A Sense Of Disparity

Drifting and loneliness

I can't describe what it felt like, all I know is that everything was painfully numb. I don't know what happened between the moment I did it and the moment I woke up, surrounded by white and concerned faces.
Let us backtrack. I had just finished my first semester at university, and everything was going smoothly, or so it seemed. I was keeping up with classes, attending all my lectures, making friends, eating well. I was still living with my parents, who had a loose hand on me since I turned 18. I was doing great.
But the thing is, I wasn't. I laughed and goofed around, but underneath I was in so much pain. Life was so... cumbersome. So many worries, so much uncertainty. And so much boredom. Why live this life? It seemed pointless. All we do is grow up, get a degree, spend our lives working, then die, forgotten, leaving space for a new, trivial life. Questions such as why am I here? and what is really the point of it all?  filled my little head.  I was going nowhere, leaving nowhere, traveling through nowhere. I was nothing, meaningless and ugly.
I had been severely bullied throughout primary school and middle school, and my self-esteem was lower than a snake's belly. I was insecure and had difficulty trusting those who approached me with kindness. 
I took to the habit of crying myself to sleep most nights, only to wake up every morning at 2am. Always 2am. And that would be the start of my day.
Naturally, with the great lack of sleep and heavy thoughts, my mind grew weary. I sought comfort in pain. I couldn't control the pain I sensed on the inside, but I could control what I felt outside. All sorts of tools were sneaked into my room late at night, and soon it was hard to hide the marks I had made. But it wasn't enough. The hurt I felt inside was growing, and eventually it was more than I could handle.
October 12th was when I did it. I tried to take my life. I can't remember exactly what the dose was, but it was large and enough to hurt me, just not enough to kill, due to a miscalculation. I lay on my bed, and soon the stomach pains started. It was more atrocious than I can describe, and I would highly recommend that you don't do it.
As far as I know, I passed out, was rushed to hospital where I was forced to vomit, then put on a load of medication to help reduce the effect of the overdose. 
I woke up to the sound of a beeping monitor. What happened? Where was I?  were the first things that came to mind. Then I remembered the pills. Then the pain. And then the dread filled my stomach. I would have to face the consequences of my actions. I would have to face my parents, my friends, and a buttload of doctors.
I cannot explain what I felt in my heart when I thought of my parents. It was heavier than my depression and anxiety, more painful than-... I looked to my arms. Damn. I was wearing a hospital gown, and my blotchy arms were completely exposed. I shuddered at the thought of my parents coming in, seeing their unconscious daughter, arms covered in gashes. It wasn't pretty.
I spent three long, tiresome days in hospital, answering questions as to how I did it, if I had done it before, being under constant examination, comforting my crying parents. It was absolute hell, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
It was then decided that I would be moved to an independent hospital specialised in 'damaged youths'... i.e. a psychiatric hospital. The idea was hardly inviting, an I couldn't shake the image of zombie-looking patients wondering around in straight jackets, their dead eyes fixed on the ground. I had watched movies and read books, and from what I knew, such places were far from comfortable.
St John's Centre. A four story building that resembled a factory. First floor was the day hospital for outpatients, second floor for eating disorders, third floor for children with difficulties, and then the fourth floor, where I was placed. 

The ambulance dropped me off with my little bag of clothes and personal items. I was wheeled through the entrance to the reception, where I was given a hospital card and a sweet, sympathetic smile from the receptionist. My bag was searched, and I had my shoelaces and razor taken off me. "These will be put in your inventory. You may ask a nurse for them if you wish to use them." Along with those, my phone and anything with internet access was also taken off me.
 I was then wheeled into the elevator, passed a sign that said 'Fourth floor: Young Suicidals'. I couldn't help but find it ironic. Why put the suicidal people on the fourth floor? Surely that was a safety hazard. The elevator dinged suddenly, and a woman's voice called out 'Fourth floor!' We came to a tiny waiting room with three or four chairs, then headed through a large white door into a long corridor. I was greeted by several faces of kids who all appeared younger than me, ranging between the ages of 13 and 16.
The man who was pushing me then handed me over to a young nurse who took me into a side room. She smiled and asked if I could walk. I could. My bag was taken from me and I was left alone in the white room. And this is where my story starts.

The clock was ticking rather loudly, and I closed my tired eyes, lying my head on the table in front of me. In the room were six white chairs, an empty white bookshelf, and a round white table. White, white, white everywhere. I could hear footsteps walking up and down the hall outside, and voices echoed through. I glanced up at the clock with one eye open. I had been waiting for ten minutes now and no one had come to check on me. All I really wanted to do was take off my shoes, lie down on a nice bed and sleep. I could sleep for days. Months, even. The last three nights I had spent in the hospital bed weren't exactly the most delightful, and I found I had a constant headache from the lack of sleep.
In an effort to forget the desperate need I had to use the toilet, I tried to remember the faces of the other patients I had passed. They were all well-dressed teens, mainly girl, who looked perfectly normal. They had all stared at me as I was wheeled down the corridor, some even exiting their rooms to see the new girl. It was strange though, this wasn't at all what I had in mind when I was told I was going to a psyche ward. In fact, if it weren't for the long white corridor and the nurses in equally white coats, you wouldn't think this was a ward for suicidal teens and survivors. I started to wonder if I was the oldest there since all of the patients I had passed appeared very young. I hoped not. 
Loud footsteps kept echoing here and there, and I started to wonder if I was being watched. Just as I started to lift my head, another young nurse walked in. She was quite petite, with very short, blond hair and big, brown eyes. She held a clipboard and a pen in her hand. Smiling, she sat down in the chair across the table from me. I sat up properly, but couldn't find the strength to force a smile back.
"Hello! You must be Louise. My name is Charlotte," she said gently, "how are you feeling?"
I shrugged. How was I feeling? Tired. I was very tired. Sad? I don't think so. I felt like I was drifting slowly on a river. And lonely. I felt lonely. Drifting and loneliness, how perfectly descriptive of my state. "I'm fine." I replied simply. It would be much to hard to try and explain my feelings, when I couldn't even work them out myself. The nurse simply nodded.
"I've a few questions for you, Louise, if you wouldn't mind answering..." She placed her clipboard on the table, her pen just waiting to write down whatever came out of my mouth. I nodded and prepared myself. I had been spared from many questions until now. Most of the doctors in the hospital weren't interested in knowing why I did in, just how.
"So you're eighteen years old, and have just started university. How did your high school exams go?" I had passed with flying colours. I wasn't an A-star student, but I did pretty well in languages and literature, which were my main subjects. "How about your personal life? Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend?" I didn't. "And your parents? Do you have a good relationship?" I did. I mean, we never got into fights, I was pretty obedient... One problem though. I never really told them how I felt... I needed to protect them.
"Do you have a history of mental illness or suicide attempts?" Charlotte asked, her pen skidding across the paper. I had the feeling she was noting down more than I was saying...
"Not really," I replied, "or at least as far as I know. I've never been diagnosed with a mental illness. I've seen doctors before for my anxiety and have taken homeopathic remedies, but that's all. I do have trouble sleeping, the doctors at the hospital said something about insomnia." My voice was slow and weak. I was so tired.
"And you haven't attempted suicide in the past?" I shook my head. She nodded and wrote something down, her pen scratching the paper almost in perfect rhythm with the ticking of the clock. I saw the silence as my chance to ask my own questions.
"Excuse me, but how long will I be staying here? You see, I have classes to go to and exams coming up. I'd be really stressed out if I missed a lot of work, and I'm not very good at catching up..." My voice trailed off as I thought of all the work I had already missed, and my heart felt heavy and filled with anxiety. My main professor had been made aware of my situation, and one of my friends also, but apart from that no one else was aware of what had happened. No one knew where I was.
"I'm afraid we can't determine how long we will have to keep you here. But don't worry, most of the patients here are in the same situation, they all have school and classes that they are missing. The aim is to not keep you longer than two weeks, but that depends on the patient. Everyone is different. Speaking of that, have you been briefed on the hospital?" I shook my head. "Well, firstly, we only take thirteen patients at a time ranging from 12 years old to 22. There are eight rooms, five singles and four doubles. You're lucky, you get a single room. You will have a psychologist and a psychiatrist appointed to you and a different nurse everyday. Today, I am your appointed nurse." She smiled and put down her pen. Getting to her feet, she motioned for me to do the same. "I think I have questioned you enough for now, let me give you a tour of the floor." And with that, we exited into the white corridor.