The Way Out

Cut.

Blinded by warm, thin, salty tears that sting my eyes I grasp for a razor-sharp butcher knife; one that will easily pierce through my pale skin. Then it'll all be over. I then force bottles half full of prescription pills I'd grabbed in a fit of passion down my throat. I'd be dead. I'd not had such overwhelming thoughts of suicide in almost a year. But I've had enough. Of life. My fragile psyche had been ripped apart for the last time. I'm out of answers. All I have to do is wait. I don't plan on waking up the next morning.

No such luck. I close my eyes as tightly as I can, and anticipate my slip into unconsciousness. Only, instead of passing out, I become manic; I start to sweat profusely and my heart races and pounds as if it were going to explode any second. I begin to hyperventilate. I involuntarily purge some 30-plus pills I'd taken in my attempt to secure my suicide. I'd lost my innocence. But when?

Not three hours later, I awake, feeling edgy and jittery, and unprepared to commute my daily fifteen miles to school. I'd been bed-ridden, nauseated, and weak several days prior, so my dad, who's too sick to go to work, agrees to drive me to Clemson University. I can barely sit up without a tight pain in my chest and labored, heavy breathing. The weather outside is unseasonably cool for late March, and storm clouds loom low in the sky. Rain threatens.

As we approach Clemson, I can feel my stomach churn with increasing anxiety. I beg my dad not to make me go to class, but we both know that I can't afford to miss another day, and if I do, I'd be spending it in the hospital. My breathing becomes more strained as I try to sit up. It begins to rain. Just as we turn around to head home, my mom calls.

I can hear my mother's panicked voice on my dad's cell phone. Yes, I took the pills; and yes, I slit my wrists. I admit it. The pills I'd ingested just hours before happened to be my mom's hormone pills as well as her headache medicine: Imitrex. To this day, I cannot for the life of me tell you what those hormone pills were called. I know where I'm headed. But for how long?

All I wanted was to make things easier for me; as it turns out, I'd made my life a whole lot worse. And now I'm helpless to stop what I had so desperately attempted to end for so many months earlier – but to no avail. It starts to pour. I can't ask for a better pathetic fallacy.

We pull into the hospital parking lot at just after 8am: right when my first class starts. I'm able to walk and argue with my dad at the same time, and though I'd try with every fiber in my body to convince him that I don't need to go to the emergency room, he insists that I do. Instead of sitting in the fourth row isle seat, I find myself sitting in the ER, waiting to be felt up, stripped down, and completely humiliated. At that moment, I promise myself, as I slip into a hospital gown and walk barefoot to the nearest available bed, that I will never attempt suicide again unless I were 200 percent sure that I'd succeed. My dad stays with me in the ER the entire day. It's now that I feel real guilt for the first time in my life. I don't show it.

A sense of degradation and embarrassment officially takes me over as the nurses slap numerous electrodes on my cadaverous chest and stomach. They then hook me up to an IV and monitor my vital signs. I've gone through two IV's in nearly two hours, in an attempt for me to produce a urine sample. It would be a couple more hours yet before I actually generate one, and the doctor will then be able to determine if my random pill binge had affected my physiology. It didn't. But we aren't quite finished yet. The doctor explains to me that I need to be admitted to a psychiatric facility, and I can either commit myself or be evaluated by the Sacramento County authorities. Either way, I have to go. Why fight it? By now, I'm too weak and exhausted to be difficult. I wait until six in the evening before an ambulance is available to take me to a psych hospital. When the paramedic asks me, "What are we saving you from today"? I say, "Myself."

I hop onto the stretcher from my hospital bed, still in my gown. My extremities are now a ghastly white and numb from the cold, and I'm visibly shivering. I'm hoisted into the ambulance, with the IV needle still inserted in, and tube still taped to my skin; in the event that I'd need to be sedated. My vitals are again taken once I'm secure. My blood pressure is around 170/120; my pulse, near 150.

Another paramedic threatens to inject me with the saline when I don't answer him. But I don't understand what he's asking. I'm too far gone; and though my heart continues to race, my limbs go limp. I'm too weak to speak. Sweat trickles down both my face and chest; a cool sweat. The electrodes still stick to my stomach, but I can no longer feel them.

When I arrive at the psych ward, my dad is waiting for me at the hospital entrance. I see his face, but I simply can't bear to look into his eyes. I'm too ashamed. I continue to shiver in my hospital gown from the damp chill in the air as the paramedics wield the stretcher onto the elevator, up to the third floor. I don't need it, though. I can walk. They're expecting me. A nurse brings me some food, and although I'm starving, I tell her I'm not hungry. I don't eat meat anyhow. My dad, of course, is with me but he can't stay long. I don't expect him to, but I wish he would. He promises to return by eight. I wait.

While I wait, the nurse talks to me about why I tried to kill myself. I tell her:

I'm sick and tired of never winning. I try so hard. I play nice, but I always, always finish last. What pushed me over the edge? A boy. Yes, a boy. His name is Luke. I love him. He hurt me. Over and over. But I'd much rather have him as a friend than not have him in my life at all. But here's where it gets a bit complicated: He cheat on me with a girl - a girl who was once my friend, or at least pretended to be. Luke lied to me. Cheated on me. She manipulated him - he was completely whipped. She plays dirty. She's heartless and cruel. She always gets what she wants. Always. And though Luke and I are no longer together, she will always be the one he hurt me with. Time and time again. She doesn't care, and neither does he. I wonder if he ever did. Or if that was just another one of his lies. They always find their way back to each other. She has him by the balls. But I'm not the first that she's backstabbed and hurt; I certainly won't be the last. I want Luke in my life more than anything. But I want her out of his. For good. But where is she, as I sit in a mental facility, still in my hospital gown, my eyes red and swollen from sobbing? At Luke's house. Sleeping in his bed. Showering in his bathroom. Eating dinner with his family. I thought I could end my pain. I thought I could fix everything. All I did was make it all so much worse. I lost. Why can't I be the one that he wants. That he NEEDS. Why can't I be the one he can't live without? Why is HE the one that I can't live without?

I finish with my sob story - for now. It's 8:30. I continue to wait for my dad. I start to think that he forgot about me. That I've been abandoned again. It shouldn't surprise me. I should be used to being left behind. I start to cry again. I'm shaking now, and inconsolable. I can't help but ask myself, "How did I let this get so bad?" I'd forgotten how painfully sensitive my skin becomes after I take a knife to it.

It's nearly nine and my dad finally shows with a duffel bag in hand. Clean clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a pillow. I'm not allowed to have mouthwash containing alcohol, my own deodorant or shampoo, or anything with metal or glass. I have to wear socks. I can't sit on the floor. My roommate is a feeble old man. The bathroom is small. I take a shower and change into real clothes, but I still feel dirty. The nurse brings me a banana, some water, and a pad of paper since I aspire to be a journalist. I don't eat. I'm left alone to write. All I can think about is Luke and no matter how many times he breaks my heart, I need him that much more. I get lost in my thoughts.

Lights out at 11pm. Though I've slept less than three hours in nearly two days, I'm not sleepy. Tired definitely, but not sleepy. I continue to write. The nurse makes me take a sleeping pill. 11 comes and goes, and I now have no choice but to go to bed. I cry until I've cried myself to sleep around 12:30. The nurses awake me six hours later to check my vitals and my blood sugar (I'm diabetic). I go to sleep again, but only until 7:30, and then it's breakfast time. I choose not to eat. I wouldn't even leave my room if I didn't have to take my meds. After I choke down 500mg of glucophage, I retreat to my room, try to cleanse my skin as if it were my soul, and return to my makeshift journal. A social worker comes to talk to me about why I tried to kill myself. She asks the same questions I've heard at least twice already, and will hear at least twice again.

Group therapy starts soon, but I don't attend. I watch as various patients around my age meet with their psychiatrists and return to group therapy, all the while waiting for my doctor. She doesn't. I write more. Lunch follows group, and I wait for my name. I don't want to eat, but I fear that if I refuse, they'll just keep me here longer. I receive a special diabetic lunch including wheat bread and fried chicken. I thought I said I don't eat meat. I wish I'd gotten French fries instead of a limp slice of whole wheat bread.

I force down enough of my meal to feel satisfied. I continue to wait for my psychiatrist, and while I do, a group of medical students walk up to a nearby table and study for their forthcoming exam. One approaches me and asks if it's alright to observe me. Hell no. Feeling violated and disoriented, I retreat once again to my room. I lie down on my bed, facedown. I feel my body levitating with each irregular heart beat, as if I'm becoming weightless. I eventually fall asleep. I don't know what I dream about. I venture out of my room once more, only to find an abandoned oversized living area. I'm immediately confronted by yet another nurse, telling me to return to my room, it's "quiet time." Well, excuse me. She sits in a chair adjacent to my bed and tells me that she's the nurse on duty until 11pm tonight if I need or want anything. I tell her that I want to be alone. "Quiet time" is almost over anyhow. I once again attempt to leave my room. It's safe this time, if only for a few minutes. A tall, blonde man walks towards me and extends his hand. Another social worker.

"Hi, I'm Mr. Douchebag, and I'm here to ask you some questions regarding your hospitalization…"

Forget it. I'm through being interrogated for one day. I refuse to answer any questions without first talking to my psychiatrist. Where is she, anyhow? She forgot. I can feel it. Mr. Douchebag promises to call her and tell her to come back. An hour passes. One of the nurses asks me if I've seen my doctor yet. No. Of course not. She, too, promises to call. Yeah, sure. It's nearly six in the evening before Dr. Ditto arrives. She forgot about me. I'm in tears by now. I'd written a total of eight pages on my legal pad. In between sobs, I manage to piss and moan about how everyone forgets about me, or people deal with me only when it's convenient for them. It's never convenient for them. I'm merely an afterthought. We go into my room, which is currently occupied by my wrinkled old prune of a roommate. We coax her out, and I begin to calm down. I've never been good at articulating my feelings via speech, so I tend to write what I think and feel. She reads my manifesto, and we talk about what pushed me over the edge. Again. A boy. Again.

My parents interrupt my "session." We're almost done, so the doctor tells them to wait outside while we finish up. They return momentarily and we all talk. I'm left alone with my parents for a bit, and then they leave to talk to the doctor. She says that I could go home if my parents will let me. I swear I'll do anything. I'll do therapy twice a week. I'll see a psychiatrist. I'll take all the meds. I'll do everything. I'll do it all. I promise.

I convince my parents to let me go home, under about a thousand conditions. I pack my duffle bag including my hospital gown, get my shoes on, and wait for my parents to take me home. Five minutes pass. The nurses tell me that I have a pretty face. Ten minutes. I make a quick trip back to my room and look myself in the mirror. I'm smiling. My parents finally finish and my mom leaves to go home. My dad waits with me and we sign my release papers. I say a quick awkward good bye to the nurses, dart out the door, check out, and leave. I'm not even thinking about Luke.

When I arrive home, I take a real shower for the first time in nearly 48 hours. I finally feel clean. Exhausted, I nestle in my own bed and relax to late night television. Eventually, I fall asleep sometime after three. I have school tomorrow at 8am, and I drive myself. It's a sunny day, a pristine blue sky. Warm. Like the calm after the storm. I wear my hospital bracelet from the psych hospital. I don't talk to Luke until Saturday. He tells me that it's over between him and the girl. I want to believe him, but I'm afraid that I'll allow myself to get hurt once again. I know I won't survive another heartache. This time though, he's telling the truth. And I see it. We're still friends, and talk every day. Of course, I still love him. I always will. He and I will never be the same as we were nearly two years ago, but we're as close to regaining our innocence as we'll ever be. And I survived. I won.