“Well, you finally did it, dumbass. Look where you are now“.
The intercom crackled, “Sir, are you talking to us?”. I looked up at the dark globe that contained the all-seeing camera. “No, I’m talking to myself”. Just for the hell of it I screamed “Get me out of here!”
But I wasn’t going anywhere. See, when you tell your doctor that you plan on harming yourself, this room with no doorknobs, a TV encased by plexiglass and a communal bathroom with no toilet seat with which to bludgeon yourself to death, this is where you end up.
I was cold. The sweat-soaked flimsy hospital blanket did next to nothing. I spent almost 18 hours tucked in the fetal position and waiting for the sound of the big key in the big lock that may bring someone, fucking anyone that may talk to me about what was next. I was alone with my thoughts and those thoughts were dark, foreboding, scary as fuck and wholly, entirely unlike me. Thoughts of harming myself consumed me. Occasionally, the rational version of me broke through the morass and attempted to set me right, reminding me that I have so much to live for.
Think of your kids…
They will never forgive you. All of them. Mom just can’t take another loss and the kids would never get over it. Suicide is selfish, you just pass the pain on to someone else.
Yet here I was. Consumed by the darkest thoughts a man could have. I couldn’t shake it. Death called to me as a viable release from the pain.
13 hours later, at 3 AM I was transferred to my room. A burly security guard with too many tattoos and kind eyes inventoried my belongings. I could have my shoes, but no laces. My beloved Templar cross and chain was bagged and tagged. As he explained the rules and regs of the behavioral unit I glanced through the security window to the ward that awaited me. Nothing beckoned to me as welcoming. I asked the guard, half serious, if it was too late to retract my statement.
“Sir, when you say you want to harm yourself, shit gets serious.”
I had dug myself a big ol’ hole. I needed to find a way to play this. The end game was to get the everlovin’ fuck out of there. I’m not a danger to myself and nobody here is going to believe me. All I knew is that once this ward came to life in a few hours I needed to actively pursue my exit strategy. I knew there would be fallout from family and friends, but therein lay the problem. I’ve been so concerned about everyone else in my life that I failed to take care of me. Now I was broken, and at that moment when I was escorted into the booby hatch I had never been in a lower place.
How do you explain to someone that you love that you’ve lost your will to live? That life no longer gives you joy. How do you tell someone that you are in pain and sleepless and the demons of insomnia are putting bad ideas in your head and you would give fucking anything for the pain to stop, if only for a day. Maybe it’s my fault for smiling when I really felt like wincing. Maybe I should tell people the truth about how I feel and how well I’m coping. Maybe I should cut the damn act and get some help. How are my family and friends supposed to know what is happening if I can’t even be honest with myself…?
“Sir, we have your daughter on the phone…”, a heavy-set nurse was standing at the foot of my bed. I looked out my postage stamp of a window. In the absence of clocks I surmised that it must be about 8. I had finally fallen asleep after 3 just brutal days of insomnia.
“Where can I use a phone?” I asked.
Nurse Ratched motioned for me to follow her. I found a phone with the receiver dangling in the hallway. The cord was only long enough to use while stooped over. I picked up.
“Britt. I made a huge mistake.” Fighting back tears I choked into the phone. “Please get me out of here.”
Time was up. I hung up the phone and went back to my room, curled up into the fetal position again and didn’t move for hours. What had I done with my life… ?