Part 2, the day after suicide

The day after

When I awoke, the nurse was changing my bandages. The look in her eyes was sadness and pity. She couldn’t understand how I had given up. I also felt some anger, as if my life belonged to her or she felt what I had done was senseless or just dumb. I wanted to scream at her that it was none of her business. She looked at the wounds on my wrists and just shook her head.

I was told I was to see the Psychritrists. It was obvious I wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. I knew the procedure. It wasn’t like it was the first time I tried to kill myself.

The Psychritists came into the room and sat down. He was a nice looking guy. I had doctors who were really bitchy and made me feel confrontational. He said he just wanted to talk. My hospital records indicated I had been there before. He asked me if I had ever been put on any medication. If I had ever been diagnosed as depressive. I told him no, because every time I found some way out of the situation.

The other attempted suicides I kinda played light. I thought I was just being dramatic. And when I ended up in the hospital, I just made a lot of jokes and tried to explain to the doctors it wasn’t as serious as they thought. I would say I just took too many pills or I would say , I would just trying to get attention, and I use big words and smile a lot and they usually let me go home in a day.

But that time was different. The wounds were cut too deep to say I was just playing. It was obvious I was serious. But I had fears of being diagnosed. I stayed away from therapists. My mother was crazy, so I had fears of becoming her one day. When I was a kid they told me I was going to grow up crazy.

But I couldn’t run anymore. The cat was out of the bag. I wasn’t doing so well with my life. I thought to myself, that maybe I was crazy. I got scared. I thought they would test me and then put me in a mental institution for the rest of my life.

The doctor said he wanted me to stay in the hospital for a couple of weeks. He said he wanted to run some tests on me, talk some more, get to the bottom of my recent break down.

I knew right then, it was more than just me acting out. It was more than just me having a lousy childhood. Something was really wrong with me. I needed to figure it out. I didn’t want to go back into the world if I didn’t figure it out.

Part 3, Getting processed into the Psyc Ward