The Truth About the Nights in a Psych Ward

But despite all the time I spent regretting not having succeeded with killing myself, I have never felt alive so much as during those nights and sometimes it even hurt. It hurt watching the clock across the room- how it wouldn't stop ticking. I begged it with my tired eyes to just stop so that time would freeze and I could breathe this feeling of existence until my lungs suffocated in it. But the clock never stopped, and it hurt. That's how we lived- the 10 of us: laughing through the nights, hoping the sun would explode or something just so we wouldn't have to wake to another day, having our vitals checked only to see that we were still very much alive, and on that note of disappointment, our cycle would start over once again.