Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 3

Standard

Post Suicide Attempt: Prologue – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/10/29/post-suicide-attempt-prologue/

Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 1 – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/11/05/post-suicide-attempt-chapter-1/

Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 2 – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/11/12/post-suicide-attempt-chapter-2/

When I was transferred to the unit in the psych hospital that had lower security, I was given a tour by one of the nurses.  I was a little afraid because I had no idea what to expect.  But the fear and hesitation I felt was nothing compared to where I was before.  This unit was much nicer.  There were sofas, the patients were allowed to open the windows and change the tv channels themselves, there was art on the walls, and I got my first glimpse of sunlight in days.

I was taken to what would be my room, where I was introduced to my roommate.  She was my age, and very friendly.  I was also introduced to another patient who showed me all of the ropes and made sure I had someone to sit with at dinner.  I was also quickly introduced to some other patients, but I didn’t really get to know them until later.

My nurse also explained “privileges” to me.  There were different levels of privileges.  The lowest was on-unit privileges, which meant that you were not allowed to leave the unit except to go to classes.  Next up were in-house privileges, which meant that you could go anywhere you wanted inside the hospital as long as you signed out and were back every hour to confirm that you hadn’t run away.  After that you got grounds privileges, which meant that you could go anywhere on the hospital grounds (you could go outside and breathe fresh air!) as long as you signed out and came back every hour.  I was immediately given in-house privileges since I had behaved so well in the previous unit.  Your doctor could also grant you evening and weekend passes so that you could spend some time at home as long as you were with a family member at all times.  And if you misbehaved, you could have your privileges taken away.

Finally, I was given a schedule.  The schedule listed all kinds of classes that were available.  These classes included horticulture, yoga, art therapy, wellness (which was super boring, but it was the only class we absolutely had to go to), and some other activities.  Our doctors also referred us to groups that were more specific to our particular issues.  I was assigned to Women’s Group (a bunch of women who sit in a circle to share their issues and support one another), Managing Emotions (learning how to identify what you are feeling and express it in a healthy way), and Cognitive Behavioural Therapy: Skills for Anxiety (learning tips and tricks to help understand your triggers and how to cope with anxiety).  I can’t really share too much about these classes because we had to sign some confidentiality forms; all I can tell you in that they existed and I learned things.

I started to get used to the routine, and I got used to eating eggs every single day because that’s what they always served the vegetarians.  Don’t get me wrong, eggs are delicious.  I just got a little tired of eating them every single day.  My original roommate was released after one night, and I was assigned a new roommate.  She was mostly bedridden, and she asked me who I was every time I entered the room.  But I made friends elsewhere.  I am even still in contact with a couple of them.

I was also finally allowed to go outside when I had a panic attack and freaked out because I felt like I was being confined in too small a space, so that was good.  It was freezing outside.  I got soaked by all of the falling snow, but I GOT TO GO OUTSIDE!  Seriously, don’t ever take the fact that you are allowed to go outside for granted.  And really, how good can it be for someone’s mental health to never let them breathe fresh air?  Even prison inmates get to go outside for an hour every day.  I’m not going to get into that right now because it’s not really relevant to my story, but I was thrilled to finally be allowed to go outside!  It was the best I had felt in months!  I even called my parents to tell them the exciting news!

There were also many challenges that I came across in this unit, and there were several things that went on outside the hospital that I felt like I was helpless to do anything about.  My school, for example, was a source of many issues.  But I’ll talk about that next week.  See you guys then!

Advertisements

Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 2

Standard

Post Suicide Attempt: Prologue – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/10/29/post-suicide-attempt-prologue/

Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 1 – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/11/05/post-suicide-attempt-chapter-1/

Valentine’s Day came a few days after I was admitted to the ICU, and I had quite a few visitors that day.  It was nice.  I was brought flowers, candies, chocolates, and stuffed animals.

I also learned that I would be moving to the psychiatric hospital as soon as they had a bed available, which ended up being the following day at 10pm.  I had to quickly pack up all of my stuff, throw out my flowers and head over there.  My personal support worker took me to the psych hospital across the street in a taxi, as per protocol, and she brought me inside.  I was greeted by a nurse, and my personal support worker left.

The nurse who greeted me showed me my locker, where I would have to keep all of my stuff.  I was allowed one book at a time in my room, and nothing with a hardcover.  All of my clothes, toiletries, and the rest of my books were locked up by the nurse.  If I wanted to get something, I had to ask at the nursing station.  She then showed me to my room.

The room had a greenish hue, and the paint was chipping in several places.  There were two chairs and a table, all attached together, and a bed.  There was also a light on, which I would later learn never turned off.  I put the book I had chosen to keep with me on the windowsill.  The window was protected by bulletproof glass and the blinds were stuck shut, so I never got to see outside.

A few minutes later, a different nurse came in and started asking me a bunch of questions.  This took a very long time, and I don’t remember all of the questions.  I do remember the nurse calling me promiscuous because I had had some no-strings-attached sex that I had to tell her about to be admitted, and I remember being asked if I had ever been arrested for a bunch of different crimes.

She also asked if I had AIDS, and I said no.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How can you really be sure if you’ve had sexual intercourse outside of a monogamous relationship?”

“I’ve been tested, and I don’t have it.”  I really did not like this nurse.  I didn’t like most of the night-time nurses, but the day-time nurses were all excellent.  I wondered if they scheduled the grumpier nurses for nights so that they would have less interaction with patients while they slept, or if the nurses were grumpy because they had been scheduled to work nights.

Eventually she left, and I went to sleep.  The real adventure began in the morning when I was woken up to a breakfast tray.  At this point, I wasn’t eating much; I still felt pretty queasy from the overdose, and I don’t think I ate anything on my first morning.  I did have tea, though.  The only tea this unit had was orange pekoe tea, and I still can’t drink or smell that kind of tea without being reminded of this unit is the psych hospital.  It also took me several months to be able to eat eggs again since most of the vegetarian meals were egg-based.

The unit was shaped like a donut.  The nursing station was in the middle with windows all around it so that they could see what was going on.  There was a hallway around the nursing station with doors to all the patient rooms, the lounge, the isolation room, and the bathrooms.  There was also a door in the far corner from my room that led to the unit with lower security.

Since there wasn’t much you could do in the unit, a bunch of the patients walked in a circle around the nursing station.  There was one woman in overalls who told me that the government had murdered her children and were now trying to silence her by keeping her locked up.  There was the girl who would eventually become one of my best friends.  There was the guy from Newfoundland who was very friendly.  Most of the patients were nice and welcoming, even though I hardly ever left my room.  But there was one patient who terrified me.

When this guy walked around the nursing station in circles, he would shout, “I didn’t mean to hurt her.  They said I meant to hurt her, but I didn’t mean to hurt her.  It was an accident!  I DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT HER!”  All the rooms had windows into them (except for the isolation room) so that the nurses could look in on us, and this guy would stop at mine and stare at me.  He looked in once while my family was visiting and my sister jumped up and screamed.  On one of the few occasions where I did leave my room to ask one of the nurses for juice, he stood behind me at the door and told me, “Your body is just like hers.”

Another terrifying situation was when I was in my room, about to go to bed with the stupid light that didn’t turn off shining above me, when the guy from the room beside me tried to get into my room.  My door handle stuck all the time, which usually annoyed me, but this time I was grateful for it.  The night-time nurses didn’t do anything about it while it was happening.  I don’t think they were paying attention because when I went to tell them what had happened, they were playing cards with their backs faced to the rest of the unit.

I knocked on the door.

“Yeah?” the one nurse asked when he opened the door.  I found him pretty intimidating.  He had once refused to give one girl her PRNs, the medications that you are supposed to be able to get whenever you asked for them as long as your doctor said it was okay.  She didn’t get her anti-anxiety meds and she had an anxiety attack.  He got mad at her, as well as the patient and I who were trying to help her breathe through it.

“That guy just tried to get into my room.”

“Oh, what?  Did he scare you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.  “Kind of.”

“Go back to bed.”

And that was that.

I was admitted on the Friday before a long weekend, so I didn’t get to see my doctor for a few days.  As soon as I did, he told me that I would be moving over to the other unit, T2, as soon as a bed became available.  At this point, I was considering begging to be allowed to go home.  I promised myself that I would never hurt myself again because I never wanted to end up back in that place.  I kept telling my mom that I wanted to go home, but she kept telling me that I needed to stay where I was.  She told me that this was the place where I was going to get the treatment I needed.  I knew she was right, but I wanted nothing more than to get out of there.

Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 3 – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/11/26/post-suicide-attempt-chapter-3/

Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 1

Standard

Post Suicide Attempt: Prologue – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/10/29/post-suicide-attempt-prologue/

This post is going to be choppy and confusing because it is going to be about when I woke up from trying to overdose on pills.  You are going to experience this like I remember it.

I wake up sprawled over my bed with vomit on the floor, on myself, and on the bed.  I go right back to sleep.

I wake up again.

I remember telling the girl who lived in the dorm room beside me, who is now my roommate, that I need to go to the hospital.  She must have gotten my residence advisor because now I’m in her car.

Now I’m sitting on a chair waiting in line to see a nurse in the ER.

I’m was over a toilet, throwing up.  Apparently this happened several times, but I only remember it happening once.

I’m in a hospital bed.  My dad is holding me up, hugging me.  My stepmom is standing behind him.  I think he told me how much I scared him and that he loves me.

I ask for my mom.

I’m listening to my headphones and I am alone.  A nurse comes and takes my phone and headphones away because I’m not allowed to have a phone with me.

I wake up after trying to roll over in my bed and tugging on the IV that is now in my arm.  A woman I do not know is sitting by my bed, reading a magazine.

My bed is being wheeled somewhere else in the hospital.  I’m starting to become a little more lucid.  I learn that the woman who was sitting in my room is my personal support worker.  She’s there to watch me in case I try to hurt myself again.  She and one or two nurses bring me to a room in the ICU.

At some point, my dad arrives with clothes.  When he is gone, my personal support worker says that it’s nice how involved my dad is.  It’s usually the moms who do everything to make their kids comfortable.

“It’s midterm time in school right now, isn’t is?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“It can be a stressful time.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that part of what happened to you?”

“No,” I say.  “I was doing just fine in all of my courses.”

Two of my friends come to visit me.  One of them brought me graphic novels to read.  They stay until my parents show up with my brother and sister.

My sister looks terrified; I know she doesn’t like hospitals.  She is sitting on the window ledge in the corner of the room.

At some point, I take a shower and realize that my dad only brought me pants.  I keep wearing my hospital gown as a shirt.

A few of my friends from residence come to visit me.  It could be the same day; it might not be.

I only really start to remember things on my third or fourth day in the hospital.  I’m in my own room with an en-suite bathroom, but I have to leave the door open when I shower and go to the washroom so that my personal support workers can keep an eye on me.  I don’t have much of an appetite for anything except toast.  I’m not allowed to have anything within reach, so I have to ask my personal support worker for books or whatever else I might want.  Except there isn’t really anything else that I’m allowed to have.  I am not allowed electronics, but the nurses let me watch tv anyway.  Whenever I have to go to the bathroom, I have to ask my personal support worker to get a nurse to take the IV out of my arm.  Eventually, my dad brings me some shirts, and I start to get used to the way things are even though I want nothing more to go home.

Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 2 – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/11/12/post-suicide-attempt-chapter-2/

Post Suicide Attempt: Prologue

Standard

Hello blog readers!  I had an assignment for one of my classes to write a short story about a life event, which inspired me to write a mini-series for this blog about the aftermath of my suicide attempt!  Cheerful, huh?  Don’t get too worried about it being super heavy and depressing.  That is not my goal.  My goal is to paint a picture of what it was like to receive treatment.  I will be releasing segments of this story every Tuesday evening, so stay tuned!  To get you all started on this journey with me, I am going to tell you about the actual suicide attempt.

It was a Sunday that I decided to take my life.  I had been thinking about doing it for a while, and I had made my decision a few days before I actually went through with it.  There were three reasons I waited until that Sunday.  One:  I was signed up as a driver for my school’s wildlife club trip to see a swan banding demonstration on the Saturday.  I didn’t want people to end up not being able to go because I had died.  Two:  I had volunteered to help my friend make soup for my residence’s Sunday soup kitchen (we all got together and ate soup; we didn’t feed the homeless).  I didn’t want to leave all of the work to her, and I didn’t want to ruin the soup kitchen, so I decided to wait until after that was over with.  Three:  I had borrowed my mom’s car, and I needed to get it back to her.  I also had a coffee date that day, but I didn’t really care; I didn’t even shower for it.

In retrospect, those all seem like really minor things in comparison to death.  But at the time, I thought I was a burden to everyone around me.  To me, it only made sense to do what I had promised others before taking my life because I didn’t want my death to be a burden to anyone.  I really thought I was doing my friends and family a favour.  I mean, I knew they would be sad at first.  But I thought that after their grieving period was over, they would feel a sense of relief because they would be done putting up with all my problems.

Once I finished all of my commitments, I locked myself into my room to end my life since I didn’t want anyone to try and stop me.  However, I felt the need to apologize to two people before I killed myself.  I apologized to the guy who had been emotionally abusive towards me because I felt so guilty about my anxiety, and I apologized to my friend for warning her not to date him when she had a crush on him.  I feel like an idiot for apologizing for those things now.  I’m glad I got in the way of this guy dating my friend because she is one of the sweetest people I know.  She deserves a lot better.  I probably didn’t warn her in the most tactful way, since I had to get drunk to muster up the courage to do something I knew would get me in serious trouble with this guy.  But I’m still glad I warned her.  I used to feel like an idiot for apologizing to this guy right before I attempted suicide because I felt like it made me feel weak, but I don’t care if he sees me as weak anymore.  I don’t give a fuck what he thinks anymore because he has been cut out of my life for good.

After making my apologies, I wrote out a note that said, “This isn’t anyone’s fault but my own.”  Then I gathered all of the pills in my room into a pile and poured a drink.  I was feeling pretty shaky, so I decided to take my anti-anxiety pills first to calm me down.  I have no evidence to prove this, but I think that decision may have been what saved my life.  My anti-anxiety pills made me really sleepy when I took 0.5 mg at a time, and I think that the amount that I took that night knocked me unconscious before I could swallow enough pills to actually die.  I don’t know for sure because I don’t remember a whole lot after that point until waking up the next day.  And that’s for me to write about next week.  *SPOILER ALERT!* I didn’t die.

Post Suicide Attempt: Chapter 1 – https://sophiebuck.wordpress.com/2013/11/05/post-suicide-attempt-chapter-1/

The Hospital

Standard

I have gone to the hospital for mental health-related issues more than once, but I want to share one of the times I went.  I was sent home that night, a few hours after getting there, so this post is more about the emotions I went through than any kinds of treatment.

This story starts with me in my residence room.  I was sitting on the floor with all of the pills I had in my room, as well as a bottle of gin (or maybe it was vodka), in front of me.  I wanted to stop feeling so fucking miserable all the time.  I didn’t really care whether I lived or died, so it was fine with me if dying was what it took to stop hurting so much.  I was trying to decide whether or not I wanted to swallow all the pills, and then chug the alcohol, to end my life.

As I pondered what to do, I used a knife to cut into my calf.  I watched myself bleed, and then the thought of dying became very real to me.  For a split second, I really did not want to die.  I mean, I didn’t really want to live.  But I didn’t want to die.  I don’t know how to really describe that feeling, but you would know if you’ve ever felt it.  I decided not to try to end my life.  Instead, I texted a friend.  After talking to her, I decided to go to the hospital.  She told me that she was proud of me for being so strong.

Everyone who was staying in my residence that weekend was drinking that night, so I drove myself to the ER.  I don’t remember when I started crying, but I was definitely crying at this point.  My vision kept getting blurred by my tears, so I really had to focus on the road.  When I got to the hospital, I got into the line of patients waiting to see a nurse so they could wait to see a doctor.

When I saw my nurse, I told her that I wanted to kill myself.  I told her that I didn’t want to die, but I was worried that I would end my life if I didn’t get help.  She brought me to a room with nothing but a bed.  There were three solid walls, and one wall that was glass with a sliding door.

When I was left alone, I started bawling.  One of the nurses kept offering me water, but I declined.  She told me that if I needed anything, I should let her know.  While I was waiting to see a doctor, the friend who had encouraged me to go to the hospital kept apologizing for not being able to come be with me that night because she was in a different city and had no way to get there.  She told me that she wanted nothing more than to be with me that night.  Since she couldn’t, she made me promise that I would keep texting her to keep her updated.  She also made me promise to ask someone who was in the same city as me if they would stay with me that night.

I texted a friend who lived on campus and wasn’t drinking that night.  I asked him if he would come stay the night with me when I left the hospital.  I told him that I was afraid that I would hurt myself if I was left alone.  He said that he wouldn’t and told me to ask someone else.  I told him that if the positions were reversed, there was no way in hell that I would let him be alone.

My doctor came in, and after telling him about how I felt, he said that I seemed like a smart girl who was just on the wrong path.  I was sent home, but I was told that I had to go to my mom’s house.

When I went outside, it was pouring.  I walked to my car in the rain, getting soaked.  I started the drive to my mom’s house, but by the time I got to the highway it was clear that it wasn’t safe to drive.  My eyes were extremely puffy from crying, tears were fogging up my vision, and my windshield wipers weren’t able to keep up with the rain.  I couldn’t see anything.  I was also so frazzled that I got lost going to my own house.  It was clear to me that if I tried to get home, trying to not kill myself would be a complete waste.  If I tried to get home, I would have gotten into a car accident.  I pulled over, and I texted the same friend that I had already asked to come over.  He said that he would come over if I really couldn’t get home.

I called my mom to let her know that I wasn’t coming over that night, but that I would come over first thing in the morning.  At this point, she didn’t know what was going on.  She kept asking if I was okay, and I told her that I’d tell her everything when I saw her in person.  I was still bawling my eyes out, and I was occasionally hyperventilating.

I started my car again, and I drove back to my residence.  I walked from the parking lot to the building in the rain, but I was already soaking wet.  It didn’t matter anymore.  I went back into residence.  Everyone was yelling, and it was really loud.  Nobody noticed me come in and go to my room.

When I got to my room, I set up my extra mattress for my friend who was coming over.  He didn’t come in the end, but I’m not getting into anything about him right now.  That’s not what this story is about.

When I found out that I would be alone for the night, I put on a movie to distract myself.  I don’t remember what movie it was, and I didn’t really watch it.  I just kept cutting into my calf until I was too tired to stay up any longer and went to sleep.

When I woke up, I had several voicemails from my mom.  She wanted to know what was going on and if I was okay.  I sat on the floor and called her, and I told her I would be home in an hour.  A little over an hour later, my mom called.  She wanted to know where I was.  I had been sitting on the floor, feeling completely drained and weak, so I asked if she would come get me.  When she arrived, I went to let her into the building.  She cleaned up my room, packed some clothes for me to wear, got me to get dressed, and then she took me home.  If she hadn’t come, I don’t think I would have gotten up off of the floor that day.  I don’t know if I would have gotten up off the floor that week.

I spent the whole morning thinking about how I could still end my life.  The only reason that I didn’t was because I didn’t want my mom to be the one to find me.  I felt hungover because I was so dehydrated, but I didn’t care.  I didn’t care that yesterday’s makeup was now a smeared, black mess all over my face.  I didn’t care that my room was a complete disaster.  I didn’t care that I was alone the night before.  Nothing mattered to me that morning except that I wouldn’t let my mom find me dead.  She did find me broken when she came to pick me up, but I wouldn’t let her be the one to find me dead.  If I were to end my life, someone else would have to be the one to find me.  It wouldn’t be my mom.  That would be too hard for her.

For a while after this happened, I felt as though I had died.  I felt numb, and I didn’t care about anything at all.  I lost a lot of weight because I didn’t really bother with making myself food, and I stopped reaching out to people for help.  That night made me feel like it was too much trouble for other people to have to worry about me, so I didn’t tell anyone what was going on.  I had been told by a “friend” that night that my issues were making them unhappy, and I decided that I wouldn’t put my issues on anyone’s shoulders again.  That night was the turning point in my illness where things just kept spiralling downwards.

In retrospect, I should have seen how much my one friend truly cared about me.  Even though she couldn’t be with me in person, she did her best to make sure that I wouldn’t be alone.  I should have seen how much my mom loved me when she came to my residence to try and put me back together.  I also had another friend who I confided in, and she was determined that I would not stay in bed all day every day.  She told me how bad she felt that she hadn’t been in residence that weekend, and she said that she wished she could have been with me.  But in the frame of mind that I was in, all I saw was the bad.  I felt alone despite the love others had shown for me.  One of the things that really keeps me going now is thinking back to how wrong I was then.  I was wrong to think that I was nothing but a burden to people, and now I keep holding on to that knowledge to keep myself strong.

This post is dedicated to Jenessa Murray and Erin Brookes for being such great friends.

Emotional Abuse: A Short Story

Standard

Before you guys read this, I just want to clarify that this is fictional.  I made this up.

She hears her phone buzz while it is sitting on her desk.  She has a text message from him.

“Send me a pic?”

She takes her shirt off, stands in front of the mirror, snaps a photo, and sends it to him.  He sends her a picture of his dick in return.  She feels absolutely nothing upon seeing it.  Her phone buzzes again.

“Can you send me a pic of your pussy?”

She takes her pants off, snaps the picture, and sends it.  A few minutes later, her phone goes off again.

“I just got off to you,” he says.

The next day, she is feeling down.  She is lying in her bed, lifeless.  Her head is filled with dark thoughts.  She feels herself going into the bad place.  She feels her spirit being drained away from her.  She feels her body sinking into the mattress.  She picks up her phone and texts him.

“Can you come over?  Today is a really bad day.”

“I can’t keep dropping everything for you when you’re upset.”

“Okay.  Sorry.”

“You know, I was happier when I didn’t know you.”

Later that day he texts her again.

“Sorry about what I said earlier.  I’m an asshole.  I’m a terrible person,” he says.

“You’re not an asshole.  It’s okay.”

“I should have been there for you.  I told you that I would always be there for you, and I hung you out to dry.  I’m so sorry.  You have every right to hate me.  I keep letting you down.  You should hate me.”

“No, really, it’s okay.  I’m not mad,” she assures him.

“You know, you’re allowed to be mad if you want to be.”

“I know.  I’m not.

A week later, she sits on the floor in her room.  In front of her is a razor blade.  She tries to decide whether or not to slit her wrists and bleed to death. She decides to cut her left wrist, but not enough to cause serious damage.  She watches the blood creep out of her arm, and then she gets paper towels.  She doesn’t want to get a blood stain on anything.  She doesn’t want to ruin anything.  She isn’t worth it.

She calls him.  He answers.

“I think I want to die,” she says.

“I’m busy right now.  I’ll talk to you later.”

He hangs up.  She cuts into her body again, but on her calf this time.  As the cut bleeds, she imagines all the bad being drained from her.

She gets a bottle of pills and a bottle of vodka.  She sits back down on the floor and places them in front of her.  She tries to decide whether or not to chase the pills with the vodka.  She decides not to, but takes a swig of vodka to numb the pain.

The next morning, she wakes up to a headache and a text message.  The text message is from him.

“Don’t kill yourself.”

“I still haven’t decided whether or not I want to,” she replies.

“Why would you want to?”

“Because I’ve been fighting against it for so long, but it isn’t working.  I can’t win.  It isn’t going away, and I’m just getting weaker.”

“But you’re not fighting alone,” he says.  “I’m fighting alongside you.”

Nobody had ever offered to fight alongside her before.  She knew she couldn’t take him for granted.  Without him, she would be alone.

A few weeks later, she’s at a party.  The noise level is making it hard for her to focus.  It’s so loud, and the noise won’t stop.  Her heart is beating fast, the room is spinning, the people around her are fading away, and it is hard to breathe.  She feels alone in a room full of people, and she wants to escape.

She finds an empty bathroom where she can be alone to have her panic attack.  Without even realizing what she’s doing, she finds a razor in the room.  She pries one of the blades out of it with a pair of tweezers, and she cuts her wrist.  The cut is really bad this time.  Seeing the amount of blood coming out of her arm makes her more alert.  She can tell what is going on now, but she doesn’t remember making the cut in her arm.  Regardless of whether or not she remembers doing it, the cut is bleeding a lot.  It won’t stop, and it doesn’t seem like it will anytime soon.  She calls him.

“I need to go to the hospital.”

“Why?”

“My wrist won’t stop bleeding.”

“Tonight’s a really bad night for me.  I have to be up early.”

He hangs up.

She doesn’t know what to do.  She doesn’t want to tell anyone about what happened.  She tries to call her parents, but there is no answer.

She texts him saying, “I have nobody else to take me.  Please.  I would do it for you.”

“I’m watching a movie, and it’s raining outside.  I’ll get soaked trying to come get you.”

She had been drinking, but she feels alright to drive.  She knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t think of another option.  The gravity of the situation has sobered her up quite a bit anyways.  She finds her keys and drives herself to the hospital.

It takes all night for her to get her wrist fixed up.  She has stitches put in her arm and is sent home.

By the time she makes it back to her room, her phone is dead.  She plugs it in.  After a couple of minutes, her phone explodes with text messages from him.

“Any other night I would have taken you.”

“Do you want me to come over?  I’ll come over.”

“Actually, nevermind, it’s still raining.”

“I’m a terrible person.  I should have been there for you.”

“You know what?  I never said I would take you to the hospital, so I shouldn’t feel bad.  You ruined my night by calling me up so late, and here I am feeling bad for you.  You should feel bad for stressing me out so much.  My life was better when you weren’t a part of it.”

“I’m sorry I sent that last text.  I’ll come over, and I’ll stop complaining if you want me to.”

After reading all of his texts, she replies, “If I’m going to have to tell you to stop complaining about it, I don’t want you here.  I’d rather be alone.”

“I’m coming over,” he says.

“No!” she replies.  “I don’t want you here!  Please DON’T come!”

She goes to sleep, feeling proud of herself for standing up to him.  But that feeling is gone when she wakes up.  She opens her eyes, remembers what she said to him the night before, and she looks at her phone.  She has no new messages from him.  He must be mad at her for what she said.  What if he will never talk to her again?  She’ll be alone.  Nobody else would ever offer to fight alongside her, and she won’t be able to win the fight on her own.

She sends him a text saying, “I’m sorry about what I said, and I’m sorry I ruined your night.  Please forgive me.”

He replies saying, “I’ve actually been seeing another girl.  I think I’m gonna start dating her.  You’re hot, but she doesn’t have your issues.  It’s really stressful for me to have to deal with you.”

She starts to think about all of the weight that she had put on his shoulders since they had met.  She was nothing but a burden to him.  He kept her around so he could fuck her, but now there was someone else he could sleep with.  He didn’t need her, and since she made him so miserable, he had left.

Then she thinks about the other people who have said they support her.  She must be a burden to them too.  Her unhappiness must cause others to be unhappy.  Her friends and family must be tired of having her around, but feel obligated to talk to her.

She feels her anxiety rising.  She is alone.  She has no one, and she never will because she makes other people miserable.  She won’t let herself be that kind of a burden to anyone else again.  She is going to change.  She starts to try and hide how miserable she is.  She puts on a fake happy face for everyone.  She will no longer be a burden.

She goes out with her friends, wearing a smile on her face.  She dances and sings along to happy music like nothing is wrong.  She wears bright colours, and she gets back on top of her school work.  On the outside, she seems like a whole new person.  But it’s all fake.  She’s playing a role.  She’s up on stage, playing the role of a girl who has all of her shit together.  But this girl is a character; it’s not who she really is.

As she continues to hide her sorrow on the outside, it grows in her insides.  She doesn’t express these feelings to anyone.  Everyone around her thinks that she is doing so well because of how happy she seems.

As she continues faking happiness, he continues to text her.  She repeatedly asks him to stop.  Every text he sends her makes it harder for her to say no.  She’s trying so hard to be strong.

“How come you keep ignoring me?” he asks.  “I gave up so much for you, and now you’re ignoring me.  Are you seriously mad at me?”

What the hell did he still want with her?  She made him so unhappy, and he had a new girlfriend to sleep with now.  Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone?

Then, one day, she snaps.  She can’t fake the happiness anymore.  She is so fucking miserable.  She’s angry too.  She feels like she is going to explode.

She goes to a club, makes out with three strangers in one night.

The next week, she has sex with two strangers.

“I can’t stay the night,” one of them says.  “I have to be up early.”

“That’s fine,” she says.  She’d rather he didn’t stay.

She doesn’t want to start anything meaningful.  She wants to be used.  She feels like that’s all she’s worth.  Why would she look for more if she can’t have it?  She’s hot, but she has too many issues for anyone to want her.  If she gets too close to people, she will bring them unhappiness.  If that guy had slept over, she would have ruined his night.  She would prefer it if she had not even known his name.

And as her happy character dies, she still doesn’t want to show her dark insides.  She refuses to be the reason anyone else is unhappy.  She isolates herself.  She stops going to class.  She stops eating.  She stops seeing her friends.  She stops getting out of bed.

What if she killed herself?  Sure, her friends and family might be sad at first.  It would take her mom a long time to get over that.  But, in the long run, everyone would be better off.  They wouldn’t have to put up with her anymore.

And then, she finally chases the pills with the vodka.  She will suffer no more, and no one else will suffer because of her.