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Escaping Suicide - For What?

"Hey - What are you in for?"  This creepy patient yelled at me from his hospital room door.

What the hell was I supposed to say?  Had I really been close to committing suicide?  Or was I just having a panic attack?  Somehow my half-present mind came up with an answer: "I'm not sure yet."

"What?  You're not sure yet?!"

"You can't ask people stuff like that, man."  My already tortured heart went out to the armed officer in the corner.  And of course the creepy patient engaged him in some sort of argument about whether or not he was prying into people's personal information.  Charming.

I sat on that hospital bed in the hallway for seven hours while the staff apparently attempted to find me a room.  I got to watch my name come up on the computer with the intake diagnosis: "Suicidal Thoughts."  Other names were up there, of course.  At some point the nurses must have figured out that I could see it, because then they started closing it down whenever they left the desk.  Not like I cared about anyone else's problems.  I just wanted to be somewhere safe.

The kind-hearted officer brought me a boxed dinner around 8 PM, realizing that I must have been hungry despite my complete lack of desire to communicate.  I sat and sat and sat, watching doctors and nurses bustling to and fro, not really caring if I had to sleep in the hallway.  Sometime around 10 PM I did fall asleep.  And then at midnight they finally brought me to Behavioral Medicine.

"Good mawning, patients!  It is now tahme ta receive yo vahtal sahns!"  The aggressive voice in the wall speaker woke me from a dreamless sleep.  "All patients please repawt ta the Day Room ta receive yo vahtal sahns!"  Man, she's persistent!

I had no idea where the Day Room was.  I had no idea what part of the hospital I was in, or how I'd gotten there.  I had no idea whether the other patients would be like me - numb, disillusioned, apathetic - or whether they'd be the type to throw chairs and curse out nurses.  But I did get my breakfast that morning.  And my vital signs were normal.

15 days have passed since then.  But I'm no closer to figuring myself out than I was that Sunday afternoon, when I searched for "Hospital" on my GPS and left my unsuspecting husband to go cry hysterically to a battle-scarred receptionist in the hospital emergency room.  Where am I supposed to go from here?  How am I supposed to return to the life that led me to this in the first place?  And how am I supposed to find a life I can live with when I have to pop Klonopins just to finish my laundry?

I'm seeing a therapist tomorrow.  He's supposed to help me learn to control my destructive thoughts.  But for some dark reason, I don't feel like seeing him at all.