| |
I suppose it all caught up with me—Daddy’s conviction and disappearance from my life, Mama’s harsh words, and perhaps even a family history that was darker than I’d ever considered. But when I turned sixteen, it all became too much. The sweet, siren’s song of the pills Mama had hidden was a release I craved. Life was a sadness, and we were all just alone. I knew Mama would be fine without me. Jinx, the cat who I cared more about than myself, had passed. Nothing was keeping me going anymore. All I saw was a bleak existence ahead of me. Sure, I had great grades. All of the teachers told me I could be someone if I tried. But what was the point? Mama had shown me that at any point, someone else’s decision could rip the life you built, no matter how big or small, right out from under you.
I’d been painting on the smile when I needed to, but most days I was running on fumes. I stopped sleeping at night; I would sit up and talk to Daddy, even though he was miles away rotting in a jail cell. There was a stuffed teddy bear by my bed he had won for me at the county fair. Sometimes, if I sat real still, it would lift its stuffed paw, I swore. I took it as a sign. I was doing the right thing.
Mama was at her night shift job. The trailer sat empty and motionless other than my drifting thoughts. I settled into Daddy’s old chair, the bottle of pills and a bottle of rum to wash it down. I stared at the only family photo we had on the wall. I thought about the façade it painted. Only I could see the pain that was coming for those smiling people.
“I miss you, Daddy. I really do.” I threw the pills back, not sure how long it would take. I didn’t care. It might feel good to suffer a while, to think on it all. I wanted to disappear, but it would be okay if it took some time. I had things left to think about, even after all that I’d decided on.
***
Am I dead? My eyes slowly cracked open. My head, my body, everything ached. I tried to sit up but couldn’t seem to muster the energy. I peered around, the bright lights assaulting my eyes. The pure white walls and soft blue carpeting only added to my troubled feeling. I was alone. All alone in a room with no exit. The door, padded, blended in with the walls.
“Hello?” I yelled out, finally getting myself up to a seated position. The room was devoid of furniture other than a cot. Was I in prison? Was I dead?
“Mama?” I yelled, out of habit.
Nothing. No one. Tears started to well as panic gripped every inch of my body. My head raced over bits and pieces of memories.
The pills. The recliner. Red lights flashing. People grabbing me, fright in their voices. Needles and machines. Mama’s voice.
The word ‘committed.’ Shit. Shit. Shit. It all came whirring back like a nightmare triggered by a memory. I hadn’t succeeded. And now here I was, locked away like the failure I was.
“I’m sorry, Ev. I’m sorry. But this is the best thing for you,” Mama had cried out. “I’m sorry.” And then they took me away.
My suicide attempt had worried the doctors, especially with our family history. Until they could get me on medication and get things straightened out, they wanted to keep me for observation somewhere safe. This place, though, didn’t feel like any version of the word safe.
The white walls smothered me. The fluffy, marshmallow quality was the opposite of comforting. Terror ripped through my veins. I wished I had succeeded. I wished I had died on that recliner because being in that room was not living. Not at all.
I pounded on the walls for what felt like hours. Eventually, a nurse came in through the sealed door.
“I need out of here,” I pleaded, grabbing at her arm. Oxygen felt scarce, my lungs heavy. She revolted at my touch as if I was diseased.
“Time for your meds,” she said, handing me a cup.
“Please, I’m not crazy. I’m not. I won’t hurt myself again. I won’t. I promise.”
“Meds. Swallow.” Her eyes lasered into me. There was no hint of compassion in her voice. She did not attempt to answer me. It was as if I was not there at all.
“Please, please,” I implored, clawing at her.
“Take your meds or we’ll have to get the needle out.” Displeased with my pleading, her words were forceful.
This shut me up. I reached for the cup and obeyed. Perhaps if I listened, I would be released. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to be out of there. Living in my bleak existence was at least better than being in that room.
“When can I see my Mama?” I asked. She did not respond. I had been degraded to a mere apparition that wasn’t worth her energy or effort. She left the room, and I was immersed in utter silence again.
Tears fell. I pounded on the walls, curled up on the floor. How was this helping anything? How would I ever get better? How?
The hours ticked by. Time had no meaning. Life had no meaning. Soullessly, I lay on my side, staring at the marshmallow walls, loathing myself more and more by the minute.
***
One week in that hellhole. One week for them to supposedly regulate my meds so I was better. It was one week of pure torture. I almost lost my mind for real. But I obeyed and tried to follow their orders. I knew I had to play the game to escape. I’ve always been good at playing the game.
Mama and I never talked about it once I left. It was a dark stain tarnishing an already marred life. I swore to myself I would never go back, though. If I tried to kill myself again, there would be no trying. I would just do it. Death was better than the torture chamber they called psychiatric help. I threw myself into my schoolwork. I took my meds, which did arguably seem to help. I got myself straightened out, told myself I wasn’t defined by my family’s mental issues or my own.
I didn’t try to kill myself again. Ever. It wasn’t so much that life was good or that I was excited about the future. It was the fear of failing, of going back to that place, that murdered my desire to try again. Even years and years later, when the depression pressed heavily on me like a weighted blanket, I fought the urge because of the nightmarish memories of being locked away. I was under John’s care, then. He knew about my experience, about how it had almost ruined me. I trusted he wouldn’t betray me. Even though Mama told me not to believe men, I felt I could have faith in John.
We all make mistakes, after all. A stunning array of mistakes.