Riding to a psych ward in the red ambulance with two men asking me for answers they can easily find on my drivers license isn't exactly how I pictured my freshman year college going. Not only was I once again feeling suicidal, but I was states away from my parents who had no idea I was that far gone. I couldn't tell them, they love me so much they only want me to be happy and to solve any problem I have with the wave of a magic wand. Hearing their voice wanting the best for me and me trying to explain how horrible I really was doing is quite possibly one of the most difficult things to do.
My smile isn't natural anymore, I don't provoke conversations anymore and if I do, they're only about how often I think a bottle of xanax or vicodine for my final meal. I picture it often enough, me sitting in bed, eyes heavy from the my sleep deprivation because of my stubborn insomia that won't give me a break, starring at the little pills. They look so innocent, they're meant to help me sleep, not my death.
I can't think anymore, I don't pay attention to things like I used to. The once blue sky is now always gray, the way I like it. Of coarse when I want to cry them most, to feel a tear or a hundred tears run down my pale flesh I am as dry as a desert. I feel nothing but severe depression or nothing at all, attempting a smile is now such a lie. I don't care to do well in school like I once did. Grades, which to me use to be everything are now just a letter telling me how academically down the drain I've allowed myself to become.
The psych ward is a torture chamber. I have no music to drain out everyone else crying for whatever reason they're there, no privacy. They cut whatever strings were in your clothes so you can't get creative. Those blinding white walls seem to cave in on me at night while the damn ticking clock keeps me from getting any sleep whatsoever. Nurses checking on you every fifteen minutes, waking me at six-thirty am to take vitals and again around eight-fifteen for me to take my anti depressants which aren't working. they try to seem all friendly wanting to talk about your problems, 'let's play a card game so we can talk about why you're here so I can try to convince you that you're not the only one going through this and you being sexually assaulted was not your fault.'
Sure, the assault didn't help my mental state, but to h*** they know what goes through my mind and to h*** they can help get me out of it. Depression has welcomed itself into my life countless times and it chooses when to leave, not your pointless medications and psycho therapies. I humor them to think they've helped so I can get out of the terrible place with gross food, uncomfortable beds and locked doors that prevent us from having a life.
A medical leave of absence got me back home so I don't have to torture my friends seeing me like this. They deserve to have fun and not worry about their mentally ill and deranged friend. They can have fun now, live it up in freshman year.
Though my family has seen this in my an unfair amount of times, they don't deserve it. They shouldn't have to worry about their first born. I wanted to be the daughter to get decent grades in college and for my brother to be able to say his sisters in college. He deserves better than a severely depressed sister.
I let my music and my writing tell it how it is. It sucks, but it's reality. I'm clinically depressed and it's not going away any time soon.