One week later, I was woken up at three in the morning by a phone call.
"Hello?" I said, my voice rough. I coughed to clear my throat.
"Mr Haggis?"
"It is"
"I'm Dr Moss, Matthew Murphy's doctor" My heart sank.
"Yeah?" Somehow, I expected the worst. My mind rushed with all the possibilities. It seemed like an eternity before he spoke.
"Matthew had a relapse"
"In what way?" I sat up sharp in my bed. Dr Moss proceeded to tell me how Murph had somehow managed to get a hold of a razor blade and cut up his thighs. When the nurses came to check on him, he was curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. It turns out that he had been storing his meds in the back of his mouth and then spitting them out when he got back to his room. When the psychiatrist asked him why he did it, his answer was "I don't see why I should get better". I held back the tears. He had seemed so much better when I last saw him.
"Can I come and see him?" I asked.
"In the morning. Get some sleep. Good night Daniel" He hung up. I cried.
YOU ARE READING
Too lost for therapy - The Wombats
Teen Fiction"He's gonna bring you down, Dan. I'm not gonna sugar-coat it, he's just gonna hold you back." TRIGGERS: This story contain strong mentions of suicide, self harm, PTSD and other mental illnesses throughout. Readers digression is advised.
