There was this Wednesday where I left school early (was a senior at the time).
I came home, nobody was there except for my dog, Jun, who went crazy seeing that I wasn’t paying any attention to her.
I went upstairs, already a wrist-cutter (just not a suicidal one), filled a bathtub of hot water, got in, and slashed my wrists.
blood wasn’t gushing or anything, but it sure was flowing.
I was there, lying in the tub, for about two hours. wide awake, crying, trying to decide whether I should get out or not, and I heard my little sister starting to scream as she read the suicide note I had left.
She called my parents, she was crying to them on the phone.
She try to talk to me, but I guess she thought I was already dead.
anyway… eventually some cops came home and busted the door open. It was surreal. felt like a Hollywood movie of the corniest kind.
they got the knives out (I had used at least three different types: x-acto, kitchen knife, and some lame Swiss army knife).
I was sent to the hospital and was released because I smooth-talked the psychiatrist out of thinking I should be hospitalized.
It wasn’t easy back at home, especially with all the unnecessary attention, and about 2 months later I was hospitalized for what they called “psychotic disorder” (although really it was just depression).
The hospital… I don’t even know if I should call it that…
Ward is a better word.
The psyche ward was the worst experience of my life.
they forced us to eat twice as much as we needed, they took us out half and hour a day, and it was just… basically… a loft.
a tiny hallway leading to five bedrooms (two beds each) and at the end a living room with tv, some chairs, a piano (the only good thing about that place) and a dining table with lame school chairs around it.
God, that awful!
three months later, when I was out, I couldn’t get over it… it hung above me… I could feel this gray aura of dust and boogers expanding slowly from my bad memory to my whole body.
metaphorically, of course :).
so I hung myself.
that was really extreme!
I hung myself from the roof, and I guess the momentum was so strong that the rope snapped and I fell down.
my face swelled up red for weeks, and even when it was all better again, a red slash mark on my neck was still fully visible half a year later.
now I’m home, with only one scar on my arm from the first time, and…
I can’t say that life is a lot better…
but the future seems brighter knowing that the next time I’d try that – I’d probably make it.
at least I’d be the happiest in morgue :).