction.

Harry lets out another breath as tears threaten to overcome him once more. “Of course it’s ok, baby, it’s more than ok! Come ‘ere” he whispers, pulling your body into him. He runs his hands up and down your back, his hold on you tight as he presses kisses to your temple. “God babe, I am so, so proud of you.”

You pull away and give him a small smile, doubt evidently clouding your mind.

“What’s wrong, princess?” he asks gently.

“It means I do one to one therapy, but they do couple therapy too, so you can come to some of my sessions. We can work together to talk about solutions and coping strategies.” Harry nods, and you know he’d happily attend your sessions. “The only thing is Harry, the NHS make a referral but the waiting list is so long that I could be waiting months, sometimes years, until I get seen there as an outpatient. And I’m not sure I can wait that long” you tell him sadly. “But privately” your eyes avert to your wrists, the topic of the conversation difficult for you to bring up.

“Hey” he reassures you, cupping your face in his hands. “Whatever it costs, I’ll pay for it.”

“Just a short term loan” you murmur. “As soon as my hours pick up and I’m earning more money…” you begin, but Harry holds up a hand to cut you off.

“(Y/N), I have more money coming into my bank than I’ve had hot dinners, ok? I’m paying for your treatment and I don’t want anything back for it. The only thing I want in return is for you to get better. There’ll be relapses, I know, but all I want is for you to be healthy and happy” he assures you. “And we’re not arguing about it either!” he demands with a smirk.

You press a tender kiss to his lips.

“I don’t deserve you, Harry Edward Styles. What did I ever do to find someone as amazing as you, eh? I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”

Harry places his palm on your cheek, this thumb skimming your cheek bone.

“Hey hey hey” he breathes. “None of that.”

He pauses, sucking in a breath before continuing.

“I remember when I first met you” he laughs. “You were just you - funny, smart, and a bit cheeky if I may add. I remember our first kiss,” he murmurs as he takes his hand from your face to stroke your hair, “our first dance, our first movie night, the first time we made love. And then the day you opened up to me about your illness, I felt so honoured. You trusted me with that information and it was yournews to tell me when you felt comfortable with me, and I’m so grateful that I’m your safe space. I’m the one who’s lucky, darlin’” he continues. “I ask myself every day how I got you, angel. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, and this illness,” he whispers, “it’s just a tiny little part of you and who you are, bub. You are so much more than your illness and it does not, and will not ever, define you.”

Notes