Call Me Crazy

Chapter One

This book deals with extremely dark issues such as mental disorders, suicide, internalized homophobia, and others.

If you or anyone you know is struggling, reach out.

Please.

(1-800-273-TALK [8255])

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Edeline

"I'm not crazy."

I keep repeating the mantra to myself, but the pills in my hand and my name carefully penciled onto the mental hospital's sign in sheet seems to disagree with me.

Saying it again, I realize that I am trying to convince myself of this as much as my mother. She is about to leave- leave me here with nothing but the constant berating from my mind that I can never seem to turn off. "I'm not crazy," I whisper again, but only to myself this time. My mom had left.

The nurse turns to me with a blank look on her face- one that says she's done this hundreds of times and I am not her biggest concern at the moment. I force myself to give her a watery smile and I debate whether or not my arms being crossed comes off as more hostile than a protective measure, but then I remember I owe this woman nothing and curl into myself again.

"Room 210," She drawls, not even looking up from her computer as she slides a plastic card across the desk. I think about how easy it would be to run out of here and never come back, but something holds me back.

I don't know if it is the fact that deep down, I know that I'm desperate for any help that I can get, or that my hospital bracelet has already been attached to my wrist and I am quite literally stuck here for the next two weeks.

I take the key and turn around, bending down to grab my small duffle bag- the only semblance of home I was allowed to bring with me. Of course, it had been searched, and practically all of my stuff had been suicide-proofed; hoodie strings taken out, shaving razors taken, and my freedom confiscated. I picked up the bag and turned the corner toward the dorm rooms that, looking into them, resemble prison cells more than anything. The abundance of white was already beginning to get to me, and I could feel the headache beginning to creep into my skull. The first thing I did was lock the door behind me, as you can never be too careful. I dropped my stuff onto the first of the two twin beds and panic struck me at the realization that I would probably have to share this room with someone. I pride myself on my ability to hide all of the shit that I'm going through, but this will make it considerably harder in the long run.

I search the bathroom next, carefully placing down my makeup bag and toiletries on the sink. I unpack and try my best not to stare at the toothbrush for too long.

I feel the hatred curl into my stomach, but I'm good at ignoring it, so I turn my back to the mirror and leave, trying to take some deep breaths on my way out.

I flop down onto my bed and force myself not to cry. I try to tell myself it won't make this awful situation any better, and that showing any and all emotions other and happiness will get me into more trouble than it's worth. However, at the thought of my body still being able to do one thing correct- cry when it's sad, the floodgates open and I wish for the hundred-millionth time that this wasn't happening to me. That I wasn't the way I am.

I told myself when I first started; once you reach your goal, you can just go back to normal. Switch it off like nothing ever happened and go back to the way it was before.

I hated that word. Before. It made me think of a time where I controlled my thoughts and not the other way around.

However, the next few weeks will be nothing but a pity party for me and my other mentally-unstable companions, so I get up off the bed and wipe at my eyes. I open the duffle bag and start pulling out my clothes. The clothes that I bought for myself and picked for myself and used to hide myself.