Monday, June 7, 2010
When I first saw Christine, she was sitting at a table crying. It was the day I had arrived at the hospital, for the second time. Being there again as a regular was kinda depressing. She sat their, like a great lump, tears falling down her face and breathing heavily. "Why are you crying?" asked one of the girls. "I hate it here. I want to go home." she replied, solemnly. "It isn't that bad once you get used to it. The first day is always the worst." I said to her, in a phony optimistic tone. She stared up at me through her mess of hair and gave me a quant smile. I smiled back. It was the first real smile in weeks.
Whenever I look up at a building, I try and imagine what it would look like to someone about to jump off. Its very twisted. All the tiny people, surrounded by their bubbles of naive happiness and contentment, all looking forward and walking about. And then there is all the rooftops and clouds in pretty colors and scattered patterns. There is something vaguely romantic about it all, for me at least. Having the power to bend your knees and jump off leaving behind the facade of normality and giving everything up for final contentment. Some people call it a view, and I call it death. Its funny how differently I see everything.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Three attempts, two months. I feel like a failure. I am a failure. And what gets to me, is that my life isnt that hard, and im not that crazy, im simply sad. There would be days were i would just sleep at home, afraid of what the future held, afraid of trying to get anywhere. Or sometimes i would just sit and stare at the cuts on my arms, so thin, so perfect. Death was a mystery to me, and that is why i sought out to find it. It was the unknown. To attempt suicide, one has to already feel the pain, and experience it. Sure, everyone wants to die and forget about everything at some point in their life. Its only when you start preparing yourself for the pain and suffering, both mentally and physically, when you know you are suicidal. The people who arent prepared to live, are prepared to die.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Minnie came about 4 days into my stay at the hospital. She had a beautiful smile and was good at pretending she was ok. We had this in common. Minnie had tried to cut off her own hand. She showed us all the cut. Everyone thought it was disgusting, other than me. I thought it was beautiful. There is something about wounds that I found lovely. Maybe it was the sear the knife made and how the bright red would slowly envelop my skin, and I could watch and give myself the power to do this. Or maybe it was the reminder that I was a living, breathing, human being with skin and bones, and layers, but most of all, feelings. The people that surrounded me exploited my feelings on a regular day-to-day basis. My soul was bleeding from the names I had been called. Mostly slut. Everyone has a different tolerance for how much shit they can take in life. Taylor’s was high, and so was Minnie’s. Minnie’s mother was a drug addict and hurt her both emotionally and physically. She finally was taken into foster care. Minnie told me that she had been so scarred by what her mother did to her that she blamed herself. She was still smiling.
My first group session came as a bit of a shock. We were in a shabby room with blue seats that had been ripped apart and their were yellow stains on the ceilings. About 14 boys came into the room, all looking more disturbed than the last. Not all of them were unattractive, and their was something interesting about them all. Some girls couldn’t handle having boys in the group and would stand up and spontaneously attempt to get naked. I found this very amusing, but the staff did not. One of the boys there was completely silent all through group. He wasn’t illiterate or retarded; he just refused to speak in this ‘crazy-house’. His name was DeJohn and he would stare at me all through group not blinking. He had dark chocolate skin and wore a neon green t-shirt. One day in group, he opened up.He told us that he felt like he could trust us, so he decided to let us on in his secret. He was Wolverine. He told us that at his school, everyone was afraid of him as they had seen his claws, and when the police came for him, they had to call in 10 men just to pin him down. He was convinced that he was white, with green eyes. He spoke about how he liked to lift up cars and how he was deciding weather to use his power for good or for bad. I looked at his hands. There were three deep cuts on the knuckles of each hand. I felt like crying. What was sad about him, was not what he was saying, it was the fact that he believed everything that was coming out of his mouth so strongly, and I knew it would eventually destroy him. Some of the people in group laughed and played along, but I just watched in silence.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The hospital was an escape for some of us. A confined parallel universe away from the expectations and rules of the real world. The environment was surreal. We were locked up, stripped bare of our façade of normality, with less clothes and no make up. Our privacy was gone, but we were somewhat free. Some girls couldn’t handle leaving. I remember one girl, Anna, who had short brown hair, tan skin and wonky teeth threw a fit the day before she left. She ran around the hallways screaming “This place is a fuck up. It doesn’t do shit for you. Fuck up!” and then slammed her door so hard that bits of the crappy wall fell onto the floor. Some of the girls found this very amusing and jumped with joy and clapped their hands as if it was a movie or show. This happened during visiting hour and her mother watched the whole thing. There were several parts of the day where we were expected to just keep to ourselves: Quiet time and Visiting hour. I just sat on my bed in silence and thought. I thought about trying to kill myself again, I thought about the headlights of the car I ran in front of and I thought of the faces of the two children in the backseat. Before I knew it I would be lying on my bed crying for hours on end.