Addiction.

Jasmine

The doors swung wide open to the mental hospital, standing infront of the glass doors, looking inside to my fate, to my future. I'm here because I made dumb, dumb decisions. Dumb according to my parents, to my doctors, to the "entire" world. In my mind, they were an escape. They were a way of coping with the horrible pain that I call my shitty life. Being known as "'mental" does hurt, sometimes. Other times, I accept it. I know that it is true, I know that I do need help, but do i want the help? Every night I cried myself to sleep, putting the razor to my wrists. Every night, I grabbed all the pill bottles and tried endless times to end everything. In my opinion, hell would be a lot better than life. Atleast in Hell I could know I'm suffering for a reason, but why am I suffering now? what did I do to deserve the pain that I am put through? what did i do to deserve any of this.

As I walk inside the swinging doors, An orderly escorts me down the spit-shiny corridors, past the tinted windows, passed the locked, unmarked doors. One foot in front of the other, counting each tile as I move forward into my new fate. I don't have to focus on the blur of the painted smiles, fake faces. A tall, handsome man in a blue tux greets me as i stand face to face with my fears.
Hello, i'm doctor Marcus. I will be here to guide and assist you to your new, and better lives once you leave. I'll give you the tour. Welcome.

Atleast it doesn't have that smell of a hospital, instead it treats me with the smell of puke(not a pleasant one) It's all very clean, from the cafeteria to the bathroom sinks. Spotless. But the clean, ofcourse, does not include the gagging smell that you receive every time you walk. moving inch by inch down the tiled hallway, it only gets worse. I wonder what my mama would think of me if she wasn't so fucked up on drugs to realize that I was in here, and for almost cutting my entire arm off.

I should have continued. I shouldn't of stopped and called for help. I should have went till I cut the last vein, till the last drop of blood hit my bathroom floor. I should have worried less about cleaning and more about ending my own life.

My little sister was the one who saw me first, then I frantically ran to my dad calling for help. Maybe she had discovered me too soon, maybe I had ran for help too soon. My dads face when he saw the blood, all the glorious, dark red blood dripping from my not-so-attached arm. my sisters face striked a look of horror, oh how she must be scarred for life.

After I had asked for help, I don't remember much except for speed. The godly red lights, the sirens echoing in my head, my thoughts beginning to spin faster and faster the closer we got to the hospital. Losing your memory is a curious, confusing place. The land of blood loss and the anesthesia, floating through it like your swimming on the worlds most precious beach, with the most glorious, blue waters.
After awhile, you feel as if you should reach for the shimmering surface but you can't hold your breath, but even if you could it's black, dark, and cold., where nightmares and the truth all collide, so you find the strength within to find the light. Then it all hits you, you can't move, your arms are strapped to tubes, one of them stitched to the heavens all because of your definition of art.