Cruel Reality

The Beginning - Pt. 2

     I woke up in a hospital bed. My arm was wrapped with gauze, it took me a while to realize where I was and I couldn't help but wonder how I got here. I had lots of IV's in, and when I fully gained consciousness, a doctor came in. He was that chubby black doctor, the type that looked super sweet and willing to help you with anything. He was the only doctor I respected. 

     He asked me, "How are you feeling?" I remember saying "Confused." He just told me to not touch my arm - even though it was still numb - because it could rip the stitches. "What stitches?" I asked, he just said, "All 53 of them, you were 10 minutes away from dying. You cut into a major artery." I just laid there in shock. That's when I remembered what happened. I slit my wrist. All I could feel was anger inside of me. I didn't want to be fucking saved. I didn't want to be on this fucking Earth. I was mad that they somehow "saved" me. There was a cop in my room sitting next to the door. I had to piss, and I said where's the bathroom, she showed me where and she came inside of it with me. I'm like, "What the hell?" She just stood there and said, " I can turn around if you want." And I'm just trying to be all pushy saying shit like "you don't need to be in here", "get the fuck out", "you're violating my privacy bitch", "I just have to take a fucking piss". If you couldn't tell, I have absolutely no respect whatsoever for cops. They're lying fucks who call me a bitch, slam me to the ground, hit me, push me, swear at me, make fun of me, ect. I've been through it all with cops. Maybe it's just my city's cops. Maybe not all cops are like that, but I sure as hell haven't seen one that's respected me. This one surely doesn't. Like I get that it's hospital's policy that they need to keep me under surveillance, but this is just ridiculous. I was just filled with rage. I wanted out. At that point I thought just why did I try to kill myself. Honestly it was in the moment thinking. I always though about the look on everyone's faces when they got the news I was dead, I wanted them to feel bad, hate themselves for it. Or maybe it was just to get back emotional vengeance. I wanted them to realize what they did, how they made me feel. But suddenly, all of that didn't matter. I could go up to them and just tell them to go fuck themselves. My mind was changed at that point, I wanted to be alive, so I could feel emotion, feel love maybe even someday. Hell, I don't even know, I just wanted to experience life again. I missed it in this long month I'm about to briefly tell you about.

     So I'm in the hospital still and it's just the usual day. People watching me, monitors on me, shit like that. But the doctor soon came into the room with a computer and a webcam. He told me just to talk to her, and I was so damn confused, but then I saw a lady on the monitor and she just started asking me a shit ton of questions. I told her I wasn't saying anything. I fucking hated therapists and psychiatrists, they truly don't want to help. They just want to make you feel trapped in a room with them so they can ask you shit and they get paid. But anyways, after I refused to answer any of her questions, she said to the doctor, "Look into 6A for her." I kept trying to ask what 6A is but he just said, "I'll explain later."

     So "later" eventually came, and my fucking parents came in with the doctor with a shit load of papers and just said, "We're going to transfer her to the 6A unit down in the big city. It'll be the safest place for her." That pissed me the fuck off. I didn't want to go anywhere. Fuck this shit. I wanted to just go away. Fucking leave and live in my own freedom where I could do whatever the hell I want. You have no idea how much I craved freedom. I felt so stuck living with my parents under they're fucking rules. 

     They ordered me to get into the ambulance, of course I didn't want to but I had no choice. So I had to get in. My parents followed behind in their car the whole time.

     It was at least a 2 hour drive. We got there and it looked like a fucking prison. I didn't want to be there. But apparently I had to in order to "get better", that shit made me laugh.

     They walked me inside, checked me in, and I got into the unit I was supposed to be in. Apparently 6A is a "locked unit for unstable patients". Aha, I was unstable I guess. Fucking great feeling. 

     We went up 6 floors on the elevator and they instructed me to follow them, so I did. The place looked like how you'd see a more mature version of a daycare, it had the "playroom", where "group" was held and in the back were board games and puzzles. The room next to it was the eating area, it was a large table with sort of comfy looking chairs. In the back of the room there was TV with a Wii connected to it, there was also a room with a thick door, and inside there was a small room with a little fridge holding pudding, carrots, decaffeinated ginger ale, and milk. Right next to it was a bunch of little snacks like goldfish and pretzels. There was also an ice machine, tea, hot cocoa mix, cups, ect. 

     Down the hall, there was a long hallway with rooms on each side. I got assigned room #7, this is when I met the first person there, Nadiah, she was partially Asian and really nice to me. She told she finally got to go home the next day. She said, "You eventually get used to it here, it seems like hell at first, but the longer you're here, the more it just feels like a daily routine." I thought it was bullshit that they put into the minds of everyone here.

     I remember the feeling of when no one was in my room and after I unpacked my clothes they gave me and personal hygiene products  - like deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, ect. - I just sat there and couldn't help but think, "How did I get here." I'm fucking trapped. I'm stuck. They all think I'm crazy. They think I'm fucking crazy. I love how the people who worked there never knew how it felt to have mental illness shit but yet after studying it they know everything about it and "how to cure" it and shit like that. All I was filled with was anger. I just sat there and cried. I couldn't but to cry. They all thought I was crazy. I'm not fucking crazy. I don't need fucking help. I can help my fucking self. They don't know how I feel. I can deal with my own shit. I know how to handle things. I know when I feel like shit and they don't. They're not me. They haven't actually experienced what it feels like to be me. It's not fair for them to just call me a crazy bitch who needs help, because that's not me. I'm just like them, just with a harder past than them and an even more fucked up life in the present. 

     I remember every morning when I woke up I started the day out with a blank stare at the wall across from me. I couldn't believe I was in a fucking mental hospital. The rules were that you had to go along with the schedule, but you weren't required to sleep, haha. I woke up at 7 every morning, took a shower in the shared bathroom, got out by 7:30, got changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, drew a little in my sketchbook they gave me - yes, I draw, A LOT - and headed down for breakfast at 8:15. The meals were dry and tasteless, but you had a big selection to choose from, I never ate for the first three days, then I just limited it to a salad and milk everyday after those first three. After breakfast ended we had morning group, which consisted of me and 10 other people, and a psychologist, we needed to so some creative shit describing how we feel through an object or something, I don't even know, some optimistic shit. After that we'd have 30 minutes of free time which to me was just draw in my room. The day went on pretty much repeating those things but we all had to be in our rooms by 9:00, but from 9:00 until we wake up, we're monitored every 20 minutes with a person coming into your room with a flashlight even when you slept, I thought it was creepy as fuck. This was my routine for 29 days. People came and went. I made "friends" up until they all left, then after that I was alone again. 

     It was a lonely place. All I had was me and my sketchbook, I refused to talk at group meetings. This month became long. 

     On the last day, I just slept the whole day and signed papers and had mandatory fucking therapy sessions. It was fucked up. From that point on every day it was a choice to live. It wasn't nice, life wasn't even enjoyable anymore. Every day was just going through the motions. 

     Some days I couldn't decide if I even wanted to wake up or not. 

     Some days I just slept all day. There was no point in getting up. After that month I had no fucking social life anymore. I had no friends anymore, at least none that I knew of.