Everything I Wanted

Chapter 1: Un-Dead End

     Before I even opened my eyes I knew that I had failed to take my life. I knew because I felt the same way I have felt almost everyday for the past two years. I also felt hungry, which only made me feel worse.

I wasn't completely awake just yet but I could hear the beeping of what I only imagined was a hospital room monitor. I soon confirmed it as I became more conscious and I could feel the IV in my arm.

    I groggily opened my eyes to the bright white suspended ceiling. How disappointing, is all I could think.

    I looked around to take in the hospital room. There were monitors, a door which probably lead to the bathroom, a small whiteboard with the date and my name on it (spelled incorrectly might I add) as well as other things I couldn't care to read, another half opened door leading to the hallway, and my mother.

    My mother was sleeping on a small one-seater couch, probably uncomfortable, probably slept on by hundreds of other worried parents. I knew I probably should have but I didn't want to wake her. Partly because I didn't want to face her after what I had done to myself, but mostly because who knows how much sleep she had lost. She shouldn't have to lose any, is all I could think. I'm too much of a hassle to anyone around me, especially my mother, one of the many great people in my life who deserve none of this. None of me.

    I heard footsteps coming toward the door and contemplated pretending to be asleep but decided against it. The door opened as a woman in scrubs stepped in, looking down at a paper in her hand. She was short, no more than 5'2" and her hair was brown, tied in a bun that resided just above her neck. I was observing what shoes she was wearing when she looked up, doing a double take.

    "You're awake," she smiled, showing pearly white teeth. "You gave us a bit of a scare there."
I shouldn't be, I wish I could have said. Instead, I looked back up at the ceiling.

    "I'm sorry," I muttered quietly.

    "The doctor will be in in a bit, I'm just here to check on you and add something to your chart," she just kept smiling at me like I had come in for a burst appendix.

    I'm sure she was a fine person, just smiling out of kindness and consideration, but it only made me angry. Is my pain still invisible, I asked myself.

    Seven months later, my life is now full of constant supervision, bi-weekly one on one therapy sessions mixed in with weekly group therapy, medication, and people acting like my attempt was a bump in the road. A turning point. That would require something to majorly and positively change, but I'm not fixed or cured and I didn't have some revelation. I had to climb over that huge bump with my bare hands and continue limping over that cracked road. I will admit though, things are different now, just not exactly in a good way. Before, there were still steps to go through, there was still hope. And now, I mean, what else is there to do? I've gone through all the steps.

     Step one: Therapy.
    Step two: Try your very best to be happy.

    I started going to therapy long before my attempt, and I've tried to be happy even longer. Therapy was ineffective, obviously.

    Step three: A diagnosis (if necessary).
    Step four: Medication for said diagnosis.

    I didn't get diagnosed until after my attempt and I've been taking medication since then, which also hasn't done much. I know that medication isn't that simple, but I also don't want a life full of constantly trying and taking medication.

    And then there's of course the last step, suicide. Checked off the list using a cocktail of all of my sisters old pills. After that, I was either supposed to die or my life was supposed to somehow get better.

    As stupid and naive as it sounds, after I woke up, I was hoping for a turning point. Or at least for people to start taking me seriously. I guess I just weirdly expected things to positively change. Like people were finally going to see me, as I am. Neither of those things happened, at least not for long.

    People did take me more seriously for a bit, and they did pay more attention to my actions and the small things I said, but it was all motivated by fear, not care. I don't blame them, of course they'd be scared after what happened, and I am sorry that my actions ignited that fear, but I wish it didn't take an attempt for them to care. Soon enough though, people went back to normal, acting as though it never happened. I'm not upset that they went back to their lives as usual, they have every right to. However, I am upset that they went back to not caring and not paying attention. So things changed, but not for long, and not the things that should have changed.

    I'm still severely depressed, "traumatized", and suicidal. So now I'm here, out of steps and out of options. Am I just supposed to wait around even longer for my life to magically get better? For my chemicals to balance themselves out? For the medications and therapy to click? For God to take pity on me? Or am I supposed to stay like this and suffer for the rest of my life just for the sake of everybody else's peace of mind?

I mean, most people don't care if I live, they just want to feel like good people who "save and change lives". It doesn't really matter to them if I'm miserable for the rest of my life because at least they can sleep at night knowing that I didn't take my life. Well I'M not okay with that. Where's my peace of mind?

    So, this is my current problem. I'm trapped, at a dead end.
What now?