Maybe, Someday

The night I picked up the phone, the air was uneasy. The jade colored couch felt like concrete beneath me. The light was off, but the light shown through the open door to the kitchen. I knew what I had to do, but I knew that as soon as I dialed, my life would change. I wanted to take my own life, but something in me screamed for understanding and compassion.
The woman who answered the other end sounded calm, though pain crept through her words, reflecting the many lives she’d saved. Her neutrality in my situation, having nothing to do with my parents, called for the best understanding towards me. She asked questions, trying on my shoes, slowly filling into them as each memory of hate, anger, abuse, and self-mutilation spilled off my tongue. Her soul was tarnished by others’ pain, but beautified by those who suffered.
“Remember that your life is valued.” Those were the last words I heard her say. I knew I did the right thing, maybe.
Black boots and sharp eyes entered to escort me out of my house with my confused and angry mother following behind. Gail said this had to happen. I never liked cops. I am moved to a bed and I am strapped to it, shooting pain up my back yet again. I thought stretchers were supposed to be comfortable? The world goes by through the back window, appearing as if I’m riding away from the world. I laugh at this metaphor for my greatest desire.
This new voice next to my stretcher was gentle, accompanied by strong hands and fingers that moved with grace. Another caring heart.
“I have a young 16 year-old who contacted the suicide hotline,” he said into the phone. The hospital had to be notified I was coming.
“She is awake, lounging on the stretcher.”
This was true. I lay back, trying to adjust my position, but the seatbelts made it difficult. He asked me questions for paperwork, and others that Gail had asked me earlier. My wall is down to have my shoes filled again.
I arrive at the hospital where the walls are white, and illness fills the air. I’m treated like a prisoner, stripped of who I am to be put on a shelf until God only knows. I shiver from the cold atmosphere and the reality of paranoia. The fluorescent light reflects off of the walls and takes away all the colors in my mind. It was eerie and cold. I wanted my pants back. I felt too vulnerable.
My mother’s presence screamed with anger when she entered the room.
“Your father is going to hear about this and run with it.” I hadn’t seen my father in a month and a half. I didn’t understand. Her head was shaking back and forth quickly, and her eyes were bloodshot. She couldn’t stop pacing.
“This is going to make me look bad.”
That’s when I tuned out to her pointless rambling. No sympathy could be found from her; no mercy, no understanding. This was my first regret of not ending my pain hen I had the chance. She only worried about how this would make her look. I hate being around her. I drifted into a delusional consciousness, hoping it would be over, hoping I wouldn’t wake up.
The resident psych came in, dragging me back to harsh reality. She was a chunky brunette, wearing an old lady sweater and jeans. Her hair was in a messy ponytail tied at the bottom of her head. She looked pretty content for three o’clock in the morning. I told her why I was there, how long I felt the way I did, the last time I cut myself, and if I was sexually active. I always hated that question. It made a really good environment extremely awkward in a matter of seconds.
She told me I have a lot to love for. I just haven’t seen it yet. I didn’t really believe her. My mother came in with her rage flooding out of her eyes like the blades I cut myself with many times before’ cold and piercing. The psych talked the enemy out of her, and we all came to an understanding, well, I’d only call it a temporary serenity.
I was finally cleared to go home. My clothes and jewelry were returned to me. You don’t realize what your clothes mean to you until you lose them. I felt as if someone’s arms wrapped around me, but no one was there. Maybe it was God, protecting me and comforting me. I left the hospital and stepped out into the fresh early morning air. I felt cleansed from this horrific experience. It was time to move on.



A month after my mom still hasn’t asked me why I felt the way I did. I don’t plan on telling her, since she grounded me after we returned home. She thought I through a temper tantrum. Maybe she’ll realize this someday.
I’m making progress, slowly, but surely. I realized the hard way that I really can’t go to my mother with anything serious, and that harsh truth makes me sad. I feel alone now more than ever, but I remember Gail’s words during these times; my life is valued.
I hope things will only get better, but it’s up to me to keep a good mindset. I’m keeping faith and hope within me until my heavy heart is light again.