Before those cups even hit the floor, Taylor was already turning around and walking back out of my room. After two hours it became clear that he wouldn’t be returning. I tried calling, but he didn’t pick up any of my calls or my voicemails. I sat there in a complete state of shock. Pregnant at twenty-one was not part of my plan. Attempted suicide was not part of my plan. Taylor walking out on me again was not part of my plan. Yet here I was dealing with all three.
So as you can imagine, there was no chance of going home. Instead, David booked me straight into the hospital’s mental health clinic for the next week. I guess these days ‘psychiatric ward’ is probably not the politically correct term, or maybe this is just what posh people like to call being nuts. Anyway, I was ferried along to
