Well, waking up in a hospital without your phone, in blue paper scrubs, and surrounded by at least 30 people in a big room is not the right way to wake up. The first worry that morning was that I was stuck and I finally was were I was supposed to be. Well, I was in the part of the hospital that people made jokes about. You guessed it, I was in the pysch ward.
I got up and waddled to the guard who was watching all of us. “Can I have my phone?” I asked him. He was extremely cute. He was tall, dark blue eyes, and dark hair. He had a cute little gap between his teeth. And, I couldn’t believe I was standing in front of this cute boy in blue paper scrubs. Without a bra. And my hair was a mess. He shook his head. I asked if he could walk me outside to smoke a cigarette. Nope. I walked back to my bed and looked around. I was stuck with the crazy people. I was the crazy people.
A lot of people laid in their beds. Some, cried. Cried for oxygen because he couldn’t breath. One was calling me “pretty girl”. Another one was screaming at the staff. Another, walking around in a blanket and staring at everyone like we were the answer to life. If you aren’t crazy or think you are go ahead and spend 15 minutes here. You will believe you are crazy.
Being held under medical care was probably one of the most frustrating things of my life. I was brought into this huge room and asked for the doctor over and over again. I wanted to go home. I had to be at work by 3 and it was 8 a.m. I was going to sue the place. I was going to walk out. “Don’t act like a donkey, again.” One of the floor techs told me. Why was I being held? How did I get out? What were my legal rights? Where the fuck was my doctor? Why did I have to wait so fucking long to see him or her? Why were my nurses prescribing me xanax to calm down? Why am I in this fucking room with 30 other crazy patients?
Finally, after asking 10 times, the nurse came and asked me a million questions. Did I want to die? Did I do drugs? Why did I feel the need to drink? Why was I so violent last night? Why did I escape the hospital and go missing for over 5 hours? Why did I threaten to kill myself? Why was I here? Have I ever been diagnosed with any mental disorders? Was I abused?
I wanted to die because I was numb! I have no more fucking feelings anymore! I felt the need to drink because that is the one thing that can make me feel alive. I was violent because you crazy people strapped me down to a bed and I screamed until they finally knocked me out with drugs! I escaped because I wanted to drink more. I mean I was being held against my will anyways. I wanted to die, duh. I wanted to die. I have anxiety. Yes, in fact, sexually and physical. You’re point. Can I go home now?
My sister wanted to go shopping for cars. I was living in a 2 bedroom trailer with 9 people and 2 dogs. My fucking bedroom was in the living room, my bed was literally in the living, and I shared it with my sister. I was working a barely above minimum paying job, and I was stressed out beyond you’re imagination. It was August, and it was hot out, and I also lived in South Carolina. I was excited to go car shopping with my sister. I took at least 4 Xanaxs before we left the house. By the time we hit town, I was buying alcohol. Let’s remember it was only 1 p.m. I was fucked up. And, well, I didn’t care.
We went to car place after car place. I was starting to black out at this point. I was stumbling in places, and I was making a joke of myself. I always did that. I can still do that, but I think that it must be a magic power, and that is to look like such a joke. I remember they fixed my car’s air conditioning. I was sitting in the car. I starting crying to my sister.
I told her that I didn’t feel like life was worth it, anymore. There was no more purpose in life. Somedays, okay almost everyday, I thought of killing myself. I did not what to live anymore. I remember crying and I was fucked up in the middle of the day. I went on and on. While she was being her first car, I was complaining about my stupid life. We waited for papers. I cried. And cried. I was so fucked up by those little pills and those couple of drinks. I always had to ruin everything. Everywhere I went, I brought tears and drama. My life was so hard, but maybe it was harder for the people who were watching my pathetic tragedy. I was the pathetic tragedy.
By the time I got home, my sister took my mom for a ride in her new car, and I was waiting on the steps for police to escort me to the hospital. My sister came home and told me the cops were coming because I was acting suicidal all day. I heard the sirens coming. I watched the cop come up to my car were I was laughing and making a fool out of myself.
My mom, my sister, my dad, my nieces, my friends, my neighbors, my aunt and uncle, and whoever else was there that I remember, watched the cop and the EMT’s threaten me. I either got in the ambulance with them or I got handcuffed and brought to the hospital. Either way, it was legal because the cop heard me say I wanted to die.
I decided to ride in the ambulance. I called the paramedic a bitch. I laughed in the cops face. I waved at him as he escorted the ride behind. It was all a joke. It was a joke as they all escorted me into the hospital and it was a joke when I had to want in the intake area to see if I was on drugs and to see if I had to stay.
I watched crazy people coming into the same area I was in. I seen a young man in a wheelchair shaking his head back and forth and screaming. A nurse drew my blood. I acted nice, and I let her do it. When she turned her back, I ran, and I ran like hell. Right past other patients, right past the staff and nurses, and right outside.
I ran out of the hospital, past the security, past the highway, past the long grassy area that went on for miles, I just kept on running. I didn’t even know where I was going. I didn’t even live in this area. All I know was that I had my credit card. I had enough to buy some beer and cigarettes. I would fill in the blanks from there.
It was probably about 6 p.m. when I ran away. I went to a small gas station and I got a couple beers. I took my beers to a bus station. And, I hung out there. I sang to myself. I sang hymns I knew from a child. I grew up singing and I grew up wanting to be a singer. When I drink, I sing. And I sang, as people came up to me and talked to me. The bus driver asked me who I was. I said I ran from the hospital. He laughed and drove away. He told me his daughter was my age, and he told me to be safe. I laughed as he drove off. I might be dead. If that is safe. I literally remember thinking that to myself. A man I met, told me his father was in the nursing home I worked at. He grabbed my butt. He stroked my back, and he tried to kiss me. He was probably in his early 50’s. I was to drunk to comprehend what was happening. He ran off, and I stayed there drunk. I hope he realized what he was doing was fucked up beyond any comprehension.
Finally, I had enough. I crawled onto a busy road, and I laid there. I waited for someone to find me. Finally, a van came and slammed on their brakes when they seen that I was laying the middle of the road. “Honey? Where are you supposed to be? Why are you laying the middle of the street? You could have been hit!” They were freaking out. I was laughing. Before they came, I was closing my eyes and pretending I was dead.
They brought me to the gas station and immediately called 911. The worker there told me I could have anything there. The cops came. I tried to escape, but honestly I was too drunk. I got handcuffed for the first time in my life. And, I was put in the back of the police car. I cried to them, and I begged them not to take me to that horrible hospital. I cried and pleaded. They didn’t really say much of anything. I just remember being hysterical on the whole ride back to the hospital. How did I end up in the same position that I was in hours before?
Turns out that there was an amber alert for my drunk ass. When I left the hospital, they notified my family, and sent it out. People where actually looking for me while I sang to myself in a stupid bus station. My sister, my mom, and my friends sent out messages to everyone I knew asking if they knew where I was. I was wandering the city and I was suicidal and crazy and they were probably worried.
They brought me back to that dumb intake area. And I fought, like hell. I was punching, hitting, kicking, spitting, screaming, and acting like they were trying to kill me. It took at least 6 people to strap me down into the bed. I screamed for what seemed like forever. Finally, she came in with a shot, and whatever was in that shot knocked me out. I told her she was a cunt as she stabbed me in the arm with whatever drug. She smiled, and told me it was okay. Bless her ability not to spit back in my face.
I woke the next morning with the entire staff making sure I wouldn’t do what I did the night before. I woke up in blue scrubs. I woke up around crazy people. I woke up sharing a bathroom with 30 or 40 other people. We had to have our blood pressure taken around the clock, I had to be supervised. I had to take on the phone in front of the staff. I couldn’t be left alone. I felt like a prisoner. I felt like this was the worst of the worst. I just was glad that people were actually there to supervise me.
I was only held for 2 nights or one and a half days. Which ever way you looked at it. Personally, it was 2 nights, 2 days, and I remember every second. Every smell. Every meal. Every nurse. The doctor. The guards. My small bed. I will never forget those 2 days and 2 nights. They diagnosed me with anxiety disorder. I already could have told you I had that.
When I went to sign out, my phone was missing. I have no idea where I dropped it. My mom, my dad, and my friend picked me up. I felt like I was getting out of prison.
It was not the end. It was the start of my self destruction.
Somehow, it made me want to die more.
It made my mom ask more questions.
It made me picture my death over and over again.
Somehow, I am still here. 2 hospitalizations and 4 overdoses, later.
I wish that I could get better.
The truth is everyday, I am searching for that reason. The first thing I picture is my little sister. The person who is my rock in more ways than one. I picture my dad. I picture my little brother. I picture my friends, and distant relatives. I keep going. I keep trying. I am literally living for others. Maybe, that is what life is about. Finally, realizing that you are here for more reasons than just yourself. That is why I am here. For more reasons than my own. I pray to God to forgive me, and somehow I feel a little bit more strength to get through another day.