Sick story

Imprisoned

I bled copiously. So much so that I nearly drowned in my own blood. Literally. How disgustingly laughable is that? Then again, I hadn’t much consideration for my physical condition at the time. I’m not sure if I do now. It’s become evident to me that the only reason I am here is not because my family or any of the staff here cares about my well-being, but rather because they want to see how much they can test my resolve. Or just test on me. I feel like the subject of a sick experiment more than a hospital patient. It’s much different in a hospital. The walls do not whisper to you in a hospital. The voices do not exist in a hospital. Those in a hospital do not refer to themselves as ‘inmates.’ This is not a hospital.

This is hell.

I had been slowly approaching my emotional threshold for quite some time prior to the incident. I never really showed signs of any type of disease or disorder. I tried not to. I didn’t want people to waste their precious time on making sure I was okay. I didn’t want to be a burden. It was one of my greatest and most crippling fears.

When I cut, I gained an instantaneous and seemingly undying God-complex. I felt free. I felt divine. I felt so...untouchable. I only felt this way when I was slicing open my wrists and watching the blood flow out of the wounded vein. I can’t really explain it. It’s inviting death in. It’s staring death square in the face. And laughing. And spitting. And assuming a type of divinity. You just can’t die. I don’t know. It’s just such a lovely feeling. I’d give anything to feel like that again.

The breaking point came last January. I was under a lot of stress and pressure in school. My grades were slipping drastically. I was fighting with my parents on a daily basis. I’d be home alone for an hour before they came home. I usually spent this time mentally preparing for the upcoming fight. Sometimes I’d use that time to cut or sleep or write. I hadn’t the time to do the latter two after the fights. They’d sometimes last hours on end. Over my grades.

I’d never really been a “good student.” I never liked school. I didn’t like the premise of being forced to sit in a desk for increments of 45 minutes at a time while someone being paid to teach from a book told me to memorize some bullsh**t concepts that I had no use for. I know for a fact that I will never need to know about algebraic concepts or cell mitosis where I’m going. I could understand teaching a broad variety of topics to kids in elementary school and middle school, but in high school? No. By then, if you don’t know what you want to do with your life, you’re probably not supposed to do anything with it.

What do I want to do with my life? I’ve always wanted to be a writer. It’s the only thing I can do without feeling an immense amount of shame or regret. Writing is the only way I can express myself. Outside of cutting, that is. I tried to write myself out of my depression, but that was no use. It’s like trying to get yourself out of an endless tunnel. Sure, you can make a lot of progress and get pretty close but you’ll never get out. You’ll always hit a rock or get tired or just want to give up. It’s the exact same thing with depression. Depression is an endless tunnel. Or an abyss. Whatever floats your convenient, metaphorical boat.

Why do I hate the hospital so much? Well, more than anything, I hate when people call it a “hospital.” This place is not a hospital. Like I said, hospitals are much nicer and more welcoming than this place. This is an institution. This is a mental institution subsidized by the state by way of the taxpayers. It’s part of the system. You put money into the system, but you never get anything out of it. As a matter of fact, you are not only assimilated into the system, you are swallowed whole by it. They chew you up and spit out your bones. And that’s all we are. Skeletons. The remains of former humans who sold out their humanity just to fit in. That was the second biggest mistake I’ve made to date.

My biggest mistake was not killing myself sooner.