Maybe I should be relieved. Or happy.
But I’m angry.
I’m angry that I texted my friend. I’m angry that she came over. I’m angry that I opened the door. I’m angry that they called the ambulance. I’m angry that they kept me alive. I’m angry that it didn’t work.
It didn’t work.
It didn’t work.
I’m supposed to feel relieved that they saved me but I don’t. How can I be so angry at someone for doing their job? How do I be compliant with their orders if that is the opposite of what I want?
Stop waking me up every hour! Stop waking me up! I don’t want to be awake. I don’t want to be alive. Make it all stop.
They had a camera on me the whole time so I couldn’t run. I couldn’t do anything without being stopped. It was a prison but the punishment was being alive.
I just want to go home but the nurse and this hall takes me to the psych ward where I’m locked in again.
I told myself last time that I will never stay in the psych ward again. That I will never let them keep me there. That whatever I do, it will result in the morgue not here.
But I’m here again.
Familiar faces. Both nurses and patients. They remembered me. Why would anyone remember me? It all felt the same as last time but last time I was grateful, this time I am not.
My favourite care-aid comes into work and I just sob.
“No one lets me die here!”
She reminds me that I’m here because the feeling of wanting to die 24/7 is not a normal feeling. It’s my normal but it’s not normal.
They take everything away from me in here. My pencil crayons. My drawing book. My sanity. My freedom. It’s all gone. Yes that was my own fault. But if they want me to live, they will let me have the things that give me life. Right?
I’m not a difficult patient. I do what they say. I answer what they ask. I take my meds as prescribed. Compliancy. But I’m quiet because I’m thinking. Thinking about how to run away from this place without getting caught. Thinking about how to kill myself using only what is available to me. Thinking about what to do next time so I’m successful. Thinking. My head won’t stop thinking. My thoughts are like weapons that destroy all hope. Shredding it to pieces that can never me put back together.
With hope gone. My brain festers in angry thoughts. Angry I failed at killing myself. Angry I’m alive.
I know this isn’t normal.
It’s fucking hard to reach out for help when that isn’t what you want. But maybe there is a small piece of me that does want life. That is relieved that I’m here and alive.