Heathens-Joshler

14

         

[Trigger Warning: Suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, pills, abuse mention, blood mentions, death mention]

I am released after being in the hospital for a year. It's a year to the day. October 2nd is my release date.

    I know everything clearly now, because I have healed.

    I know that my mom is dead, and my dad is gone, and that I was abused by my alcoholic step-father. I know that I was in foster care for most of the rest of my childhood. I know that I did in fact have a job and a house and money. I worked at a nightclub, as an announcer. I lived in a small apartment. Sort of dingy, but alright. I robbed a store with a gun, and then went to my childhood home, the one who's walls were soaked in memories of abuse and misery. And I spray-painted everything I was thinking and feeling and remembering on the walls. And then I set the place on fire, with me in it. I wanted to kill myself. After that I went to a mental hospital for a year. I tried to kill myself again, but survived. I had an imaginary friend named Josh so I wouldn't feel so lonely, but not seeing him anymore means I'm healthy now.

    I obviously don't have a job now, but my apartment is still mine. I was given back my wallet and keys and even my matches when I was released. Now, I unlock the door to my apartment, and it's somewhat familiar. It's a bit dingy, and quite dark, but it's mine. There are deranged drawings tacked to all the walls, drawings of horrible things. The story of my sanity slipping. I take them all down.

    The carpet in the living room is stained with blood from countless miserable nights, and I can't get it out, so I rip up all the carpets and throw them away, choosing instead to walk on the hardwood.

    I tidy up my messy apartment and clean it, trying to make something feel normal again. Trying to convince myself that this is where I belong, that this is my home, that this is where I'm supposed to be. As if sweeping away dust bunnies could fix everything.

    But despite that, I still wish I was back at the hospital, watching colours churn on white, and being there with Josh, the illusion that I loved so much.

    It hits me then that I was never loved. Josh was the only person who ever really loved me, and he didn't even exist.

    I let this wash over me, curling into a ball of misery on the floor of my lonely apartment. Lonely, always lonely. No friends or family to speak of, no colleagues at a job, no job to go to during the day, no skills to speak of, almost no money. What happens when the money runs out? Will that leave me homeless? Will I have to pawn everything I own just to pay rent for a month or two longer? Where will I be in a year? Will I be dead?

    Should I be dead?

    I think about that. They let me out not because I was happy but because I was not unhappy or unhealthy enough to be institutionalized. I wonder if I should check back in. I could go back to the hospital, back to Josh...

    I can't go back to Josh. He doesn't exist. I need to get that through my head.

    I shouldn't go to the hospital. My life isn't worth living, and I feel like nothing they could do could change that. I've had a sad life, and it's gone on long enough.

    I go to the bathroom and take the pill bottle, remembering when I bought these on the street, on a dark day. It's a memory that's dirty with pain. It was a grey, rainy day. I thought it would be my last day. But I had the strength to put the pills away, at the back of my bathroom cabinet. Now, I'll pick up where I left off that day.

    There's a knock at the door as I'm opening the bottle, and I go to answer it, dazed. I'm still holding the bottle of pills, and they rattle a little against the plastic.

    I open the door as the knocking persists. And there, standing in front of me, is Josh.